Date: Sun, 5 Aug 2018 17:19:35 +0000 (UTC) From: Simon8 Mohr Subject: The Schuyler Fortune II: Sweet Pea 3 This fictional story eventually includes descriptions of sex between adult males. If you are a minor or if this material is illegal where you live, do not read this story. Go away. If this material offends you, do not read it. Go away. Please donate to Nifty to support their efforts to provide these stories. Remember that authors depend on feedback for improvement and encouragement. All rights reserved. The Schuyler Fortune II: Sweet Pea 3 Eric and Loren had asked about their grandfather's choice of the mountain's name for the jet. They took Rainier to Seattle the summer after their freshman year with a couple of friends from Grinnell. Landing at Boeing Field, they rented an SUV and drove up to Mt. Rainier. They had reservations at Ohanapecosh, like their grandfather had done years before they were born. They enjoyed time hiking both in the fir-needled forest floor among the virgin stands of timber, never cut, and also in the great open fields of wild flowers close by. They fell in love with the place and later asked Barbara and their dads to consider helping with efforts to extend and support the park. They asked for legislation to improve earthquake prediction in the Northwest volcano region and west coast earthquake fault zones. A few Dell supercomputers were purchased and set to work full time on the increased amounts of data from thousands of sensors installed on the west coast. The twins did not meet any girls at Grinnell who didn't already know about their money and relations in the White House. Constant exposure to girls who wanted to put out and `have fun' didn't seem to dent their intention to stay true to their common goal. They wanted to be ready in case their dads decided to throw the football to them. They didn't care about the money. They already had access to things. They didn't care about power. They didn't have it now to miss later. They did want to be ready to roll should the moment arise. They were runners at Grinnell. They had begun as kids and that part of them still existed, running incessantly to and from class together, running from or to something, but never walking or looking back. They did not appear to be afraid of making mistakes. They were B students, better in their major subjects, popular with their classmates, fun and funny, not party guys, not silly, just solid guys to have for a friend. Then came the day they were surprised. Marcus and I were not. Pictures of the two surfaced on TV about their college sports, their running achievements. A man, one Sam Rabin, sat in a chair in his house in New Jersey, looked at the two, and had a flashback to his own teen years. "Hey Jean," he called to his wife, "if those two don't look like Jerry and I at that age. I don't know how they could look any closer." "Didn't Jerry say he had a girlfriend in New York or something? I wonder." A few days later, Jerry got a call from his twin brother in New Jersey who sent him an email with pictures of the twins. "Hey. Jerry?" his brother yelled over the phone. "Here's a live one for ya. Didn' you say to me onct your old girlfriend lived in New York where these dudes are from?" Jerry confirmed it. "I think they look just like us when we was that age, Sam added." A private investigator and an attorney met the following week with Jerry and his brother. The men informed the professionals that it `weren't right' for their lawful kin to be kept from them and they were `jes near darn sure these was close kin', maybe even Jerry's boys. The PI had some experience with similar types and similar claims. He grimaced inside for kids who found a kinship to these two yet on reflection believed that not making a living for his own family was even worse. He smiled while cringing on the inside and said, "It would be a crime to miss out on your own boys, wouldn't it?" The listening attorney made some notes and just listened. He was certain there was money to be made on the other side of that fence. The phone call two agitated college kids made to their fathers in New York City on a conference call that day came out of the blue but reminded Marcus of the day when a social worker or attorney had mentioned that this could happen. Marcus told the boys about New York State law and how it applied to their adoption. "When Michael and I adopted you two, we were told this could happen and that under then current New York State law, nothing bad could happen. You might find it interesting to meet with the PI and give a sample of your cells from the inside of your cheek to him to be checked at his expense." "You could tell him that you were adopted into another family after he abandoned your mother at conception. Not birth, conception. She never knew your father's name, let alone his address. No judge in the state would grant rights of any kind to a father with that history." "What if he asks for money or something?" Michael told him to keep him informed of any requests or developments but not to worry in any case. The same week, one of Marcus' attorneys at the Blossom Fund got a strange telephone call from another attorney who wanted to meet him at a restaurant in Manhattan. The attorney agreed, arrived and spoke with the man who represented himself as a friend of another attorney who had been approached by Jerry Rabin and his twin brother Sam in the matter of possibly kidnapped sons, possibly twins whom neither had ever met, not ever. The attorney explained that his `friend' thought this exceeding odd and wondered if there wasn't someone in New York willing to pay for all that information. Marcus' attorney was an experienced lawyer who read people well. He recognized the situation for what it was, probably extortion by the man's own attorney, violating the client's lawyer confidentiality relationship and putting himself at jeopardy with the Bar Association in New Jersey and/or New York. He grinned inside, grunted and told the attorney that this was indeed food for thought. He told the attorney he thought there might be interest indeed and asked for contact information. A short conference with Marcus and Michael and the District Attorney of Manhattan was held that afternoon. The DA rolled his eyes and talked about rotten apples in barrels. He asked for the information about the attorney and had an aide call Jerry and Sam and the private investigator. The district attorney verified who their lawyer was, prepared a grand jury to hear evidence and they indicted the attorney for the violation and extortion. The PI