CHAPTER 1.
Lottie pulled the drapes to block out the skyline her office shared with the other penthouses in downtown Manhattan. Usually she liked the view--it was a far cry from her humble beginnings--but not tonight. Tonight, she just wanted to hear from Raymond.
Earlier in the day he had left her a hastily scribbled note, “Urgent! Don’t leave here until we discuss the Sinclair file!” But that was hours ago. Now it was nearly midnight. This is not like Raymond. He never writes notes. He eats and sleeps E-mail. And where is he? He’s a calendar slave. No way he’d miss an appointment. I don’t get it, and I’m not leaving this spot until I do.
Lottie pulled the drapes to block out the skyline her office shared with the other penthouses in downtown Manhattan. Usually she liked the view--it was a far cry from her humble beginnings--but not tonight. Tonight, she just wanted to hear from Raymond.
Earlier in the day he had left her a hastily scribbled note, “Urgent! Don’t leave here until we discuss the Sinclair file!” But that was hours ago. Now it was nearly midnight. This is not like Raymond. He never writes notes. He eats and sleeps E-mail. And where is he? He’s a calendar slave. No way he’d miss an appointment. I don’t get it, and I’m not leaving this spot until I do.
As she waited, Lottie floated fluidly between the past and the present. Here she was a country girl from the South having the privilege to do what she had always wanted, and in New York City, too. She smiled contentedly as the thought fluttered by, but the telephone rang and startled her back to reality. It reminded her of Raymond and the tension rose in her neck again. Deftly, she scrambled for the phone in the dark.
"Hello!" she nearly shouted, attempting to beat the answering machine. “Beck and Associate."
"Hi, yourself. Catch you napping?"
"Raymond? No! Where are you?”
"Little testy, are we? Having to stay a little later than usual?"
"No. No. I just didn't know where you were; that's all. Where are you?"
"That's not important right now, Lottie. I need your help. Just listen!" he said, stifling her budding questions with the sharp edge in his voice. "Look in the file room and pull all the 'CL' files. Then get out of there. Get out of there as fast as you can. And Lottie. . . watch your back, Sweets."
"Wha--" she questioned, simultaneously with the click on the other end. She glared at the phone as though it had betrayed her. Bewildered, she shook her head to summon her wits. She flicked on the overhead lights and checked her watch--11:58 p.m. Raymond, you’re scaring me. I’m outta here--and fast.
Lottie’s movements were swift and methodical. Her efficient nature seemed to surface under pressure. She located the soft brown leather briefcase she adored. It had been her first purchase after landing this job. Since the job made her feel like a big city executive, she wanted to look the part, too. She knew her files intimately. She stuffed them into her briefcase and quickly shut the drawer. She locked the cabinet along with all the others, wheeled out of the file room, and locked the door behind her.
She quickly scanned the office and caught a glimpse of something she hadn't noticed before--a piece of white paper poking from under the sofa near the glass-topped coffee table. She spun across the room and collected what was a business card. Hmm. . . Clayburn & Clayburn Investments? That sneaky Raymond. Doing business with the competition behind my back. Wonder what else he’s holding out on? This is all too bizarre!
Stuffing the card into her tailored jacket, Lottie resumed her speedy exit. She grabbed her leather coat from the brass rack and tightened the belt around her waist to ward off the icy chill stealing into her bones. The rich mink collar felt good against the knot growing in her neck.
As she finished her preparations for departure, Lottie’s eyes swept the room, almost as though she’d never see it again. It wore a signature quality of elegance, assuring clients that their needs would be catered to and their interests well served. Two desks of sturdy whitewashed pine, one large and one small on opposite ends of the room, expressed the dichotomy that existed there. Lottie and Raymond--Raymond and Lottie--one with broad-based public appeal, the other more suited to the details, but like opposite ends of a weighted scale, both indispensable to the equilibrium of this highly successful investment firm.
Prompted to meet her deadline, she hurriedly switched on the soft glow of the brass lamp on her desk and flicked off the overhead lights, a nightly ritual signaling her departure. At the door, she whispered a silent prayer and edged cautiously into the hallway. It occurred to her that prayer had once been very important in her life; although, she hadn't seen the inside of a church since she arrived in the city over ten years before. And oddly enough, at that improbable moment, a childhood memory flashed across her mind. It was of her mother, Miss Charity, praying for her family at their old kitchen table.
Lottie shrugged off the vivid image that threatened to throw her off schedule. She closed the office door firmly behind her and listened for the click of the lock. She scurried to the elevator, which responded promptly to her signal, jumped inside its mirrored walls and jabbed the P2 and Close Door buttons. Relief flooded her when the gleaming doors closed and she was left to plunge into the bowels of the skyscraper to her car.
