“I’m homely aren’t I Father?”
The young girl, Emma the daughter, asked the question in a flat, nasal voice that was casual, with no presumption, but merely checking on his judgment. She sat at the kitchen table, hands folded, looking carefully at the rain-spattered patio and the yard beyond, moist, glistening, and very green. She turned to face him, but he had his back to her.
He heard her all right, her voice close by, the words distinct yet seemingly distant; the meaning and the emotion well understood.
At that moment for some reason, he thought about his regular train platform, eastbound, Track 2; the woman had smiled at him. There she was that gorgeous woman and he remembers her now as he leans against the stove; statuesque, her shapely figure, her commanding bearing, her perfect grooming, and well-dressed. He sees himself through the veiled memory of imposition standing there on the platform looking stupid; this demeanor the critique of his self-analysis at the time and still so in retrospect. Newspaper folded functionally for reading efficiency on the train, he the Wall Street functionary waiting to be catapulted to his world of interest, comfort, and containment.
The vision was there of the woman on the platform, lips parted slightly, provocatively; she the essence of a movie femme fatale whose come-hither look presumed he could be seduced, waiting for his expected response. J. Kenyon Eckhart III could not resist the temptation she presented. He thought about his reaction with a fleeting sense of restraint, but he liked how he felt responding to her directness and he wanted to know more. He took in her tempting smile, her suggestive expression, and the glamour she exuded. He knew she was signaling him with her penetrating eyes and he received the signal, his conscious acknowledgement of his decision.
He had moved towards her in a stumbling, pathetic way until he touched her arm with the folded paper. He wanted to make it look as if he were getting a better position on the platform. Dork as he was, he still knew to wait for her to speak.
She did, but not at first. She waited until he had gained his balance and then had looked at her, face to face, close and in her space, and she could see his focus on her as he looked out from behind his wire rimmed glasses.
“Busy day ahead?” she asked.
“Yes, indeed. Very busy.”
He, the Dork, could not think of anything else to say at that point. On the other hand there were a dozen or so things he would have liked to have asked her, but for the courage to do so. Why are you here? What do you do for a living? Are you a hooker? A model? Perhaps a bored housewife going into the city for the day? Why haven’t I seen you before? Are you really signaling me? And why? I’m a middle-aged, nondescript man, although not altogether unpleasant looking, but still not a standout, so how did you decide to hit on me? Are you hitting on me?
He assumed she was. Why?
“Broker?”
“Ah, not exactly. Used to be. I put together…deals.”
“Interesting. I do too.”
“You in the market?”
“Yes, you might say that.”
He did not know how to respond other than to flick his paper up and seem to check something that he had been reading.
“Daddy, did you hear me?”
Emma’s voice was only slightly plaintive.
“I think I might make some oatmeal dear, would you like some?”
“No.”
“Okay, Wheaties…breakfast of champions.”
“You didn’t hear me.”
Daddy, Father, Kenyon Eckhart, the Wall Street Dork, was back on the train platform.
“Cheryl Crider.”
She stuck her hand out towards him in an awkward way that was supposed to symbolize her reticent position as a female. He took her hand gently and gave it a slight, uneven shake.
“Kenyon Eckhart.”
“I admire someone who is dedicated to his work like you seem to be,” she said with the sincerest of tone.
That was the beautifully hand-tied lure she tossed onto the waters of their chance meeting.
“I…”
At this point he wasn’t sure where to go with the conversation, but the lure tantalized him.
“Daddy, did you hear me?”
“Of course.”
“What?”
“What do you mean ‘what’?”
“I asked you if I was homely.”
“No, you said, “I’m homely aren’t I Father?”
“Well…?”
He was due in court that day and getting into the city was top of mind for him. But he was the Father who cared and he was the Father who could respond, train platform or no.
“Nonsense, you’re a healthy, radiant, pubescent young girl, a rosebud in the process of blooming into a beautiful rose.”
Following his answer there was no subtle plea for contradiction. She smiled slightly after he spoke and looked after him as he puttered about officiously, yet not really knowing what he wanted to do. Kenyon Eckhart, trying to deal with the situation, was not used to being the server; noted mainly for being the served. He was doing his best. Oatmeal was not that difficult. Wheaties would be even easier.
They were alone in the kitchen, the rest of the house silent. Mother Gloria was still resting comfortably in the upstairs guest bedroom, ostensibly quieted away from certain snoring that utterly destroyed her rest if she stayed in the master bedroom suite with the renowned Kenyon Eckhart, Wall Street success story.