turned state's evidence and escaped with his license untarnished. Jerry received a visit from Michael and Marcus one day, accompanied by their security team. Michael knocked on the front door, Jerry answered and invited him in. Michael apologized for the security team's presence saying that they always had to be with him. Michael introduced himself and Marcus as the adopted parents of Eric and Loren Schuyler-Jones of Manhattan. He related the story of an abandoned mother of twins who, addicted to alcohol, had decided to adopt out her sons in order to find a better life for them with loving parents with resources to care for them. "I can tell you," said Marcus, "that you are likely the boy's biological father. If you insist on future contact with them, you must agree to repay expenses for them that amounted to way over two hundred thousand dollars over the years in allowance, travel, tuition, fees, food, and clothes alone and will be charged with child abandonment." "After they are aged eighteen, they may choose to contact you and have a relationship with you since you are their biological father. We have no intrinsic reason to prevent that if they want the relationship." "We are both in a position to buy the company you work for and fire your ass if you attempt to contact them in any way before they are aged eighteen." You may or may not be a great guy who could contribute a great deal to their upbringing, but you gave up that right a long time ago and consequences attach. When they are adults you may have an adult relationship with them as they so choose. You do not have a choice here." "We have taken care to nurture and educate these boys. We love them dearly as our own sons, whom they legally are. Can you tell us your plans regarding them?" "I don't have a choice," Jerry said with a sad smile, "and I'm actually grateful to you for their care. I could not have given them what you did or are doing and have no wish to insert myself into lives well on the way to being adults." "When Sam called I just let myself be convinced that I'd been wronged somehow and that I should get my boys back." "I know how foolish that was now and apologize for the trouble I've caused. Someday, if they want to meet, I would very much like to do that. I have little to give them other than the genes I donated a long time ago. I would like to share my family's medical history with them sometime perhaps by sending it to you. If that is helpful, it's a better start than my first try." "In my defense," he explained to them, "I was drunk at the time at a party and it was consenting and I was scared when I woke up and panicked. It was my first time and had real mixed feelings about the whole thing." "I know, I know," he told them. "TMI. I later bragged to my twin about it to help myself feel better and even told him she was my girlfriend, which wasn't true." Michael and Marcus looked at each other for a second and nodded. "We can only stay a few more minutes. Would you like to know what they are like and see a picture or two?" A would-be dad folded his head into his hands, looked back up and nodded, his eyes suddenly wet, at the two men looking at him with kind expressions. The twins dated on occasion at Grinnell. They dated pretty girls and ugly girls just to balance things out. Since they didn't appear to be in a serious marriage mode, many of their friends who were women didn't pressure them. They pressured no one. At graduation, they sat and listened to Aunt Barbara tell them that the globe needed their interest, the nation required their skills and their communities wanted them to contribute to those who needed help. She asked the Grinnell graduates to consider politics as a profession to which one could apply standards, just as any other, and encouraged scientific study and progress in politics as a goal. Their families, all attending in Marcus and Michael's case except their biological parents, applauded their student's work. After graduation, the families all ate a picnic catered on the lawn. An older, thin, woman slowly walked toward the table and security accompanied her approach a few feet away from the twins. Marcus was the first to notice and his jaw dropped. He nudged Michael and they both rose to their feet to watch, and then signaled to security to let the woman approach. "Hi. You must be Loren and Eric. You don't know me. I wanted to give you both a graduation present, so I bought a book for you about Art and one for you about Finance. I've been keeping track of you for a long time, you see, and I've changed a lot. Do you remember me? Carol and Blossom were crying silently with great tears. Blossom prayed quickly for reconciliation and moved toward the woman. "I'd like to say thank you to you for the great gift of my adopted grandsons," she offered, "and I want to welcome you to graduation here. If you haven't eaten yet today, would you please eat with us? There's plenty of food as you can see." Carol nodded and walked up to them and gave the woman a hug. "I'm the other grandmother and I second the motion. Please take a plate and join us." Eric and Loren, still not comprehending at first, were still looking at the lady and listening to her voice carefully. "Uh, yeah, we'd love to have you join us, uh, Mrs., uh, what did you say your name was?" "Thank you. My name is Olive Bertoni and I'm your birth mother." "Mom!" A fleeting mixture of fear and puzzlement followed by the expression of kids who just found their mother after losing her at the fair came over their face and they danced with her on the lawn, jumped up and down, laughed out loud and for good measure, whooped and hollered some. Much later, she told them that adopting them out was the key to her recovery from substance abuse. Every time she thought of drinking she became agitated and experienced nausea at the price of both failure and recovery and she determined to be the better person she knew she could be because of them. Seeing her biological sons now was worth it all, worth the months of sickness, weeks of cravings, the misery, seeing them happy and going forward in life. She just about hadn't made the trip but decided they might not have another chance to meet and drove the long distance in her older car with a friend they didn't know named Jerry from New Jersey who was out in the car, not brave enough to come over. Michael saw that he would have to make the next move. He grabbed Marcus' hand and walked to the indicated car where an older man sat staring down, working his hands a little. "Hi Jerry. Did you think you would get out of seeing your sons? How