What I Did for Love (3 page)

“My sister, Dray,” Bredon told the man quietly.

“Oh.” He was almost flustered, and then, catching himself he said, “I’m Grenville Rand, but everyone just calls me Rand.” He grinned, and I recognized the boy he must have been, and understood the decision to avoid the “Grenville.” I had been christened Andrea Elizabeth Drayman Cooper. Bredon had called me “Dray” affectionately, when I was a baby, and the name had stuck.

Rand repeated my name, not looking at my brother, only looking at me. Then, as though mentally shaking himself, he began the standard “I’m happy to meet you” phrases, which I mechanically echoed. We were beguiled into silence, just looking at each other, each seeming to feel amazement at the other’s existence.

My brother continued to stand quietly beside me, and Rand realized that Bredon was waiting for him to leave. With a lingering look, a soft “Well, good-bye,” and a nod to my brother, he went to the waiting elevator. I stole a last look at him as he turned to face the closing doors, and he looked directly back at
me in that moment. I was surprised that my usually observant and protective brother made no comment. Evidently Bredon had much on his mind, and my amazement over Rand left me distracted as well. This was a true first for us. Generally, Bredon and I had each other’s immediate, complete attention when we were together.

In Bredon’s office, after our customary quick hug and a peck on the cheek, we settled into the big armchairs, looking over the city through windows that ran floor to ceiling. I was still thinking of Rand, half in a daydream as I gazed at the familiar scene, listening as my brother started to brief me about his new financial venture. It would be the most exciting deal he had ever put together, and the greatest financial risk of his career.

He had begun in a normal conversational voice, but something he said triggered a buzz of danger and wariness in my unconscious. Thoughts of Rand disappeared as Bredon set out the details of his latest venture. All the years of hearing about the financial world, and all my studies, came together to make me shake my head. I did not like the deal, nor the world regions it involved, nor the overseas partners. It involved enormous investments in countries notorious for their corruption and political instability. The capital partners were mostly men of publicly questionable ethics. The whole project would be dangerous and risky under any circumstances, and conditions now were even less stable. Many observers saw threats of state collapse, coup, revolution, anarchy in the regions that would be part of Bredon’s project. I had just finished two semesters of economics that were filled with cautionary tales about many of these regions.

Bredon knew all that I knew, yet he had gone ahead. He was going to deal with men of duplicity and self-interest, feeding government corruption, shattering many hopes among their countries’ poor. Each day brought more news of unrest, terrorism, religious and secular upheavals. They affected market performances throughout the world, prices fluctuating in roller-coaster
rides, way high up, way down, as investors evaluated each new world development.

No wonder, as Bredon described the investment plan, I was feeling an edgy agitation, alarms stirring in me, and my need to warn my brother. My father always encouraged me to trust my instincts, believing ‘instincts’ are things we already know within ourselves. Those instincts were now telling me frantically to ask Bredon to pull out of this deal. The profits would be enormous, yes, if it succeeded, but the deal itself was risky beyond anything he had ever tried.

Saying a little prayer to our father’s spirit to invoke guidance, I tried to open the conversation gently. “I don’t really like this project, Bredon,” I said in a low voice, without urgency, praying he would hear my love and care. My words stopped my brother short, surprise in his questioning look. In the past, I might ask questions, but I never questioned his judgment or genius in matters of money. I tried to elaborate. “The principals in the deal….” I began, but Bredon cut me off, his face stern, almost cold.

“You seem to like Rand, and Rand is one of the principals. He had his doubts too, but he’ll come around.”

“Really? Rand is in it?” I was surprised, and only a bit relieved. “What doubts does he have?”

Bredon shook his head. “Natural caution. But Rand has a major option. He’s almost as heavily committed as I am, but we need a tremendous amount more. We need heavy-investment partners in each country we’re dealing with.”

I felt chilled as my brother spoke, and feared for him. He had to see my face, my “don’t do it” face as he called it. This time he was not moved by it, or perhaps it angered him because there was already so much uncertainty in this hugely risky investment. He spoke in a calm but coolly determined voice. “Yes, the other investors are an iffy bunch. But with Rand in the picture, there will be two of us to keep it on course.”

