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I almost ignore it. I leave it hanging in space for a solid deliciously awkward second. Then, seconds before Mother has an aneurysm, I relent. Her grip is surprisingly firm, not delicate at all. It’s the grip of a woman who’s made a career of matching the intensity of wealthy men.
The shake lasts one pump; she releases me as quickly as can be considered appropriate. Then Liz takes a seat in the other chair. Mother sits on her throne. I don’t sit back down though. Instead, I walk around the desk to stand next to Mother.
She turns to look up at me in annoyance. “What are you doing? Sit in the chair, Rhett,” she says testily. “We need to get started.”
I scowl at being reprimanded in front of Liz. Her face is blankly polite, controlled, the visual equivalent of elevator music. Maybe she’s more of a pro than I gave her credit for because I know inside she’s loving this humiliation.
I don’t want to sit in the chair. If I sit down next to Liz that implies we’re on the same level, sitting in front of Mother side-by-side like sinners before an angry god. Standing, I’m technically Jesus, at the very least an angel or whatever a Holy Spirit is. I shouldn’t be on the field of mere mortals.
But I sit anyway because it only takes a snap of her fingers for God to take my deity away and nobody needs that.
“I hear that you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting my son, Rhett,” Mother says to Liz. “I apologize for anything he may have said to you.” Just like her, right off the bat demeaning me.
Liz’s professionalism doesn’t crack. She has to be surprised that Mother just dragged me to my face, but she acts as if the slight were as normal as if Mother had commented on the weather. Which I suppose it is.
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Liz says. “Mr. Westing merely introduced himself.”
“My son is able to make a bad impression before names are even exchanged,” Mother says. “It’s a special talent of his.”
“Is there a point to this?” I ask. Is my face red? Is public humiliation going to be Mother’s new hard-line stance? If so, I’m not a fan.
“Of course,” Mother says. She clicks a few times on her computer and then turns one of her three monitors so that we can both see it. It’s a photo of a man and woman, candid, leaving a restaurant. It was probably taken by paparazzi, but something about the photo and the way Mother is showing us makes it feel like the CIA is targeting them for assassination.
“Do you know who this is?” she asks.
I examine the faces. They’re both in their early-to-mid sixties, well-dressed and done-up. Neither is especially attractive, but they have the pleasant shine of the extremely wealthy. I’ve never seen either in my life.
“No clue,” I say, just as Liz says, “That’s Bill and Marie Alencar.”
“Correct,” Mother says, gifting Liz with a slight smile. I am ignored. “As the both of you should know, Bill and Marie Alencar created Alencar Antivirus in the late ‘80s.”
“I think I have that,” I muse.
“Everyone has that,” Mother corrects. “It’s the number one antivirus software in the world. And over the past thirty years, they’ve expanded their company, the Alencar Corporation, to be one of the largest in the country. They’re on the cutting edge of technology and worth billions. How have you never heard of them?”
“Do they make motorcycles?” I ask.
Mother rolls her eyes and returns to her point. “I’m assuming you already know this, Ms. Slate?”
Liz gives a slight nod in agreement. “And I believe their finances are handled by Generations Bank.”
I chuckle. I’m at least aware enough to recognize Mother’s greatest rival. “Still feuding with Paul Morgan, Mother?” I ask. “Shouldn’t you just get it over with and admit your love for one another?”
Mother scowls at me. “We’ll do nothing of the sort! Paul Morgan is a louse, and his bank will go the way of Gimbels before the century is up.”
“Not sure if you’ve noticed, but Macy’s isn’t doing so hot these days either.”
“Regardless,” Mother says, “what you may not know about the Alencars is that they will soon be filing for divorce.”
“Interesting,” Liz says just as I say, “Who cares?”
I wouldn’t say a crack forms in Liz’s facade, but a few flakes of concrete definitely chip off. There’s a fire in the depths of her pupils behind that blank, professional expression. It heats the gray of her irises and makes her look even more striking.
“We care because the Alencars are worth eighty-six billion dollars. I’ve courted them for years to let me handle their finances. But Bill Alencar has a contract with Mr. Morgan. He will not be convinced. However Marie Alencar is set to become one of the richest women in the world, and I would like her to take that money and put it where it belongs.”
“With you?” I say dryly.
“Exactly,” she says. “Now this is not going to be easy. The Alencars have not announced that they’re separating. A divorce means lots of messy emotions, and I’m sure they’ll be far from pleased that the vultures are descending before they’ve even publicly announced it. But I believe in you. I know you can get me that account.”