“When was the last time you looked at me?” Emma asked.
Kenyon Eckhart loved Wheaties, a passion carried over from his childhood of watching the cereal heroes on television. Wheaties and a sliced banana with lots of milk and a spoonful of sugar. And there could be berries. Kenyon was especially fond of raspberries. No Wheaties? What the hell kind of kitchen larder was this? He thrashed through the pantry without finding Wheaties. Raisin Bran and a multitude of other cereals he did not recognize. Where the hell was Helen? She could get this all worked out. Where was she today?
Emma could sense what he was thinking.
“Helen went to Poughkeepsie.”
Kenyon stopped his flighty search and hung his head.
“Her sister is very sick.”
“What did you say a minute ago?” Kenyon asked, his voice hollow, without emotion.
She looked at him carefully.
“When was the last time you looked at me?”
“I might just have toast,” he said.
Emma stared at him. She knew his preoccupation.
“I’ll fix my own,” she said.
She wondered if he heard her.
Cheryl Crider used a slight gust of wind to lose her balance slightly and push up his newspaper to keep his attention. It would have taken less than that.
“Do this every day?”
“Most days, yeah. Work days, anyway.”
“Looks like you’re on a trip.”
Emma had her chin in her hand, her eyes narrowed as she evaluated him.
“You can’t find the oatmeal?”
Kenyon stared at her, his lips pursed, brow knitted tightly.
“It’s okay,” she said, “I’ll fix what I want.”
“Sorry, what is it?”
“Cocoa Puffs.”
“And milk?”
“Daddy, are you all right?”
Cheryl Crider waited for his answer that took so long in coming, already knowing the answer, her ability to judge from his packed suitcase unnecessary for realizing he was doing more than going to the office.
“I am, yes, I am.”
“Where to?”
“Well…”
“Let me guess. You are headed for London. That’s what my intuition tells me. Is that right?”
Kenyon smiled and then fiddled with his newspaper.
“Oh, for sure, I know I’m right.”
There was this look that he had and she grinned and nodded and pushed his paper at him until it was against his chest.
“I know that’s it. London.”
Kenyon frowned. He turned away from her and looked across the platform. He wondered when the train would get there. He looked at his watch. He tried not to look at Cheryl Crider. He wanted to look at her, but was concerned that if he did he might not be able to look away again as if some magnetic force ruled his head.
Emma had gotten the Cocoa Puffs and poured them into her bowl. She had also grabbed the Reddi-Wip canister from the refrigerator. She squirted Reddi-Wip onto the cereal until it piled up so that it edged over the lip of the bowl. She pushed her spoon into the mess.
Kenyon grimaced at her concoction. She ignored his look.
“I look in the mirror, you know?”
She said this as she looked up at him. He was pouring Raisin Bran into a bowl.
“I see me. I see what me looks like. I know what me looks like.”
He did not answer and she slapped her hand down on the table. Startled, Kenyon stood erect, the cereal box in his hand, and his eyes down, focused on the table.
“Yes, yes, I appreciate that you do, dear, you’re a very bright girl.”
She stared at him, a slight dab of Reddi-Wip barely clinging to the corner of her mouth.
“Are you afraid you might go to jail?” Emma asked.
Her voice was soft, consoling, and sad.
The train slid by the station platform and slowed to a stop. Others pushed for the doors; Kenyon followed with Ms. Crider by his side, and then waited as she took a hop-step onto the train. There were a number of vacant seats and he hesitated.
“Join me?” Ms. Crider asked.
She dropped onto a double seat and moved over to the window. There was a twinge, but Kenyon could not resist. He sat next to her, briefcase in his lap and pulled his travel bag close to his feet. He wondered about that twinge and excused himself from it.
“You didn’t confirm my guess…when I said London.”
She had turned and was smiling at him; that luscious smile.
“Yes, it is London, as a matter of fact. How did you guess?”
“I cheated. I saw the LHR sticker on the handle of your bag. For Heathrow Airport. That you didn’t remove. I figured that if you had been, well maybe you were going again.”
“Very clever of you. You’d make a good detective.”
Kenyon was relaxed now, almost as if it were fitting and proper that he was sitting next to Cheryl. He felt the faint touch of her rump against his and realized that she had shaded her body towards him rather than towards the window. The double seat wasn’t all that wide anyway. He fiddled with the folded newspaper against his briefcase. He didn’t want to read, he wanted to talk to her.
“How about you? Busy day ahead?” Kenyon asked, trying to sound as casual as he could.