I still looked doubtful and Bredon tried another tack. “I know it’s huge, a major gamble, and it scares a lot of people. But if we pull it off, the profit will be fantastic.”

“It’s an enormous gamble, Bredon…” I started to say, but he cut me off.

“I’ve gambled before,” he reminded me.

“Yes. And won. But a gamble is only wonderful if it succeeds.” I kept the tone of my voice quiet until then, but my fears for my brother were only growing by the minute. Praying I would sound like my father, I said, “Why not let this one pass?” And then I took a chance and said it: “It almost seems reckless.”

“Reckless.” Bredon repeated my word without inflection, flat, and with a look of disbelief on his face. Was there also anger? Over this? I had the horrible feeling that engulfs a person when a situation is dangerous to someone you love, but that person will not believe you. There is no persuading them of how likely and how terrible the consequences would be.

“The deal feels too dangerous,” I said, keeping my voice calm.

“I’ve done my homework, Dray,” he said in a quiet, remonstrating tone. “You don’t trust my judgment?”

“I don’t trust the
others
!” I exclaimed. I was feeling a panic for him that I had never felt before, and he could hear it. I wished he would understand that he was the
only
person, and no other, and no thing, that could make me feel this way. After my parents, all my sense of danger centered only on Bredon’s well-being. It wasn’t just Bredon protecting me. That was what the world saw. I felt a loyalty and desire to keep him from harm, beyond anything I could describe even to myself.

“Bredon,” I tried again, “these are not ethical people; they aren’t trustworthy. And the political scene is messy, dangerous…”

He cut me off. “I know they’re not ethical. That’s what contracts are for. If we all ‘trusted’ each other so much, we could just give our word, and that would be that.” My brother shifted
impatiently in his chair. “Of course they’re out for their own good. But they control access to important permits and contracts. There’s no other way than to deal with them.”

I was about to answer him but he held up his hand to stop me. “This is business, not friendship, Dray. I’ve done this kind of deal before.”

My brother’s voice was so cold, I knew I had lost the argument. He was going ahead with a gamble that could break him, and I knew my brother. If he lost his hold on his financial world, if his losses destroyed his wealth, I was not sure he could endure it. That’s what frightened me most of all. Would he feel such shame and humiliation that he would harm himself? Other men had taken their own lives when they were financially ruined. I was terrified at the thought of anything that could take my brother from me.

Bredon seemed to realize the depth of my anxiety, and I began to realize that he could not accept my objections because he probably already committed beyond his ability to get out, even if he wanted to. I could hardly breathe.

“Why not try to get out however you can,” I urged, uselessly.

“Of course I could get out,” he said, “but I’ve created this deal, and I’m staying in.” He pretended an air of dismissive amusement, patting my hand. I sensed it was a lie, and maybe he was lying to himself. Another first. My sense of menace was so strong, I was so afraid for him, it was all I could do to keep from crying and begging. At this point, though, it was futile and would only add misery to whatever uneasiness he felt. So I tried to compose myself as he took my hand, leaning toward me, his face now loving, all severity gone. And the truth finally there.

“Please, Dray,” he said gently, “stop worrying. I’m committed to this. I was just filling you in on the details. No more arguments, please.” I knew that tone of voice, all objections done. “And sign the tax form.”

He pushed the paper toward me, looking both distracted by
his monster deal, and moved by concern for me. He put his hand on my arm, then gave me a full hug. I loved him so much, and ached because if he lost this gamble, if financial devastation were added to all the loss we had experienced, he would be undone. The damage might be irreparable.

“Please don’t worry,” he repeated. “And I wish I had more time for you this afternoon, but I have another investor coming in about a half hour.” He rose, my sign to rise as well. He tried to assuage my upset and worry, giving me several small kisses on the cheek, trying to change my expression. I finally managed to smile, and gave him another peck on the cheek. It was eerie, how unsettled I felt, how afraid for him. Seeing my worried face, Bredon pressed my arm, hugged me, and gave me a last quick peck on the cheek as the elevator doors opened for me.

