Underwater (7 page)

David Shepherd finished his lunch at the Best Spot Bakery and began to walk the short distance back to his office in the Jefferson-Sloan Building. It was a beautiful April day, with the sun shining high in a cloudless sky at the end of the noon hour. Manicured rows of flowers bloomed along both sides of Peachtree Street, lining the sidewalk and filling every possible space surrounding the downtown hotels, storefronts, and skyscrapers. Spring in Atlanta was lovely, but with it came the pollen season, and David suffered from it every year. He took allergy medication daily beginning in late February and was never without his handkerchief.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Retrieving it, he saw it was Candace Morgan. He cleared his throat and answered the call.

“Hi, David. I spoke to Monty this morning.”

“You took his call?”

“No—I called him back. He’d left me a voicemail earlier saying Helen’s pregnant.”

“So you offered your congratulations, I presume—”

“Yes, but I didn’t leave it at that, unfortunately. I started questioning him about the house and his lack of communication about it. Then he launched into a tirade and attacked me personally. Apparently he still doesn’t have the C.O. The three of them are still living in that one-bedroom guesthouse in the back, and the baby is due in November.”

David reached Capstone Road and turned the corner. “Did you ask him if he’s found a job?”

“After he accused me of not giving him enough funds to complete the project, after he said I’d be
‘
fucked’ if he walks away, I told him to find a job and make the money to finish it.”

David entered an elevator and punched in the number fifteen. “And he said?”

“That he
is
working—as general contractor on the place. Then he implied that I should be paying him a salary.”

David bit his lip. “How did the conversation end?”

“Badly. I stayed calm, but I said that if he doesn’t start complying with the terms we agreed to, I’ll take over, sell it for whatever it will fetch, and they’ll have to find somewhere else to live.”

David exited the elevator. “Did you give him a deadline? A date?”

Candace sighed. “No. Well, I used the word
‘
immediately.’ ”

“Okay, look,” David said as he entered his private office at Elite Financial Planning. He shut the door and sat down at his desk. “If you like, I’ll draft an email to him for your review. I can list the items that we have received from him so far and spell out what we still need, and by what date. Meanwhile, I’ll contact Whitney Jamison at the bank and find out the status on the HELOC.”

“Yes, do that. But before you call her, before you even write the email, do something else. Go back and figure out how much money I’ve given him, how much I’ve lent him directly, and how much I’m liable for on what I cosigned. Then when you talk to Whitney, verify the loan amounts—make sure your information is correct.”

“Of course.”

“Then send me a list of everything. Can you do it today?”

“Not a problem. Anything else?”

“Not now.” Candace’s phone signaled a call from Rob. “I’ve got to take another call. Talk to you later.”

David hung up, placed his BlackBerry on his desk, and pulled up Candace’s accounts on his computer. Like everyone else’s, her stocks had taken a beating, but he was confident that they would recover and perform well over the long term. Her investments in three hedge funds that he had recommended were doing very well. Her overall financial position wasn’t bad at all. Even if she had to write off all the funds she had put into her brother’s house, her other real estate investments were sound, as long as she chose to hold on to them for a while.

David had managed all of her personal investments since before she had taken her apparel company public five years ago, and his advisory role had gradually morphed into a counselor about private matters. That was what often happened with his array of very wealthy clients: their money and their relationships became interconnected and complicated, especially for those who struggled to define and enforce boundaries. Guilt was usually the cause, and each of them had his or her own unique circumstances. David found satisfaction making his clients’ money and investments perform, but he had to admit that he didn’t mind the more intimate facets of the job.

Candace’s situation puzzled him somewhat, though. Most of his clients who faced similar predicaments were dealing with an adult child, or even an elderly parent—someone they felt a responsibility toward and with whom they had established a pattern of enabling over a period of many years. But Candace had enabled Monty and tolerated his irresponsible behavior even though he was just two years her junior. David wondered what their relationship had been like over the years. He knew she felt guilty about the car wreck that killed her mother, but that was over twenty years ago.

According to Candace, after the tragedy, Monty had briefly enrolled at the University of Georgia. When he flunked out, he had been expected to work construction, but he had shown little interest. He moved in with his girlfriend and found a job as a waiter. A succession of restaurant jobs—and girlfriends—followed. Apparently, the guy had charmed and bedded more women than most men had ever dated. Then Candace’s father died of a heart attack. She had been filled with grief and had faulted herself for not being aware of his condition.