“Yeah, really busy,” Cheryl replied.
“Ummm,” Kenyon hummed, as if to say ‘I know what you mean.’
“Big meeting today, then I’m flying to London,” she said nonchalantly.
Kenyon turned to stare at her and she laughed.
“You’re kidding.”
“No, for real. I’m looking forward to the trip. Never been there before. I hear London is terrific.”
Emma waited for an answer that was so long in coming.
“Well?” she finally said.
“Well what?”
“Daddy, I asked you if you were afraid you might go to jail.”
“I don’t believe I am going to jail and, no, I am not afraid.”
“Gosh, I just wondered. You seem so out of it. Like it’s your not having breakfast with me.”
“Yes, well…”
“I think you should be listening to me. It’s like you are so unaware.”
“I am right here, dear, and I have heard every word you have spoken.”
“Yeah, right.”
“But I admit…”
He stopped. He looked out towards the patio for the first time this morning and saw the drizzle dampness, the dullness, the mess of uncovered furniture, and the gray sky beyond. He saw himself in the yard directing the yardman and wondered why everything looked so poorly.
“No, I am not afraid. I shall prevail. Don’t worry about a thing.”
“I’m not worried,” Emma said quietly.
Kenyon settled back in his seat as Cheryl’s revelation absorbed him. He knew London quite well. His special assignment for the Bank had taken him there many times. He could be her tour guide, he thought, show her the city. The concept made his thoughts whirl and he let his head bob forward.
“You know London pretty well?” Cheryl asked
“I do, yes; I have a fairly good knowledge of the city. Wonderful city. Much to do and see; some terrific restaurants.”
Kenyon’s paper dropped to the floor and he didn’t care. He was excited and enthused about a plot that was beginning to take shape.
“Maybe you could show me around,” Cheryl said.
She was matter-of-fact about it and it didn’t sound like a come-on. Kenyon was caught, wrapped in his emotions, and energized by the prospects of spending time with this beautiful woman. To what end? And now was the more vicious internal debate. Suppose he could…what? Have an affair with Cheryl? Would he maneuver that, could he maneuver such a scenario? He let his head float back against the seat, wondering if she were looking at him. He needed to look calm and collected. He needed to not look like a Dork. What should he do? How should he respond?
“As I started to say, Emma, I admit that I do have concerns and have some overriding thoughts about today.”
“I guess,” Emma said without looking up.
She finished her cereal, got up from the table, and walked out of the kitchen. She looked at him as she went and knew he didn’t see her. He was watching, but he didn’t really see her.
“I got to get my stuff,” Emma said, “my ride will be here in a minute.”
Kenyon turned towards Cheryl again.
“That’s a possibility,” he said. “Where are you staying?”
“Not sure, exactly. Arrangements have been made. I’ll find out later today. Somewhere near Harrod’s I think, an apartment.”
“Knightsbridge.”
She looked at him and smiled.
“Knightsbridge area in London. Harrod’s is in Knightsbridge.”
“Oh, okay. I didn’t know.”
Emma traipsed through the kitchen, backpack strap over her left shoulder, cellphone in hand.
“My ride’s here, dear Father, gotta go. Good luck today. Glad you’re not afraid; I would be.”
“I don’t see any car, honey, how do you…?”
“Cellphone…they called. Coming down the street now. See you.”
She was out the door. No kiss, no hug. Nothing. Gone. Kenyon was alone with his memory of Cheryl.
“I stay at the Draycott Hotel not far from Knightsbridge. Be there several days, actually. On this trip.”
“Oh, really? Maybe it’ll work out. Why don’t you give me a call?”
“Well, I don’t have your number. You don’t know yet where you are staying.”
“You’re so right. Well, how about if I give you a call. Is that too forward?”
“Not at all.”
When he said it, he knew that he didn’t sound like a Dork.
“I’ll give you my card.”
He flipped up his briefcase, unzipped a small side compartment, and fetched his business card from a leather case. He handed it to her. She took it, looked at it carefully, and smiled at him coyly.
“Very impressive,” she said.
“Here, let me write the hotel name on the back.”
He held out his hand for her to return the card to him which she did. He dutifully printed DRAYCOTT on the card and returned it to her.
“Thanks.”
She held the card in her right hand and flicked it against her left index finger as if she were assessing its weight and value, contemplating its worth.
Gloria Sophia Bainbridge Eckhart charged into the kitchen with all of the gusto her size and demeanor demanded. She was an imposing woman by personality and of physical structure.