are you, anyway?" Marcus' cheerful voice and attitude encouraged the man to step out of the car. "I guess there's no time like the present, right?" "I think they will enjoy getting to meet you. What a great graduation gift you will be for them!" When they walked up to the twins, everyone who had eyes saw the twins look at the man who they had never seen before except in the mirror. For a few minutes they processed like crazy and the wheels turned steadily, they looked at their biological mother, looked back at this man, turned and hugged each other for some support, turned back and politely welcomed the man to their graduation and thanked him for bringing their mom to Grinnell what with the long drive and all. He appeared to waver a little, looked up at them for a long while and asked them if they had a minute to talk. "Your mom and I met twenty-three years ago." "Oh, wow," said Eric, "we're both just twenty-three years old this year..." It struck both of them at the same time, the surprise and shock they had thought about sometimes now perhaps real, and if anything was surreal, this was. What were the chances? He knew their mom exactly twenty-- ok. He turned up at graduation. Check. He looked like an older them in the mirror. Check. Loren asked him, "Is there any chance you are related to us in some way?" "I'm your dad," came the answer. "I'm your biological dad, that is. I'm delighted to meet you both and want to tell you congratulations on your graduation. Your dads have been very kind to me in the past and that encouraged me to try to meet you and well, I'd like to shake your hands." They shook his hand all right. They grabbed him, cried a little, hugged him, danced on the lawn with him, made him promise to eat lunch with them, jumped up and down, then settled down to serious eating. They exchanged phone numbers, promised to be in touch and soon their biological parents left to travel back to their homes. "What a great graduation!" The twins were doing a post-mortem on the day. "I never expected to see our bio rents." replied Loren. "That was a nice surprise." "I hadn't missed them at all, just abstractly, I guess, and we never met him in our whole life," replied Eric, "and now all of a sudden I really want to know them both." "I think that one is up to us," replied his brother. "We could ask Michael to hire a secretary for us to manage calendars, meetings, contacts and to sync computers, iPads, and iPhones, download new versions of software, sort emails, delete duplicates, prepare cards for birthdays and other holidays and coordinate with the travel and limo scheduling secretaries and stuff." Eric was thinking out loud one day about getting ready for more responsibility after graduation. "Wow," Loren replied, "maybe he can schedule dates for you too?" He moved just fast enough to escape the punch in the arm aimed his way. "But it's a good idea. We could pass the idea through Michael to see if the trust might fund that position. If not, we might pay a secretary ourselves. We'd have to find space for one." "Perhaps someone at the trust would do that for us if Michael slips them the word." The summer job situation sorted itself. Marcus wanted Loren to shadow him at the Blossom Fund. Carol asked Eric to help her re-catalog the family's art collection and take a manual inventory. Other than a missing Titian, eventually found in Venice at a museum there where the loan had gratefully been accepted, the museum sort of forgot to return it, and the Repository somehow forgot where it was so forgot to get it back... the computerized inventory was built and was accurate. That particular mistake wouldn't happen again. The computerized catalog queried the inventory daily to check for return dates and combed outside sources for safety and security data surrounding the loans. The re-catalog process was not as dramatic but more complicated. A museum catalog has a purpose. More than one, actually. Some of those reasons didn't apply to the Schuyler collection. The main reason the collection needed a computerized catalog was to inform scholars and museums about what was available to study there both at the Repository and at the Schuyler museum itself. This upgraded computer catalog was meant to interface with other art history works and catalogs around the world to aid scholars in building knowledge about artist's works. Eric noted that the interface didn't work well with some in other countries due to incompatible software and mentioned the problem to Michael one day. Michael thought a bit about it and told Eric he knew a former classmate at Grinnell, actually a twin himself, who worked in Germany for a company that specialized in kinds of software that sort of leveled that playing ground. "Eric, what if you could fly over and talk to him. See if his company is remotely interested in leasing an engineer at our expense to contribute to solving the software mismatches using their database software." "I understand that the extra workload on the computer is barely noticed by adding their lightning fast database software and it might be a way to interface existing databases and group all of these different catalogs into one global super-catalog." Eric flew to Frankfurt on Rainier by himself for the first time, briefcase in hand. Tall, handsome, blonde, dignified, possessed of a great smile when he wished, he charmed his dad's classmate and spoke with representatives of the company. An agreement was reached with the sales force and the executives of the company to purchase an software engineer's time and software to create a solution designed for Eric's project. Carol had told Eric to mention the director of the Pergamon museum and the Gemäldegalerie along with their working relationship. He found that relationships were important everywhere. While in Germany, he asked Rainier to take him to Berlin where he visited both galleries and met the new directors. They were happy to meet him, having both received a call from Carol to smooth his way. He reassured them that he treasured their previous and current working order and the mutual cooperation that benefitted both institutions. He had time to take a tour of the Gemäldegalerie and afterward the director's secretary, a pretty girl of perhaps twenty, told him in fluent German, of course, to join her for coffee downtown. He called the Rainier pilots and crew, told them he would join them a little later and would call when he was ready to leave. She overheard and in perfect English said that she had heard of it because it was a mountain in the western United States, right? He