Falling for the Teacher

He shrugged and cocked his head toward the open upstairs window, toward the sound of the vacuum cleaner going in his bedroom. That could only mean Amada, his housekeeper, had showed up when he was out running. So much for possibility number one. As for option number two, Ben knew that his friend and partner, Hunt, was in Davos, theoretically skiing, but more likely courting Swiss investors for their new venture capitalist firm. He looked at his sports watch. Four o’clock in the afternoon, which would be ten o’clock at night in Switzerland, too late for Hunt to be calling. So it had to be his attorney.

Never a happy option if recent history was any guide.

Ben considered letting the call go to voice mail when he heard the vacuum cleaner stop. God knows he didn’t want Amada to get mixed up in his business. Quickly he pushed open the door, the wood scraping along the slab of gray stone, an original element of the centuries old cottage.

I really do need to plane that, he reminded himself and picked up the phone.

“Brown,” he said.

“George B. Brown? Is this Mr. George Benjamin Brown?” The voice was female, unctuous and unfamiliar. Female he could take. Unctuous and unfamiliar held absolutely zero appeal.

He was about to hang up when the woman added, “My name is Trudy Colliver, and I’m calling from Steamboat Springs, Colorado.”

It was the “Steamboat Springs, Colorado,” that stopped him from slamming down the receiver. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

“Oh, good. I must say, you’re not an easy man to reach,” the woman at the other end of the line said. “I tried the Wall Street firm where you recently worked, and they suggested I contact your attorney in Manhattan. He, in turn, gave me your current number in—” Ben could hear a shuffling of papers “—in Grantham, New Jersey.”

“Did he now?” Ben was wondering if he should fire his lawyer today or wait for tomorrow. If he remembered correctly, it was the ambulance chaser’s birthday. Definitely today then.

“You see, I’m also an attorney, and I’m calling on behalf of a client. Charlise Worthington? I believe you were acquainted with Ms. Worthington?”

Charlise Worthington. Steamboat. Names out of his past, say, fifteen years ago, right after he’d gotten out of the Marines. Thumbing his way across the country with no particular focus, Ben had somehow landed in Steamboat Springs for one winter season, despite the fact that he’d never skied or snowboarded in his life and didn’t know a stem Christie from a telemark. No surprise there since foster homes didn’t exactly cater to expensive winter sports.

He had eked a meager wage playing piano at a bar where Charlie had been a waitress. She was a local, addicted to powder. The kind you skied on, that was. Charlie had had no time for drugs, any more than world politics, corporate greed or long-term leases. They’d shared laughs, more than a few beers and a brief affair.

The sad truth was—and Ben was beginning to be of the philosophy that truth was by and large sad—he had enjoyed her company and the sex immensely, but had headed for L.A. as soon as the snow had melted without an iota of hesitation and barely a glance backward. A typically insensitive guy. The only salvation was that Charlie had probably seen it coming, given her whole no-long-term lease on life thing.

Now, thinking back, though, he found he was smiling. “That’s right,” he said. “We did know each other, quite a few years back, but we lost touch.”

“That is what I was given to understand. Unfortunately it doesn’t make my news any easier.” There was a brief pause during which Ben could hear a long intake of breath. “Mr. Brown, I’m sorry to inform you that Ms. Worthington recently died.”

The sweat soaking his T-shirt turned ice-cold. Ben turned around and leaned against the kitchen counter. “That’s, ah, that’s…” What did you say in response to news about the death of someone who embodied life to its fullest? “That’s, ah, too bad.” He rubbed his forehead. “Was she in an accident? A skiing accident?”

“No, it was breast cancer. She was very courageous, and remained positive throughout the course of her treatments and relapses, but in the end the disease was just too strong.”

The tightness in his chest had nothing to do with the aftereffects of exercise. “I’m sorry. I’m…so sorry to hear that. Charlie was good, a good person. She didn’t deserve to die so young.”

“Does anyone?”

Ben didn’t respond. Unlike Charlie, he knew that he wasn’t a kind-spirited person. He could think of any number of people whom he wouldn’t shed a tear over if an errant bus happened to run over them. If there were any justice in the world, guys like him would be the ones to die young, while the Charlies of the world would live to a ripe old age, sitting around a roaring fireplace, sipping hot drinks and enjoying their grandchildren.

He rubbed his jaw with his palm. “Listen, if there’re some outstanding debts or things that need to be settled in her estate, I’d be happy to do so.” He turned on the cold water and bent his head to drink from the faucet.