“Well, our Emma is off to school? That’s good. I didn’t want to deal with her moaning and whining on this of all mornings.”
“That’s a hell of a thing to say,” Kenyon countered. “She’s a young woman struggling to grow up.”
“She’s a young woman that worries a lot about nothing.”
“She’s worried that she looks homely. She asked me about it this morning.”
“That is exactly what I mean. I rest my case. And you were sympathetic, of course. It’s all silly stuff; it’s a phase. Two weeks ago she was worried if she is fat. She is a beautiful, five foot six girl weighing one hundred ten pounds who could be a model right now. At sixteen, no less. Don’t pay any attention to what she says.”
“I couldn’t do that,” Kenyon said. “It’s not fair to her. I can’t ignore her.”
“Ridiculous. Forget it. Let’s see, what shall I have for breakfast. Did you eat?”
“Not yet. I was going to have some Raisin Bran.”
“That’s right, Helen is upstate today. Well, well, we have to fend for ourselves. Do you think we can survive?”
She chuckled, and then coughed. She didn’t care if he responded; she was already checking into the refrigerator.
“Let’s have something more than Raisin Bran.”
Cheryl held the card in her left hand as she continued to examine it.
“We might be on the same flight,” she said without looking at him.
“Could be. If it worked out that way it would be quite a coincidence.”
“Yes, it would.”
And yes it was. Cheryl was on his flight. Kenyon was surprised when he saw her in the boarding area.
“How about this,” he said as he approached her, feeling less the Dork than he had felt on the train platform that morning. When they had parted in the Terminal Cheryl had waved his business card at him.
“I’ll call you.”
He wondered if she would.
Gloria banged a pan on the stove as she busied herself to make breakfast.
“An omelet, Dear? I think I can still manage that. Once you have mastered something the technique always comes back to you.”
Kenyon could see Cheryl walking away from him into the Terminal crowd and disappearing. She had moved easily, gracefully. He wondered if she knew how to make an omelet.
“Yes,” Kenyon said slowly, “an omelet would be very nice. And some toast.”
He noticed for the first time that Gloria was not dressed, but rather still had on her nightgown with an inordinately plain robe covering it. Not at all like a woman who regularly wore fifteen hundred dollar shoes, he mused.
When that last fleeting glimpse of Cheryl happened as she went into the crowd, he saw she was wearing high heels and had terrific looking legs. He could not recall what else she wore that day or what color it was. Her image was merely the grand subject of his fantasy. Not all the details were important.
“Good, because that’s what I’m making.”
Gloria continued executing her cooking technique as Kenyon watched her, wondering why she was so chipper.
“You’ve got the best lawyer, you know.”
“He’s highly regarded, yes, I know.”
Kenyon had read the indictment very carefully. He was charged with insider trading on the Bay Ridge merger. He had scanned the list of witnesses and the name Cheryl Crider did not appear. Was that her real name? It was the name on the business card she handed him in the boarding area before their flight. Vice President of Corporate Development for a company called Informetrex, Inc. She said they were in the IT business. Then she persisted with the reservation agent until she got her seat assigned next to his. They would be together for the next six days with the exception of the time he spent in his business meetings.
“Gordon Moffat, Dear. The Moffats and the Bainbridges have been friends for years. Dartmouth, Harvard Law. Very good credentials I should think.”
“The best,” Kenyon agreed.
Gloria continued with the omelets. She had not forgotten how they should be made.
Cheryl had sipped her martini and exhaled a contented sigh of enjoyment as the plane filled with passengers. She in the window seat, the flight attendants buzzing about getting ready to close up and begin taxiing, Kenyon next to her, wondering what was going to happen between the two of them.
“Isn’t this fun? A new experience for me. I’ve never been to Europe before.”
“You have clients in London?”
“Not yet, but we’re working hard on it. Several good possibilities.”
“Ah huh, like whom? Maybe I could help you out.”
“I really don’t want to mention any names. We’re in negotiations and, well, you know, there’s proprietary information involved.”
Kenyon had laughed, sipped his martini, and shook his head slightly.
“Oh, I know,” Cheryl said, and then in a whisper, “well, the biggest deal, the most important one is Bay Ridge Consolidated.”
He was stunned. It took a second or two to sink in, but then he was exhilarated in a way he could not have explained to anyone.
The plane was locked up and moving away from the jet port, the flight attendants collected the drink glasses, and soon they were in the air over the Atlantic cruising into the night.
“I usually sleep on this trip,” Kenyon informed Cheryl. “Get warm under this blanket, shut my eyes, and think of England.”