Reportedly, Monty had the opposite reaction and focused only on what he had to gain: money. Jack Carawan was a saver with no debt to his name, and left most of his money to his son. However, Monty had been furious that he hadn’t received everything. The friction that previously existed between brother and sister turned into extreme animosity. Candace said Monty had developed a permanent sense of entitlement, and David had seen the evidence of it. He felt sorry for his client having such a brother and losing her parents the way she had. The rich had their problems, too, and Candace had had more than her share.

What bewildered David was what Monty had done with all the funds Candace had supplied to him over the last few years. The two invoices from vendors that he had scanned and emailed to David documented only a tiny fraction of the total amount he’d received. Was the man using the money for something else—like gambling? That was possible; his personality seemed indicative of a risk-taker. He was too much of a fitness buff to have a drug problem. Was it women? But paying for sex didn’t fit his pattern—he had always had women support him, rather than the reverse.

David wrote a concise email to Monty with bullet points outlining Candace’s requirements and saved it as a draft; he’d put together the list of her fund outlays next. He’d call Whitney at Memorial Bank tomorrow, or possibly later today, a Thursday. Yes, that would be better. More work got accomplished on Thursdays than on any other day of the week, and little was decided on Fridays—too many people, especially bankers, took that day off. As he perused the spreadsheet of Candace’s loans and gifts to Monty, his inbox indicated a new message. It was from Whitney and marked with a red flag.

From: [email protected]

Sent: Thursday, April 15, 2010 1:22 PM EST

To: [email protected]

Subject: Carawan-Morgan loan

David,

Hope you are doing well.

Mr. Monty Carawan has been in touch with me to discuss renewing the Carawan-Morgan home equity loan for another 6 months. He has requested that we refinance the 1st mortgage (balance of $193,148) and $500,000 HELOC (current balance of $479,594), rolling them into a new home equity loan in the amount of $750,000. This will allow over $77,000 in availability to draw on the new HELOC. I will need Ms. Morgan’s signature on the new note.

All past due interest on the existing HELOC must be paid, as well as the last 4 months’ mortgage payments, currently past due. We also require the next 3 months’ interest, the 2010 property taxes, and one year’s insurance in escrow.

Shall I FedEx the original new loan document to your office for Ms. Morgan’s signature?

Thanks so much.

Whitney Jamison, SVP

Memorial Bank Real Estate Lending

David read the email twice. Candace was going to hit the roof when she saw it and learned what was going on. Only a month ago, Monty declared he had “no plans” to get behind on the bank payments, but didn’t say that he was already in arrears. He’d also claimed he had eighty-five thousand left to draw on the HELOC, and here he was with only a little over twenty grand remaining. Candace would be furious that he had contacted the bank to roll the mortgage into it and increase the total liability by another fifty thousand plus. Learning that Monty assumed she would make his back payments and fund interest and insurance fees would further enrage her.

What had begun as a major but ill-planned renovation that Candace had been generous enough to finance had turned into a train wreck.

He dialed Whitney’s number at the bank.

6

A Mess

W
hitney, this is David Shepherd,” he said after the beep. “I’ve seen your email. Please give me a call as soon as possible.” David looked over the numbers on his screen that Candace had requested.

Gifts: $36,000 ($12k each) in 2007, ’08, and ’09: $108,000

Initial Investment in Home: $600,000

Renovation Loan: $200,000

2 additional loans ($20k + $25k): $45,000

Total: $108,000 + $845,000 = $953,000

HELOC: $500,000, with new request to raise to $750,000

TOTAL: $1,453,000 (with new HELOC, $1,703,000)

The bottom line represented a very small fraction of Candace’s net worth. David was sure she didn’t expect the $108,000 in gifts to be paid back, so the new number was $1,595,000. However, she had announced back in January that she was wouldn’t be gifting any more money to the Carawans. David wondered if she would change her mind now that they had a baby on the way.

Couldn’t the Carawans afford the initial $200,000 mortgage and keep it current? Candace would not want to allow them to do away with a mortgage and increase her total exposure in the deal, and David would not advise her to do so. For the bank, a loan of $750,000 guaranteed by one of Atlanta’s most successful businesswomen was as good as gold, even in the depressed housing market.