asked where she had learned her English. She replied that her father was from the United States and he had met her mother in Germany and married her. She and her little sister were bilingual since her mother spoke German at home and her dad, American English. She had been interested in art for a long time and had been lucky to get a job at the museum in Berlin. She mentioned that her dad went to Grinnell College in the US and cold chills came over Eric. Nah. Couldn't be. Turned out it was his dad's old friend's oldest daughter. This was getting complicated, but he didn't exactly mind. He told her he was flying back to an airport near Frankfurt at Mannheim or Heidelberg in the evening and she said she knew the area well since she lived near there. "What airline serves that airport?" she asked, puzzled. "I have my own jet that takes me where I need to go." She seemed unimpressed and wished him a good journey. "If you are going home soon, it would be great if you would ride with me for company," he said. She looked at him for a minute, picked up her cell phone and called the director of the museum. "Herr Buhl, Lena here. I am going home this evening for the weekend and will return on Tuesday morning. Will that suit? Excellent. Auf wiedersehen." Her formal European manner turned him inside out. He decided she was classy, beautiful, educated, nice and...he was going to marry her. She was going to have his children and...he wondered if he was walking on the ground or on air. Lena flew in Rainier for the first time from Berlin to Heidelberg and they were met at the airport by her father, who looked serious enough but was a kind man who knew how to converse and make people comfortable, which he did. Eric made several more trips to Europe on one errand or another that summer always stopping by in Heidelberg. On the Philosopher's Walk one day, he knelt in front of her and told her that he loved her and asked her if she would consider marrying him. She looked at him and told him she had been thinking of proposing to him if he hadn't stopped wasting her time... and that the answer was `of course'... That day, he took her to his hotel room and gave her a large package. I wanted to get you something nice for our engagement. You are more beautiful than these and I couldn't find anything as beautiful as you. These belonged to my grandmother Carol...she put a finger to his lips, sat down and opened the package. Inside lay a velvet bag with a purse-string containing a set of jewels that once belonged to an Asian Empress, a necklace of exquisite sapphires in a delicate gold mount and a matching sapphire ring. He didn't know the jewel's provenance. Carol did and had included a note for Lena explaining the history of these sapphires. Carol parted cheerfully with the treasures to her beloved grandson for the engagement to a girl she hadn't met yet but had heard tons about. Loren heard that his brother had eyed the leg-shackle and knew he himself wouldn't be caught in that trap anytime soon. He was cocooned safely in Sweet Pea at forty-one thousand feet getting ready to descend to the London City airport located right on the Thames when he received a text from a friend in the City who worked at the Exchange. "Hey, hear you are inbound. Why don't you meet us for lemonade or OJ at seven p.m. tonight at Kensington Palace tonight? I know you want to." David. Loren didn't party. His friends knew he didn't drink alcohol. The address was familiar to him, and he'd wanted to see the new renovations anyway. He doubted any business would be transacted there tonight. Dave was a pal from Grinnell days and he liked to catch up with him when he could. At seven p.m. a taxi dropped Loren at Kensington Palace, he presented to the gate, was doubly checked over by security who noted his tuxedo, took his name and his friend's name, scanned his passport, and found that Loren's name had been left at the gate. He was escorted to the front door, passed through a metal scanner, and a staff member invited him in. His coat and hat were checked; He entered a large reception hall and saw David looking for him. "Hey college brother," said David, "I'm glad you came. Thought I might spend the evening without knowing anyone here." "Yeah, like that would happen," replied Loren, "with you knowing everybody in London." "Well! Here's someone I just met today in the City. She arrived today from Connecticut to study finance and econ with me this term. Congratulations to me, sir, I am now a tutor!" Loren turned and saw a girl his height, bright brown eyes, smiling, long silky hair, trim, dressed well who looked right at him and a little through him. "I'd like you to meet Selene Brown." David introduced us. "She's had a long day with a long flight and probably won't stay all night or anything. Selene, this is Loren Schuyler-Jones from New York whose aunt Barbara Darnell lives in the White House. "Wow, that's a connection!" Selene smiled again and showed a row or two of white pearly teeth. Loren caught himself looking too long at her and quickly looked at his orange juice to recover. "Selene doesn't drink alcohol, Loren. That must make you two the only ones in the world." "No, our church has taught us to respect our bodies, for they are for God's use, you see." Loren's head snapped back, and he looked at her. No jewelry. Little makeup. Modest but fashionable dress. Confident attitude. Not crass, kind of classy. Nah, couldn't be. Too much coincidence happening here. "Where did you work before here, Selene?" Loren asked the question. "I've worked for ADRA for the last few years as a project manager for catalog projects there, mostly in Africa." Loren spilled some orange juice on the carpet (at the Palace no less, he thought) and a waiter rushed over to mop up the six drops. He was probably assigned to me or something, thought Loren. He longed to get into the subject of ADRA with her but sensed that now wasn't the time. He asked her for her telephone number. She looked at him and replied that she didn't give that number out to men she didn't know well and that she didn't party. "No, no! I didn't communicate well. I know a little about that project and was hoping to discuss that with you now that I know you worked there...while I was here in London, of course. This is awkward. I don't have any designs on..." The conversation went downhill from there. In spite of that, they agreed to meet at David's office in the City two days later. That night Selene called her aunt, Donna Stafford at ADRA and happened to mention the meeting at Kensington Palace. Mrs. Stafford