“Great, I think I’ll read awhile.”
She did and grew drowsy and leaned her head on his shoulder. He could feel her against him and he liked it. He thought this might be the best trip to London he had ever had.
Gloria’s omelet was fabulous. She had not lost her touch in the kitchen.
“I did all right, I think,” she said as she admired her handiwork.
They ate silently for a few moments and then Gloria spoke.
“You have to realize, of course, that there is an informant. A key witness who will testify. Someone knew something and reported something to someone. You know that. You must have told someone. Maybe by accident.”
“There was nothing to tell.”
“Well, there was a merger. Somebody knew beforehand and that someone made lots of money on the deal.”
“Certainly not I.”
“What has Gordon said?”
“He says that no one is saying.”
“Phooey, they know. They’re just not saying.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know. The SEC, the Justice Department attorneys, somebody.”
Gloria had finished eating.
“I’ve got to get dressed,” she said as she started to exit the kitchen. She stopped and looked at Kenyon very sternly. He waited for her directive or criticism or comment or whatever.
“You look very professional, very much the innocent maligned victim of a witch hunt. You’ll do well.”
“Thanks.”
She didn’t hear him; she was gone to get dressed.
Who had Cheryl worked for? He probably would never know. He had the memory of her clutching his hand as he woke from his nap, her head still against his shoulder, her smell still caught in his senses.
“I’m really glad you’re going to show me around London,” she cooed, “I’d be lost otherwise.”
Another tantalizing lure tossed out, nearly impossible for Kenyon to resist. And he didn’t.
“My flat is on Onslow Square. I looked it up on the Internet and it’s not that far from the Draycott. Convenient, I’d say.”
She laughed. What was the Dork to do? He bit on her temptation to begin with; he might as well follow through.
Kenyon put his plate in the sink and looked out at the patio again. The spitting rain had stopped, clouds had lifted, and there were seemingly prospects for a brighter day. Who had Cheryl worked for? He wondered, but it didn’t matter. He had said too much. Only later did he realize she didn’t really know much about Bay Ridge Consolidated. On the other hand, he had told her everything about the pending merger. They had made the transition from plane, to limo, to London, to bed, and pillow talk.
“Why don’t you drop me off first and then go on with your day,” Cheryl said gaily. “I’ll call you to see if you’re free.”
“I might have a dinner engagement; it all depends on how things go.”
“I understand. Even so, I’ll call you.”
He watched as the driver helped her into the building.
“Nice place?” Kenyon asked the driver on his return to the limo.
“Very nice, quite wonderful you know,” the man said with a nod.
Kenyon managed to avoid having dinner with his business associates that day; jetlag the traditional and necessary excuse. The anticipation he felt waiting for her phone call was almost overwhelming. He was rewarded when the phone in his hotel suite rang up soon after he had returned that late afternoon. Almost as if she knew he were there.
“Hi, how was your day?”
He was thrilled to hear her voice.
“Very productive. How about you?”
“Good, quite good.”
He picked her up for dinner that turned out to be a quiet, luxurious interlude. Who knows what was said during the meal, but the conversation flowed, he doing most of the talking, she listening and commenting. After dinner they went back to her flat and the progression to an intimate communion was obvious and seemed rather all right for him. He knew better, but the Dork could not accept that reality. At this point, he thought of himself as rather charming.
Gloria breezed back into the kitchen looking elegant in the stylish, sophisticated skirt-suit she wore.
“How does this look
“You look absolutely fabulous, Gloria, stunning, in fact.”
She smiled and did a petite pirouette.
“Thank you, Dear.”
Kenyon had searched several hours several times for Cheryl Crider on the Internet. Yes, there were a few, none close by; Memphis, Cedar Rapids, strange looking females on Facebook, but none that could be his Cheryl Crider. As for Informetrex, Inc., they didn’t exist, either. At least nowhere on the Internet or any business databases he checked. He finally had remembered she easily recognized the Heathrow tag on his luggage. Not likely for someone who claimed they had never been to London, but easy for one casting for a fish. He thrashed himself a bit with the consideration that if he hadn’t been so dazzled by her maybe he would have caught that item sooner.
“Ah, the limo is here,” Gloria informed.
Kenyon looked out again at the patio. A slice of sunlight lay across the flagstones as if painted there, a designer’s bold motif to give the patio life. Emma is far from homely, he said to himself.
“Come dear, the grand jury is waiting.”
Kenyon thought about smoking a cigar and wanted one right now. He allowed himself one a day to help with stress. It was already a day of stress.