Burn: A Novel (4 page)

She slammed the phone book shut and angrily paced the kitchen. She hated feeling ignorant, hated that she couldn’t look up what she wanted in the yellow pages, because she didn’t know how things were listed. But she’d never had a bank account, mostly because she never had much money and a bank account seemed stupid. She paid her bills either in cash, or by money order. That wasn’t the wrong way to do things, was it? Lots of people handled their bills that way—most of the people she knew, in fact.

Already she was running into that wall she’d sensed—the wall between the life she knew and the life all that money would automatically bring with it. Other people had managed, and she would, too. She could figure things out.

Opening the phone book again, she looked up one of those full-service banks, checked that the clock had ticked past nine, and dialed the number. When a woman answered in a modulated, professionally friendly tone, Jenner said, “I saw your ad in the phone book. Exactly what does ‘full service’ mean?”

“It means we offer financial planning and investment services, as well as financing for home, autos, boats, unsecured personal loans, and a variety of checking and savings plans that can be tailored to your needs,” the woman said promptly.

“Thank you.” Jenner disconnected, having found out what she needed to know.
Financial planning
. She should have thought of that. She heard the term on television all the time. The financial markets were always doing something, going up, going down, spinning in circles and evidently doing everything except kissing its own ass.

Lesson number one: What she thought of as “money,” people with a lot of money thought of as “finance.”

Going back to the advertising pages, she looked up “Financial Planners.” There were a number of listings, including some she’d seen in commercials. There was also several subcategories, for mutual funds, stocks and bonds, investment and brokerage firms.

She read the listings under “Financial Planning Consultants” three times, then chose Payne Echols Financial Services. Their ad was more than a simple listing, but less than a full page, which she figured made them established but not the biggest firm in town. The big boys might secretly make fun of her, or, worse, take advantage of her. A midsize firm would be more likely to count its blessings, and treat her better.

Choosing a firm was just one decision, but that one small step made her feel better. She was in control of this. She didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do. If she didn’t like the people at Payne Echols, she’d choose another investment firm.

She blew out a small breath and dialed the number. On the second ring, another of those professionally modulated voices said, “Payne Echols Financial Services. How may I direct your call?”

“I don’t know. I want to make an appointment with someone, as soon as possible.”

The woman paused briefly. “May I ask what sort of services you require? Then I’ll know which of our financial planners have the proper expertise.”

“Ah …” Jenner thought quickly, wary of blurting out the truth. “I’ve received an inheritance, about fifty thousand, and I want to invest it.” She plucked the number out of midair, but it seemed like a good number, big enough to need advice but not big enough to attract attention.

“Hold, please,” the woman said, returning to her smooth tone. “I’ll connect you.”

“Wait! Who are you connecting me to?”

“Ms. Smith’s assistant. She’ll book your appointment.”

There was a half-second of dead air, then some generic tinny music began assaulting her eardrums. What were they trying to do, bore her into hanging up? Why didn’t companies play lively music, something interesting?

She waited a few minutes, trying her best to ignore the awful music. How long did it take to switch a call? She tapped one toe, growing vaguely annoyed. Just as she was beginning to think about hanging up, there was a faint click and another smooth female voice said, “Ms. Smith’s office, how may I help you?”

She was getting tired of all these impersonal, perfect voices. Would these people be fired if they ever revealed anything as mundane as interest? “My name is Jenner Redwine. I’d like to make an appointment with Ms. Smith.”

“Certainly, Ms. Redwine. When would you like to come in?”

“As soon as possible. Now.”

“Now? Well … Ms. Smith does have an opening in forty-five minutes. Would it be possible for you to be here by then?”

“I’ll be there.”

Jenner hung up, then securely tucked the lottery ticket and scrap of newspaper in her wallet, dropped the wallet back in her denim purse, then went outside and unlocked the Goose. The driver’s door stuck, as usual, and she swore under her breath. Forty-five minutes wasn’t very long, in Chicago traffic, and she didn’t have time to wrestle with the door. Gripping the handle, she gave it one more tug and the door flew open, almost knocking her butt on the ground.