began to laugh uncontrollably, hysterically, so much so that conversation ground to a halt for a while. When she was able, the conversation began. "What's so funny, Aunt Donna?" "You met the man, honey, who will likely control the Blossom Fund someday. You know, the fund that sends one hundred million dollars a year to ADRA...funding catalog projects there like the ones you studied and managed, dear. Please say hello to him from me and ask him to give my best to his dad, Marcus Schuyler-Jones, won't you?" Blossom's Challenge #4: "I don't think God exists." Blossom's Answer #4: "Honey, I don't believe in moose. I never saw one. They seem too big to exist. Other people have seen them. If I see the track of a moose, or if, Glory, I ever see a moose, I reserve the right to change my mind." They sure grew up. I remember that big change one winter when across supper, they had informed Michael and I that they had decided to follow in our footsteps to Grinnell College. That meal wasn't life-changing, but it marked an event where we all knew a lot more about our family's future. Eric was for an art major and Loren for a finance major. My heart was beating pretty wild inside and the whole evening just kind of progressed without much of my vaunted control over myself. I sat down that evening with Michael to relax in our sitting room and was surprised to hear myself tell him that I loved him and wanted to marry him. Evidently, I rambled on a little because he finally just told me to shut up and that the answer was `yes'. We hugged and made love, happy to be engaged. Barbara was majorly excited, Jack as supportive as he knew how to be, the moms were smiling like they had invented the idea, Jack Jr. and Hannah weirded out a little, my little brother John matter of fact and supportive. Barbara officially invited us to marry at the White House, so we did in a private family ceremony. Michael surprised me with a wedding dinner afterward at the Hays-Adams hotel, close to the White House. A few reporters took pictures, but I don't think any of them knew Michael like they knew other wealthy people. Neither of us were celebrities in any sense of that word. Same-sex weddings were ho-hum these days. Michael, the President's brother, didn't party, he didn't give seminars, he didn't flaunt his wealth other than the Museum itself that most people thought was probably owned by some non-profit foundation or something. Living under the radar might have been a specialty of the Schuyler-Jones crowd. We didn't attend openings; we didn't fund plays or public functions. We didn't mix in crowds. We didn't drink. We didn't party. No club bouncers recognized us which meant no DJ's fawned on us. We didn't socialize a lot by anyone's standard. I doubt anything in the Museum was gold-plated. We avoided mention in Forbes magazine and similar publications. No buildings or hotels had our name in gaudy splendor on them. We were not better than anyone else. We lived our lives differently because we just did. Security was always an issue, as well. No one laundered money in our real estate. Michael didn't drive fancy cars, but rode in limousines, which in New York City was a non-event. In other words, we weren't front-page news, thankfully. We had advantages some dream of without the photographers trying to sell pictures to news organizations. In other words, we disappointed Barbara and her team, who loved the Fifth Estate and valued publicity. In retrospect the kind of publicity we might have generated would not have done much one way or another to influence her vote totals. She took the job on her own merits and was wildly popular as president. She didn't need our 'help'. The `honeymoon' was a wonderful trip to Europe where among other great destinations, Rainier and the crew took us to Paris where I studied for a couple of weeks with my original professors at the Sorbonne and Michael studied, hung out and absorbed information and culture at the Louvre. He knew many of the curators there. Some had also worked with Carol and Frank before her. We would come home to the rented apartment and over baguettes, yogurt, cheese and cucumbers we would talk past each other about the day's events, comfortable to be each other's husband, loved, appreciated, great companions, open, urbane (we hoped), cheerful (most of the time) and frightfully horny. As the days passed, we didn't wear anything out but tried to. The sight of Michael's ass brought my cock to the 'stand-up-and-play' position in seconds. Darren affected me in the same way. I loved Darren, but I wasn't 'in love' with him. There were other guys with nice butts, but they weren't Michael and my little head knew it. Darren didn't go along on the honeymoon. Neither of us wanted that to intrude on the 'us' we were building. Michael and I both called him every day and let him know in very certain terms that he was loved. As his alpha, I told him precisely what to expect from me the day we returned to the museum and his suite. I ordered Darren to rest his ass and cock until I got there. I told Michael that I wanted an hour with Darren when we walked in the door. I got the hour. Darren got the hour and a whole lot more. The throuple was exciting at home and at times stressful too; the triad didn't simplify our lives but complicated it in a nice way. I remember the first fight we (Michael and I) had back in Manhattan. It wasn't over money or kids or attitude or cars or food or spending. I really don't remember the instigating factor. I clearly remember wanting to hurt him and wanted him to know that he had hurt me by his actions or his words. I remember being downtown somewhere, afterward, walking along in icy-cold stinging sleet with a raincoat and umbrella, boots, tears running down my face as I went, miserable as ever I could remember being, quietly sobbing out loud every other step, trying not to run into anyone, trying to walk fast enough so no one would think to stop or accost me, not looking at anyone in the face. I still can see myself stumbling along, finally reaching a street corner where a pedestrian light blinked a hazy red through the now steady rain where I came to a stop, exhausted, sick at heart and empty. I remember the limousine that stopped beside me going the same direction and the window coming down in back and his voice, low and warm, saying "Hey bud, jump in, it's over" and not really thinking about the details, I remember jumping in, the sound of the window gliding up, shedding my raincoat and jumping into my husband's warm, firm arms. Later, Michael loved on me, in me, in the warm