Fortune Is a Woman - Elizabeth Adler [157]
“That trust is watertight until you reach the age of forty. That is the way your father wanted it. I’m afraid there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it.”
Harry sighed again, contemplating the glowing end of his handmade Egyptian cigarette. “I had a feeling you’d say that and I’ve thought about what I would do.” He looked at Buck, smiling. “I can always borrow against it, can’t I?”
“At exorbitant interest rates.”
Harry drew on his cigarette and blew a perfect smoke ring into the air. “I’m sure the Harrison Mercantile will be pleased to offer me the loan of a few million at a very favorable interest rate.”
Buck leaned forward, his hands clasped on the desk in front of him. “Look, Harry, banks have their rules, too, you know. As you are the bank’s owner, I’m not at all sure of the legality of what you are suggesting. I’m advising you to watch your step.”
Harry laughed, but he was not amused. “Well, thanks a lot, fella. That’s just about all the advice I’ve had from my old family lawyers in years. Still, we won’t allow these things to get in the way of our friendship, shall we? We’ve known each other since we were kids, Buck. Remember that trip to Paris all those years ago? God, that was fun, wasn’t it? All those wonderful sexy Frenchwomen in those racy bordellos? I’ve never forgotten it, have you?”
“I’ve never forgotten your escapades in Paris.”
Harry laughed as he stood up to leave. “What are all these rumors I hear about you being a potential Republican candidate?” he asked casually, turning at the door to meet Buck’s eyes. “Sounds like a great idea. With Maryanne Brattle at your side, how can you fail? Choate, Princeton, Harvard Law—the perfect wife and the perfect family man. I’ll be the first to congratulate you.” He smiled his smile and said, “Sorry we couldn’t do business together today. Maybe some other time, eh, Buck? In fact, how about inviting me out for a weekend sometime soon? I’d love to meet Maryanne and the kids.” He waved airily as he left, leaving the door ajar. Buck sighed. Harry Harrison never changed.
Maryanne Wingate used her Washington house for political socializing only; New York was where she chose to live. Her friends were there, her children went to school there and it was where she retreated when the “provincialism” of Washington got on her nerves—which was four days out of each week.
The Wingates’ apartment on fashionable Park Avenue covered three floors, though Maryanne had had part of one floor removed to create a grand baronial hall with a stairway that swept downward in two perfect curves from a central gallery. She’d had the walls lined with French limestone and hung with ancestral portraits and massive silver sconces and she liked to keep a fire glowing in the twenty-foot stone chimney from the first cool day of autumn to the first warm day of spring. Her well-bred King Charles spaniels were usually to be found sprawling in front of it. She would laughingly tell visitors she was just a country girl at heart, and that if she had to pay the price of helping Buck in his career by being in the city, then she would just make her apartment look like her beloved girlhood home. She was only sorry she couldn’t bring her horses too.
The three dogs lifted their noses in the air, waving lazy tails as Buck walked by, but they didn’t run to greet him as they did with Maryanne; they were her dogs and no one else’s and they knew it.
Maryanne refused to keep a butler, saying it was either “too old hat or too new-rich.” A uniformed parlor maid took Buck’s coat and told him that madame was expected back soon.
Behind the grand hall was a regal drawing room and the library, with its collection of rare books and ancient maps, and beyond that the kitchen. The first floor contained his and Maryanne’s rooms, each with its dressing room and bathroom, her own personal sitting room and his study.
Buck took the left-hand sweep of stairs two at a time and then ran easily up the next flight to the nursery floor. Six-year-old Grace Juliet Margaret Brattle Wingate, known as Miffy, glanced up with a discontented