“I love you, Baby Sister,” he said, and smiled. I melted. I loved him with all the added love I could no longer show our parents. So I gave him a quick hug and another quick peck on the cheek as I stepped into the elevator. Be strong, I told myself. I tried to smile at him all the way to the lobby by smiling upward at the camera hidden behind the elevator’s two-way mirror. Each of the suites on these floors had its own mirrored elevator, with invisible as well as visible security cameras. My brother could monitor my progress by looking at a small computer screen at one corner of his desk. I hoped he saw me smiling at him.

The elevators were so fast, I was still smiling upward as the doors opened at ground level. There in the great lobby I saw Rand, smiling back at me. He came up to me quickly.

“I was hoping to see you,” he said. “Are you free this afternoon? Do you have some time to spend with me?”

I was so surprised it took me a moment to answer him. Shaking away my disorientation over my brother, gathering my thoughts, I wondered at the fact that Rand had waited here all this time. I was also sensing some relief. Rand would not be waiting for me if he had decided to ditch my brother and back
out of the deal. So I said, “Do
you
have the time?” I knew how intensely these men worked, how scheduled their daytime hours.

“I have the time, if you’ll say yes,” he said softly but flirtingly.

“Yes, I do,” I said. “The term is over, final exams finished last week.” I was close to babbling. I assumed he knew I was a student and my answer was so sensible, but it was all play-acting. It was so exciting just to be near him, his male chemistry making my heart speed up, and my first experience with “butterflies in the stomach” over a man. I kept trying to look composed, to appear far more cool and proper than I felt.

“There’s a Balthus exhibit at the Met,” he said, half turning his head to look at me, the question hidden in his statement. “Do you know his work?”

“Yes! He’s fascinating!” I replied. Didn’t this man understand how nerdy a girl I was? Of course I knew Balthus, with his peculiar and cryptic paintings, girls with their panties showing, legs open as though to invite sex. The picture of the spanking and the breast. As a free-thinking woman I was conflicted over the way he painted women in strange sexual positions. I often wondered why men were not painted that way more often. There were artists who had painted men masturbating, sitting in a chair with their penises in their hands. And Picasso had done a picture of himself on top of one of his mistresses, his penis showing as it neared to entering her. But mostly, men painted their endless fascination with women, breasts and breasts and breasts, and the women with open legs or fully frontally nude, with or without hair on their pubic areas. Balthus painted his model, Thérèse, as a girl, her hairless sex detailed between her open legs.

Thinking these things, I did not realize that Rand was smiling at me the way my professors did when they watched me speculate on something. He was waiting for me to come to a conclusion, as they so often had.

I nodded yes. “Do we need tickets for the exhibit?” I asked.

“No. We can have an early preview.”

I would find out what that meant, but now I said innocently, “I have a museum membership,” remembering that I had put aside all mail, including probably this exhibit notice from the museum, as I studied for final exams. “I guess the invitation is in a pile of stuff waiting to be read.” My look, with its wry shame-facedness, got him to laugh.

“We can go there, and then to dinner. Do you want to?”

Remembering to look cool, and steadying my voice, I said, “Oh, yes, that would be great.”

Did I want to? I would have cut two thousand classes and a Nobel lecture for him, the way he aroused me. Not to mention swim the English Channel. Being this close to him, even without touching him, felt so wonderful, and so alarmingly different from anything I had ever felt when I was with a man, I could barely get the words out. “And now that I’ve met with my brother, I have no more appointments today,” I told him. Didn’t I sound in charge of myself? Why couldn’t I get the fluttering to stop?

As we left the building a uniformed driver got out of a black car and came around to the curb. He gave a kind of half-salute to Rand as he opened the door for us.

“Met Museum, Tom,” Rand told him, and then with a quickly mouthed apology he made a short call, after which he said, “Our visit is on.”

We got through the heavy afternoon traffic smoothly, crossing from Madison Avenue and turning onto Fifth Avenue just north of the Museum. Tom found his way around the buses and taxis in their special curb lane, to the museum’s parking garage in its underground hiddenness. We waited for a pause in the pedestrian traffic so we could cross the pavement onto the garage driveway. I had also used this garage, and knew that cars had to open their trunks for inspection. Oh, the terrible lessons of buildings bombed, as well as planes.