“The first thing I do,” she muttered, “is get a new car.” It didn’t have to be a fancy car, just something
new
, without a single ding, and with nonsticking doors. And after that … she didn’t know. She couldn’t think much about “after that.” One step at a time, and the first step was getting the money organized and settled.

As she drove she thought about calling Michelle, telling her
what was going on. She even fished her cell phone out of her bag, thumbed in the first couple of numbers, before she hit the End button and dropped the phone back into the bag. Michelle would think she was just joking around, but … what if she didn’t? That wariness surfaced again. Jenner wanted everything settled and protected before the news got out.

The Payne Echols offices were downtown, where parking was at a premium, but when she drove past she noticed the firm had a private parking deck attached, and watched over by a guard to keep the general public out. She pulled up to the orange barricade arm and rolled down the window. The guard looked at the Goose and she could almost see the doubt running through his brain. “I have an appointment with Ms. Smith.”

“Your name?”

“Jenner Redwine.”

He punched a few keys on a small computer, evidently confirmed that her name came up on the approved list, and raised the barricade. Jenner drove though, parked in the first empty slot she came to, and hurried to the entrance.

As soon as she opened the door, a sense of uneasiness rippled down her spine. The Payne Echols offices were cool, austere, and so quiet she could hear herself breathing. The main colors were gray and brown, as if the decorator had been deathly afraid of color. The abstract paintings on the walls each had a touch of blue, but even that was subdued. There were a lot of very impressive plants, so perfect they couldn’t be real, but when she poked her finger into a planter she found dirt. Hurriedly she stuck her hand behind her back and tried to dust the dirt from her finger as she crossed to a desk half-hidden behind more plants.

Behind the desk was a slim, business-suited brunette, who lifted her head at Jenner’s approach and said, “May I help you?” Her tone was perfectly neutral, just like her surroundings, but once again Jenner had a sense of being sized up and dismissed.

Keeping her own voice as blank and calm as the receptionist’s, she said, “Jenner Redwine. I have an appointment with Ms. Smith.”

“Please have a seat. I’ll notify Ms. Smith’s assistant.”

Jenner perched on the edge of an uncomfortable gray sofa. Straight ahead of her was one of the abstract paintings, which looked to her as if a blind monkey had painted it. How hard could it be? All that was needed was a couple of paintbrushes, a canvas, and whatever colors happened to be lying around. Haphazardly apply the colors, and presto, one big ugly painting.

Some men in suits walked past, and she could spot a few people in the offices that were within her limited field of vision. They were all busy, focused, on the phone or poring over papers, or tapping on a computer keyboard. She didn’t see any women.

Evidently Ms. Smith wasn’t in any hurry to greet her new client. Uneasily Jenner wondered just how trustworthy financial planners were. She’d have to trust her instinct when it came to deciding whether or not to use Ms. Smith, because no one she knew had enough money to know squat about investments and taxes and stuff like that. She had only the yellow pages and her common sense to guide her.

Finally a stick-thin woman appeared from a carpeted hallway and approached. “Jenner Redwine?”

“Yes.” Jenner quickly stood, gripping her bag.

“I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Ms. Smith’s assistant. If you’ll come this way …?” She indicated the hallway, and led Jenner at a brisk pace down the long expanse.

They walked past large, slickly decorated offices, visible through open doors. Other doors were closed, so Jenner had to use her imagination about their appearance and inhabitants. As they went down the hallway, the offices became smaller in size, the furniture plainer. She began to think she should have picked a number larger than fifty grand for her white lie, because evidently Ms. Smith wasn’t very high in the Payne Echols pecking order.

The assistant stopped in front of a door, tapped lightly, then turned the knob. “Ms. Redwine to see you,” she said, stepping back so Jenner could enter the small office, then closing the door and presumably returning to her even smaller cubbyhole.

A somewhat stocky woman with too-short hair stood up behind a slightly battered desk and with a tight smile extended her hand to Jenner. “I’m Al Smith.”

“Al?” Jenner repeated. Maybe she’d heard wrong.