shower, I felt the steam pouring into the bathroom, the forgiveness asked and accepted, a thick clean terrycloth robe, lined slippers, and warm wild sweet-orange herbal tea with a hot buttered scone while listening to one of Chopin's Nocturnes. I asked Michael if I could pray with him and he said yes. We knelt by the side of the bed and with my arm around him I asked Jesus to take rancor out of our home, to give us peace in our home, to keep the devil away and thanked Him for loving us. The reward for fighting although precious and memorable wasn't enough to pay for the misery and we never argued again. Whatever it was about was never mentioned again. We never fought again. The only thing I ever learned years later was when my mom, of all people, told me that Michael had called her that day, crying, wanting to know where I was; she told him she would pray about it and, by the way, had he asked security where I was yet? They hadn't lost track, not for a second, of my exact location. I had been surrounded, if not by love itself, by agents of love who watched and guarded even in the night hours. We quickly found out that the piece of paper didn't change our relationship. It did, however, legally change the adoption status of the twins slightly so the appropriate papers were filed and approved by the court. Since we had signed papers before the wedding that Michael's money was his and mine was mine, that didn't change. We honestly didn't want each other's money. Had we needed each other's fortune, I cannot say that a different outcome was impossible, but as it happened we didn't need and didn't want. The marriage helped to structure an idea we had about our heirs. Since they were now our legal issue, the jobs that heirs do for their parents seemed more structured in the person of Jon and Loren. Yeah, the same guys that had rolled on the church floor, hollering with laughter at the preacher's grand robe. Amusing us, in retrospect, just like a toothache. Now, however, slightly amusing, easier to take and smile about. At work some weeks later, Marcus stood in the conference room in front of a wall monitor. That device was troubling him a lot. More to the point, the information presented didn't make sense. He had conflicting information and that made him uncomfortable. On one hand, the market was stable. On the other, fund returns for the last three days had plunged. The computer models had not predicted any of this, his brokers were working themselves to death as usual and he had asked the broker supervisors in each sector of the economy to drill down to the numbers to get a human check on their accuracy. All of them had promised him to get right on it. He hadn't heard back yet from the pharmaceuticals supervisor. Impatient to continue, he picked up the phone and dialed that supervisor, Robert. He did not answer. "We haven't seen him this morning. Called in sick." Marcus' hair stood up on the back of his neck. Probably just a fluke. The pharmaceutical sector supervisor had been in to ask for an early payday loan last week that under company policy wasn't an option. He had taken that well at the time, Marcus decided, but Marcus had been distracted some that day, not on his game for some reason and could have missed a cue. Robert was married, his wife he hadn't met, they had two kids...Marcus' mind was now racing with the details, brilliantly alert. Robert never missed work, looked healthy, was a good worker, sometimes looked more stressed than other days but never brought personal matters to work and did accurate work and completed his reviews on time. Until this week. Robert had sent a FYI note to Marcus with a low priority tag that said he was working on one broker's recent fall-off statistics on completing broker task-list operations, noted her name, which was Melinda Ford, did not recommend that Marcus get involved at this time, but had not sent a follow-up note. He thought about the supervisor for a time. Robert was brilliant on pharmaceuticals. He had tons of experience with the equities that the Fund held in Pfizer and Merck and Sanofi and all the rest. His performance was stellar, and Marcus couldn't think of a single negative thing about him except perhaps that he was a little boring at the supervisor's meetings. He didn't volunteer much information, say, in comparison to other sector supervisors. He couldn't very well call Michael, his first thought. Michael had his own duties and holding Marcus' hand wasn't one, at least at work. Carol would expect Marcus to solve his own problems. His mother would listen, but what would she know about this problem? He prayed for wisdom. Then an idea flickered, and then caught hold and his eyes narrowed, squinted and looked off into the far distance out the window at the city, pursed his lips and made a phone call. In Pennsylvania a voice answered at the security department at Ross Pharmaceuticals. "Yes, I'll check. Can you hold on or would you like me to...oh, you want to hold on? Fine, be right back on the line." The voice was back on the line within ninety seconds. "I have to say this is strange, and stranger that no one saw the pattern. Or the break in the pattern, more to the point." "Explain please." "Well, the entries are logged, as you know and stored with date, time, a snapshot of the entering person from the cameras there and those entries don't go away. No one tampers with that file." "Go on..." "Well, certain people tend to go in at certain times each day or each week or each month for routine tasks and maintenance or to swap out CPUs that are in trouble or troublesome memory cards or whatever. In other words, a pattern of visits forms. New entrants are logged in a file inside the room, not outside, so someone could theoretically play with that file. We check that file every week. It's always been there and always has tallied with the paper log of new entrants kept at the front desk. "Don't tell me...," Marcus interrupted. "Until this week, they tallied, but there's just a note from a security officer noting they didn't but he had to go home sick today so didn't follow up. "Sick?" "Yeah. We're not allowed to ask why. HR rules, you know." Marcus asked the obvious question. "Who was the new entrant to the Dell at Ross Pharmaceuticals last week and this week?" "Some lady, Melinda Ford, said she was checking for the Blossom Jones Fund and her supervisor, Robert. Oh, and a PI from New Jersey with them who arrived in a car whose plates we checked routinely, and it was registered to a Sam Rabin of New Jersey. We had no reason to think it wasn't a good