“Actually, there is a small inheritance, but there are some bills that require payment, and your offer is very generous. But in all fairness, I called with reference to another matter in Ms. Worthington’s will.”

Ben straightened up and wiped away some water that dribbled off his chin. “Whatever Charlie wanted to give me, I’d rather you donate it to charity. I really don’t want for anything and prefer to live simply.” He leaned over to drink some more.

“God knows that with two mortgages, one kid in college and another taking private figure skating lessons that cost more than most people’s yearly pay, I can understand your preference. However, in this particular instance, it’s not so simple to reject the offer. You see the bequest is a boy. A fifteen-year-old boy.”

The water ran into Ben’s nose. It splashed over his face. His hand. He coughed. And coughed some more.

“Mr. Brown? Mr. Brown, are you all right?”

Blindly, Ben managed to turn off the tap and, leaning heavily on the edge of the sink, sucked in mouthfuls of air. Just to make sure, he gulped another large dose of oxygen. “Charlie had a son?” he said.

“That’s correct.”

Charlie would have been a wonderful mother. Ben knew it. He could perfectly imagine what her kid must be like: blond, athletic, easygoing, one of those kids who was perpetually wind-and sunburned, maybe with a chipped tooth that he’d gotten from a skateboard accident.

But he never would have imagined what came next.

“And, Mr. Brown, she’s named you as the boy’s father.”

CHAPTER ONE

Dear Grantham Community Members,

Welcome to the twenty-fifth year of the Grantham Adult School! As in years past, we are delighted to offer a wide range of classes to meet the needs and interests of the community. Our instructors include noted scholars from Grantham University, as well as artists, artisans and business experts residing in the area. Above all, we at the Adult School believe that education does not end with a diploma. Hence, our motto:

Education: the Wellspring of Life.

Iris Phox, President

Grantham Adult School

“EDUCATION: THE WELLSPRING OF LIFE!” Ben tossed the thin booklet on the coffee table in his living room. It joined a stack of library books, fly-fishing paraphernalia and an empty bag of Doritos. “What the hell is a ‘wellspring’ anyway?”

“What was that? I wasn’t listening,” said Huntington Phox, co-founder with Ben of Garden State Global Venture Capital. He sat in a cracked leather armchair kitty-corner to Ben’s couch and was absorbed in reading a company prospectus. “Reading” perhaps was stretching it, given the way he kept bringing the report closer to his aquiline nose before moving it farther away and then closer again.

The nose, by the way, matched the rest of Hunt’s lithe patrician body, a body honed by generations of breeding for playing polo or sailing in the America’s Cup. Somehow Hunt seemed blithely unaware of this fact, whereas Ben never forgot it, especially in comparison to his own physique. That could best be described as bruising, the kind of hulking form fit for felling trees or working on the loading docks. It was blond Mayflower vs black Irish. Day vs night.

“Oh, for the love of Pete!” Ben slid aside a stack of magazines and uncovered the magnifying glass he used for tying flies. “Here. If you refuse to wear reading glasses, at least use this. Otherwise, it’s too painful to watch.” He tossed the magnifying glass onto Hunt’s lap.

Hunt lowered the report. “It’s not that I refuse to wear reading glasses, it’s more that I refuse to believe that at thirty-five I’m showing any signs of aging. I have to live up to my image after all, and something like reading glasses just doesn’t fit the look.” The tone of his voice was self-deprecating.

“Well, I hate to tell you. Not only are you going blind as a bat, you’re also more tired these days. So much for your theory of remaining an ageless golden boy,” Ben teased.

“You’ve noticed that, too?” asked Hunt. He set his jaw but after a pause, he settled his features into his usual devil-may-care expression. “You know, Ben, you’re the only person I know who gets nastier in retirement. It’s a good thing you’re my friend, not to mention a hell of an investor,” he said, effectively changing the topic of conversation.

“I wouldn’t exactly call you a slouch, ol’ buddy. Just because you didn’t grow up a street fighter, doesn’t mean you don’t know how to mix it up with the big boys.”

“Such praise. Please, it’ll go to my head, and it’s already filled to the brim with such trivia as how to tie a full Windsor knot and the proper use of a finger bowl.” Hunt waited while Ben chuckled, then said more seriously, “Let’s just agree that we both know how to spot a financial opportunity when we see one, and that Ribacoff & Riley rued the day it lost us.”

Ben shook his head. “R&R rued the day it lost you. It rejoiced up and down the Street when I left.” R&R was considered the most aggressive mutual-fund company on Wall Street.

“Says you,” Hunt said.

“Says everyone else on the Street.”