The tight smile widened the barest bit. “It’s short for Alanna. No one calls me that.” From the complete lack of humor in the comment, Jenner suspected no one dared. Al Smith continued, “I understand you have a small inheritance you’re interested in investing.”

Small? No one Jenner knew would call fifty grand “small,” but in a place like this, even to the inhabitants of the less-than-lavish offices, it was probably chump change. Again she perched on the edge of her seat, and studied Al Smith across the expanse of desk.

Ms. Smith couldn’t be called a pretty woman. Not only was her dark hair too short, she didn’t wear much makeup—if any—and the gray suit she was wearing made her look boxy. If her lack of wrinkles was anything to go by, she was probably not much older than Jenner, but the image she projected added ten years to her age. Her eyes were disconcertingly pale, her gaze direct, and she didn’t look as if she laughed very often.

Jenner didn’t trust easily. Just because this woman worked for a top-notch financial planning firm, didn’t mean she was reliable and honest. She did like the no-bullshit attitude, though.

“Can I ask you a question?” she finally said.

Ms. Smith looked faintly interested. “Of course, but I might not answer it.”

“Fair enough. How long have you worked here?”

“A little more than two years.” She didn’t seem surprised by the question. “It’s obvious I’m low man on the totem pole here. That doesn’t mean I’m not good at my job. I’ll work my way up.”

“How old are you?”

Ms. Smith gave a bark of laughter. “That’s more personal than I expected, but I don’t mind telling you. I’m twenty-seven. Yes, I’m young. I understand your concern. But I’m here to help, and I won’t always be in one of the back offices.”

The straightforward ambition appealed to Jenner more than any generic, diplomatic reassurance would have. She glanced around the small office, thinking that Al Smith might be leaving it sooner than she’d expected. Her gaze fell on the shelf behind the desk. There were a couple of plants, smaller and less perfect than those in the lobby, and some simply framed snapshots of Ms. Smith and another woman smiling into the camera, their arms looped around each other’s shoulders. The pose struck Jenner as somewhat romantic, and she stared at the photos a moment too long.

Ms. Smith glanced over her shoulder at the photos, and her mouth tightened. “Yes, Ms. Redwine, I’m a lesbian—but don’t worry; you aren’t my type. Skinny little blondes don’t appeal to me.”

Judging from the photographs, Jenner would say Ms. Smith preferred tall, curvy redheads. To each his—or her—own.

Jenner smiled, relaxing. She liked this plainspoken, up-front woman. “I don’t have an inheritance,” she admitted, digging into her bag and pulling out her wallet. Opening it, she pulled out the newspaper clipping and laid it on the desk in front of Ms. Smith. Next she took out the lottery ticket and placed it beside the piece of newsprint.

Ms. Smith gave her a curious look, then picked up a pair of glasses and slid them in place. She looked down at the two pieces of paper, and Jenner watched her expression change as she realized what she was seeing. “Holy sh—Excuse me. Is this what I think it is?”

“Yes.”

Al Smith abruptly sat back. With one finger she adjusted her glasses, as if to make certain she was seeing properly. She looked back and forth from the newsprint to the lottery ticket, comparing each number much as Jenner had done. Finally she lifted her head, and looked her new client in the eye. For the first time there was a twinkle there as she said, “I think skinny blondes just became my type.”

Jenner was surprised into a snort of laughter. “Sorry. My type comes with a penis. Besides, your redhead could probably beat me up.”

“She could,” Al admitted. She and Jenner grinned at each other, two tough-minded young women who recognized similar qualities in each other. They were both used to working hard for what they had. Al no doubt made way more money than Jenner did, but she was still fighting and clawing her way up the career ladder.

Jenner didn’t know anything about investments, but she understood people, and how the pecking order worked. That lottery ticket represented a huge stepping-stone to Al, just as it did to her. By bringing in this size of an account, Al would leapfrog over everyone else on her level, and would quickly move into one of those larger offices. With her added influence, she would gain other accounts, and the effect would snowball. If she was half as good as Jenner thought she might be, Al Smith could one day have her own investment firm, or at least be a senior partner at Payne Echols.