visit." "OK," said Marcus, "I think you are overdue for a raise and I'll have it done by next Monday. Here's what I need you to do. He spoke for a few more minutes, then hung up." On the following Monday morning things got really busy at Ross Pharmaceuticals near the Dell room, as it was known there. In a conference room next door to the supercomputer's brain, two Pennsylvania policemen, an Assistant DA, Marcus, his firm's chief legal counsel sat and talked about the day's events. They had a monitor with a feed to the parking lot, a feed to the entrance to the supercomputer and a line to security. A telephone call from security to the broker had been made on Friday, advising her that she had left an item and it could be picked up at the front desk. At about ten a.m. Monday morning, the monitor showed a car hurriedly drive in, complete with Melinda Ford in a station wagon driven by her supervisor. They parked, left the car and entered the building. As they entered, they were directed to the conference room and the door latched firm shut behind them. "Hello there, Melinda. Robert, what a surprise! You've been here before apparently." "You can't fire me for doing my job." "It would be tough indeed, if that was what you were doing, and the ironic part is that if you were doing your job we wouldn't be having this conversation." "The software patch that you installed on the Dell here made it look like this company and a few others were tanking. Ordinarily, that would have led to a decision to sell. My question is why you would seek to make that happen." "Perhaps you had a profit to make on selling some personal shares of that stock at a lower price. Perhaps a New Jersey or New York crime family is seeking to decrease their competition for drugs made by Ross Pharmaceuticals? Perhaps you just wanted to influence the markets you are employed to study only in violation of your contract and your broker's license? Perhaps Mr. Rabin spent some funds to help you get a software patch to get back at the men who adopted his nephews?" "It doesn't matter in the long run. I am disappointed in both of you. The software patch has been removed over the weekend and things are running normally." "I'm afraid, however, that after a breach of trust as big as this, your continued employment at "The Blossom Fund for Africa" has been terminated. If you read your contract carefully you will find that the vested benefits mentioned are to remain in effect for those who die to be enjoyed by their immediate families. After a certain time with the company, those who terminate without cause may continue to enjoy those benefits along with their families." "Being terminated for cause, however, stops the chain of benefits right there no matter the length of time with the company and the benefit does not survive for the family." "Since you are being terminated for cause, for a valid reason, you will receive no more benefits. Your families will receive no vested benefits. Your card passes no longer are in the system so building entry is now impossible." "You may, when you desire, enter during business hours on one occasion only under guard supervision to empty your desk and then be escorted out of the building. The other brokers are instructed to not hassle you and they have not been informed of the details of your wrongdoing." "Under contract, you have agreed under penalty to not discuss any business of the fund or your participation in it. We will trace and prosecute vigorously any breach in your contract of the contract provisions that survive your termination. I advise you to read your contracts very carefully tonight." "Your last paycheck will arrive in the mail at your home tomorrow." "I'm afraid we cannot cooperate," Marcus continued, "in covering a crime. Ross Pharmaceuticals has reported a breaking and entering event and the assistant DA for this section of Pennsylvania here will advise you of pending charges at the appropriate time." "I'm also required to tell you that this crime involves fiduciary elements and as such, you must be reported to the bonding agents and to the State of New York. I cannot tell you how they will proceed vis-ā-vis your bond or your broker's license." I cannot give you a positive recommendation should you or another company or job asks. Please do not put me in that position. I will not lie for you. The meeting ended with two stunned brokers being escorted off the premises, processing where they went wrong, not ready to extend a reaction, not particularly penitent, angry about getting caught and feeling viciously colder than the outside weather might explain. When Loren and Selena finally met up in London, it was a different kind of meeting. Selena, at least, knew who Loren was but neither was well-acquainted. She had set the bar pretty high in the beginning and didn't wish to fall at his feet and beg him to take her back. In the first place, she didn't fall for anyone, not yet. In the second instance, she wasn't his, hadn't been and she didn't beg. Loren avoided speaking about their initial meeting and asked her about her work in Africa. "I started at ADRA after college," she said. "My aunt asked me to help with a huge challenge facing the charity a few years back." "What was that like?" "Oh, someone donated a very large gift to ADRA and workers were needed to take responsibility that the money was well spent on the ground and from country to country. Some countries have, in the past, cheerfully taken a large chunk out of NGO budget for the Presidents son-in-law or something in return for dispensing a government license to operate in the country." "Has that ever happened in 'your' countries?" "No," she replied, "and it won't. I'm blessed with a talent for numbers and nobody but nobody in a government office does that to me." Somehow Loren believed that would indeed be the case. This girl didn't tolerate nonsense. He found himself what kind of wife she would make. He wondered where that thought came from. He colored up and then she did. "Those funds came from the Schuyler Trust," he said. "My adopted name is Loren Schuyler-Jones. My grandmother Carol and one of my two dads, Michael, made the decision to donate the money." "I didn't know that last night." "How did you know now?" "I called my aunt in Silver Spring, Maryland last night." "Who is your aunt?" "Mrs. Donna Stafford. She's the director of ADRA." "Ah. Checked us out 'A to Z', I see. Check." "What was your first country to be responsible for?" "Zimbabwe," she replied." "And how was that?" "Great place, great people, lots of needs like everywhere, a healthcare