Several years ago, real estate values in this city—affected by the 1996 Olympics—were sky high and climbing. The property on Arcadia Lane may have fetched two and a half million in those days. But now the home would sell for far less, if it sold at all. Though situated in a prime, high-end location in Buckhead, the unspoken truth was that the pool of buyers in that price range had dwindled severely during the current recession. After the financial crisis of 2008, some said that it would be at least a decade before the prices of these homes returned to their former levels.

David would need to connect with Whitney for the past due mortgage amounts, past due interest, HELOC interest, insurance, and taxes. The home would have to bring well over $1.6 million, and David wasn’t sure that it would, especially if—as he feared—much of the renovation work was incomplete.

Monty opened his laptop and plugged it into an outlet at Starbucks as he waited for the barista to make his grande decaf latte with skim milk. He needed to calm down and wipe his mind clean of his sister’s emotionless response to the news of his wife’s pregnancy. Candace was such an unfeeling bitch—almost masculine. Yes, she was a man. Maybe she was gay.

It would make a lot of sense if the two of them didn’t have the same father. This wasn’t the first time Monty had considered the possibility. Candace favored Jack Carawan, but Monty resembled Susannah. Their mother could have had an affair—or even a tryst—with another man while married to Jack. It was certainly plausible. How could Jack have satisfied her 100 percent of the time, anyway? Susannah had been a strikingly beautiful woman and very charming, with an outgoing personality similar to Monty’s. By contrast, Jack had been stoic and cold. Like Candace.

Monty picked up his latte at the counter and sat back down. He shook his head and sipped the hot beverage. He’d never know the truth about his ancestry, but perhaps there was a man out there somewhere, a man other than Jack Carawan, whose genes Monty had inherited. A man who was almost as unique and special as Monty. If that were true, then his surname wouldn’t be Carawan, a name with ties to Appalachia. Susannah had chosen the name Candace; his sister had been the fat girl that the other kids called Candy Caravan. Monty had been given Susannah’s maiden name, Montgomery. No one had made fun of him.

He scrolled absently through his files—most of the labels were cryptic and obscure. He clicked on roark.xls, a file containing the phony construction budget he had created a while back for his sister’s lackey. It would be easy to change the dates, plug in the amounts, rename it, and attach it to an email to Shepherd.

He had named the file after his literary idol, Ayn Rand’s Howard Roark. He’d read
The Fountainhead
when he was sixteen and had reread it many times since then, strongly identifying with the novel’s protagonist. Like him, Howard Roark had been misunderstood and held back by society. But he had lived by his principles, never caving in to the establishment. An architectural genius, Roark’s talent surpassed all others.

When Monty was a teenager, Susannah had told him his IQ was 160, well above the threshold for membership in Mensa. If only he had had the proper training at the right architectural school, Monty could have become a real-life Howard Roark: the world’s best architect. He would have built a famous monument, or perhaps whole new city centers. The world would have recognized his genius. But his vision, his creativity, his brilliance, all the qualities that set him apart from the masses had gone unrealized and unappreciated. So far, the world had screwed him, but had rewarded imbeciles like his sister and her boyfriend.

Within a few minutes, Monty completed the changes to the bogus budget, renamed the file, and sent it to Shepherd with no explanation. If that asshole or Candace had any questions, he would just ignore them. Taking a sip of his latte, he checked his watch. In just over an hour, he would go to the gym and do an abbreviated workout before heading over to the practice field later in the afternoon. His old friend Chip Duncan had persuaded him to help coach his son’s Little League baseball team. Monty enjoyed being outside with the boys where he was respected and admired. No one controlled him or pressured him there, and it didn’t matter if he missed a practice. Though Chip was in charge, he treated Monty like an equal and was grateful to have him.

The two of them had played just about every sport together growing up, including high school baseball and football—Chip was bigger than Monty and had even played for a year at a Division II school. Now he worked in sales, was married to a nurse, and had a son and a baby daughter. Monty would tell Chip today about Helen’s pregnancy—maybe she was carrying a boy. Yes, until he received confirmation from the doctor, he would just assume he was going to have a son. Another female in the household might be unbearable.

Jess looked over the email she had written to Candace listing the tasks completed in planning the wedding. She didn’t mind the extra assignment—it would make her job a lot more fun for the next few months. Her boss was demanding, but she wasn’t as bad as some people thought, and the list wasn’t as long as it could have been. Candace didn’t want to bother with a “Save the Date” before sending the formal invitations, for example. Nor did she want a wedding website, as so many couples did. She and Rob already had all the possessions they wanted, so they weren’t registering for gifts. Other than the invitation, the tasks centered on the wedding day itself: ceremony, flowers, photographer, music, menu, and cake.

Though this would be the second marriage for both of them, no expense was to be spared. However, Candace had been very clear that the wedding was to be elegant and understated. It would take place at Holy Cross Episcopal Church in Midtown Manhattan, where Rob’s mother Deirdre was still a member. Jess had booked the reception at the landmark St. George Hotel on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. The guest list included the principals at Rob’s firm; a few New York politicians; some of Candace’s industry contacts; a few celebrities; and the chairman of the board of SlimZ, Myron Frisch. The only SlimZ employees on the list were Candace’s direct reports: Paula in design; Amanda in sales and marketing; COO Ginger; and Courtney, the company’s chief financial officer.

Jess glanced at the door to her boss’s office, which was shut. She had a feeling that after reviewing the list, Candace would decide to invite the second tier: Shelly, head of product development in design; Darlene, in charge of PR, social media, and marketing; Melinda, head of sales; and Holly (director of fulfillment), Phoebe (product coordinator), and Erin (head of IT). That was what Jess would do—but it wasn’t up to her. She exhaled deeply, looked up from her computer screen, and pictured the beautiful sapphire-and-diamond ring Candace had shown her. A faint ding sounded, signaling a new message in her inbox. Jess came back to reality.

It was from her boss, with the subject line “Honeymoon.” Candace wanted her to look into a luxury private resort in Bermuda called Kensington Beaches. The wedding was scheduled for Saturday, October 9, and the couple planned to take a two-week honeymoon. Jess replied that she would get on it immediately and included her updated checklist.

Two minutes later, she received a response with an attachment from Rob: his mother’s guest list. Jess was supposed to integrate it with Candace’s, then send the combined list back. Candace also directed her to include herself and a date. If the only SlimZ employees in attendance were the top tier and herself, it would be pretty awkward. But she suspected—no, she knew—Candace wanted her to be there as her assistant. Even so, it would probably be the most fabulous wedding Jess would ever attend, including her own, someday.

The list of invited guests totaled eighty-two so far, and Candace was determined to keep the number below one hundred. With reluctance and out of politeness to Helen, she had included her and Monty, knowing they wouldn’t attend. Fine. That worked for Candace. She had no plans to invite any of her extended family members. Her only aunt was her mother’s sister, Stella, who had passed away single and childless. Jack had been an only child. However, relatives from both sides of Rob’s family were on his mother’s list.

Candace’s mother had been raised in the Episcopal Church, but her father had grown up as a Pentecostal. However, neither he nor Susannah had had a strong faith connection. As a result, the family never spent much time in a house of worship. Candace’s view was that a belief in God (or any higher power) was strictly personal and not subject to the rules of any particular church. But, hedging her bets, she considered herself a Christian and wasn’t opposed to a wedding in Deirdre Chandler’s New York City parish.

Thank God she had Jess to do the bulk of the planning and handle all the details. Jess would do the research, and Candace could just make the decisions, the same way she did with regard to business. She had much more pressing items on her agenda, like the launch of the new line—things were moving along well, so far. Among the designers and product development staff she sensed an excitement almost equal to her own about the product venture. Her people were the most creative and talented in the industry and they took her direction well. They were good listeners.

The sales team, with its in-house reputation for inflexibility and intransigence, was another matter. All nine members—led by Melinda—reported directly to Amanda, who had been at the company for over five years and was valued as a Team A player. Amanda was also in charge of the marketing team, led by Darlene, which handled PR, advertising, and social media. But an inherent adversarial relationship existed between Amanda’s group and Paula’s design staff. Sales personnel were often critical of new ideas and resistant to change; they preferred the easy route of established customer relationships. Designers, on the other hand, were emotionally invested in their creations, naturally defensive of them, and unable to relate to sales issues.