system overwhelmed with HIV and orphaned kids whose parents die of HIV because no treatment is affordable." "In the interest of total transparency, I should tell you that my other dad is the Fund Manager in Manhattan for "The Blossom Jones Fund for Africa." "Two dads, huh?" "One is Adventist, the other not. Both gay as it turns out. I'm an adopted twin indoctrinated in church school then we both went to Grinnell to liberalize some." My fathers were married in the White House, he explained. Michael is Barbara Darnell's brother. Blossom Jones is my grandmother on my other dad's side. "As you see Zimbabwe now," Loren went on, savoring the conversation, "what is its biggest medical need?" There was a long pause. He could actually see her thoughts churning, he thought, and finally she spoke softly. "From the kid's point of view, most of them would have preferred not losing their parents if given the chance." There was a long pause and Loren sat stunned at how simple it was. Finally, it was in front of him. Something he could do for someone. Make himself proud of himself. Something. "I'm really glad I met you. Hope to see you again soon. Enjoy your time with David. He can teach you a good deal." With that, he was off, calling the Sweet Pea crew for an urgent flight back to Teterboro. He had work to do on the way and no time to lose. There were phone calls to make, conferences to set up, plans to initiate, partners to recruit. Sweet Pea soon lifted up into the air screaming gently from London City Airport, bound by the short runway a little, but more from the City noise pollution rules and areas to avoid. The Royal household didn't appreciate noisy jet traffic over the Palace. He would arrange to see Selene again soon. Her mind was incisive; it had to be since she could see right through him. Yes, he would see her again. Indubitably. A week later, after a lot of frantic work, Loren rushed into the fund office without warning, except Marcus had kept exact track of Sweet Pea and her flight track at intervals through the last few days. As Loren's father, he considered it his duty to keep track. "Dad, you have to hear about something. I have the best idea for you." "I have a feeling this involves either a girl or money." "Dad! How did you know?" I've known you going on twenty years and there is little I don't know about you. That's what dads do." "Well, I met this girl in London whose aunt is Donna Stafford and her name is Selene and she worked for ADRA in Zimbabwe and she's still over there in London and I'm here but she..." "Whoa, chill dude," replied Marcus. "How about presenting this to this rent in a slightly more formal way so I can assimilate the data. And feel free, by the way, to mention this girl in your narrative and how she enters the picture." "Dad, you haven't changed a bit. Lighten up a little bit, OK?" "No...well...it's just been a few days," said Loren, "really a lifetime, since I last met Selene in London." "It seems that way..." Loren's eyes had this spacey look in them, a faraway dreamy kind of look that would have scared him had he had a mirror close by. Marcus grinned internally, wanting to observe a pure process, not wanting to interfere with the progress of true something or other. "I asked her what Zimbabwe needs most from a medical point of view and she said that most of the children if given a chance would have preferred not losing their parents to HIV. She says that the medication is expensive. Dad, what if we could make a difference in just one country?" "We already make a difference there." "Yes, and we can make more of a difference. These kids are orphans." Marcus lifted up the phone, put it on speakerphone and asked for Michael. "You told me once that you had thought of a hospital for western Zimbabwe for kids. Is the offer still open and can we get government permission to build that and a high-speed train, like a TGV, from Harare to Bulawayo so the kids in the capital and their remaining family members can be treated easily too? How about free tickets on that train for the kids? Could Barbara lubricate the process of building the railroad using American or Italian or Spanish technology?" "Are you up for a pilot project to provide HIV meds to that country? If Ross Pharmaceuticals made the generics here at cost or near cost, could we get them over there by boat or plane or something?" "Yeah, I know that India makes most of Africa's medications. Could Barbara use some clout to work that out with India? Does she need any leverage over there? Like if India wants to hold on to that business, they might bend on their generic prices for a ten or twenty- year period for the privilege?" "You could do that?" "Sorry. Yes, Michael, this is indeed Marcus, your husband. Good morning to you too and yes, I love you too." Michael grinned as he heard the enthusiasm in Marcus' voice. "Let's get Carol on the line and see what she thinks." A few seconds later, Carol's voice rang in. "What are you two up to now? How are you? A chorus of `we're fine and we love you' came over the line. Michael relayed Marcus's questions over the line and mentioned that Loren had brought a project home from London for Zimbabwe. Since the speakerphone was off by then, Loren didn't hear Carol say, "Do I sense a project in the sense of a `project' or what?" "Too close to tell you, Carol," said Marcus. Carol got it. "I'm for it and would love to take on the Seattle crew for partners. Would it be ok to me talk to him? Perhaps to start a relationship leading to a quid pro quo?" "Fine with me," said Michael. "I'm sending Loren to talk to Barbara at the White House about the Indian connection to see if she can use any of that and see if she can get the State Department to do a cautious inquiry about the high-speed railway as well. We know that would bring jobs for Zimbabwe and perhaps Americans too if we use our technology and at the same time we should be careful to avoid dropping projects on countries without consultations there with those who are governing." "Unless someone objects, I would like to tell the trust to put another billion in Blossom's Fund though, right away, and get started on the HIV medications for Zimbabwe." "Mom, we need to start talking to Barbara to get a quick read on the Indian versus Ross generics. In any event, we can get the billion transferred to the fund for Marcus to manage. He's done remarkable work there." "Hey, I'm listening to this conversation, Michael. Flattery will get you nowhere, dude. You know that's the way I do business." "Yeah, life's tough, buddy. Taking compliments is hard work."