As she descended, Lottie opened the side flap of her briefcase to check for the small blade knife she kept hidden there. She touched the sheath in which it nested and patted the pocket approvingly. Carrying a knife was a precaution she had adopted as a teen. The terrors of urban school life are widely touted, but it had been her experience that attending high school in rural Alabama was even tougher. Her knife had been her equalizer.
The elevator doors opened on P2 in the underground garage. Lottie checked her watch--12:08 a.m. She strode toward her custom Lexus, the color of old money; her gait steady and deliberate. She kept her eyes moving--back, front, side to side, her senses on full alert.
Drawing closer, she double clicked the remote clutched in her clammy left hand and engaged the engine. As it idled, she picked up the pace of her cat-like surveillance. She inspected underneath the car before popping the locks. In a single motion, she hopped in, pitched her briefcase to one side, and snapped the locks shut. Gunning the engine, she squealed out of the garage, laying a trail of tire rubber behind her.
Above ground, Lottie's head was spinning dizzily and her brain felt like mush. She cracked her window and inhaled deeply. The night air cooled her sweaty brow and felt liberating to her nostrils. She was grateful to be on her way home. Raymond's warning was still ringing in her ears. "Watch your back, Sweets,” he said. ‘Sweets,’ indeed? He only calls me that when he’s frustrated or short-tempered and trying to camouflage it. Her face surrendered to an involuntary smile when she recalled the first occasion he tagged her with the label.
************
"Hello!" she nearly shouted, attempting to beat the answering machine. “Beck and Associate."
"Hi, yourself. Catch you napping?"
"Raymond? No! Where are you?”
"Little testy, are we? Having to stay a little later than usual?"
"No. No. I just didn't know where you were; that's all. Where are you?"
"That's not important right now, Lottie. I need your help. Just listen!" he said, stifling her budding questions with the sharp edge in his voice. "Look in the file room and pull all the 'CL' files. Then get out of there. Get out of there as fast as you can. And Lottie. . . watch your back, Sweets."
"Wha--" she questioned, simultaneously with the click on the other end. She glared at the phone as though it had betrayed her. Bewildered, she shook her head to summon her wits. She flicked on the overhead lights and checked her watch--11:58 p.m. Raymond, you’re scaring me. I’m outta here--and fast.
Lottie’s movements were swift and methodical. Her efficient nature seemed to surface under pressure. She located the soft brown leather briefcase she adored. It had been her first purchase after landing this job. Since the job made her feel like a big city executive, she wanted to look the part, too. She knew her files intimately. She stuffed them into her briefcase and quickly shut the drawer. She locked the cabinet along with all the others, wheeled out of the file room, and locked the door behind her.
She quickly scanned the office and caught a glimpse of something she hadn't noticed before--a piece of white paper poking from under the sofa near the glass-topped coffee table. She spun across the room and collected what was a business card. Hmm. . . Clayburn & Clayburn Investments? That sneaky Raymond. Doing business with the competition behind my back. Wonder what else he’s holding out on? This is all too bizarre!
Stuffing the card into her tailored jacket, Lottie resumed her speedy exit. She grabbed her leather coat from the brass rack and tightened the belt around her waist to ward off the icy chill stealing into her bones. The rich mink collar felt good against the knot growing in her neck.
As she finished her preparations for departure, Lottie’s eyes swept the room, almost as though she’d never see it again. It wore a signature quality of elegance, assuring clients that their needs would be catered to and their interests well served. Two desks of sturdy whitewashed pine, one large and one small on opposite ends of the room, expressed the dichotomy that existed there. Lottie and Raymond--Raymond and Lottie--one with broad-based public appeal, the other more suited to the details, but like opposite ends of a weighted scale, both indispensable to the equilibrium of this highly successful investment firm.
Prompted to meet her deadline, she hurriedly switched on the soft glow of the brass lamp on her desk and flicked off the overhead lights, a nightly ritual signaling her departure. At the door, she whispered a silent prayer and edged cautiously into the hallway. It occurred to her that prayer had once been very important in her life; although, she hadn't seen the inside of a church since she arrived in the city over ten years before. And oddly enough, at that improbable moment, a childhood memory flashed across her mind. It was of her mother, Miss Charity, praying for her family at their old kitchen table.
Lottie shrugged off the vivid image that threatened to throw her off schedule. She closed the office door firmly behind her and listened for the click of the lock. She scurried to the elevator, which responded promptly to her signal, jumped inside its mirrored walls and jabbed the P2 and Close Door buttons. Relief flooded her when the gleaming doors closed and she was left to plunge into the bowels of the skyscraper to her car.
As she descended, Lottie opened the side flap of her briefcase to check for the small blade knife she kept hidden there. She touched the sheath in which it nested and patted the pocket approvingly. Carrying a knife was a precaution she had adopted as a teen. The terrors of urban school life are widely touted, but it had been her experience that attending high school in rural Alabama was even tougher. Her knife had been her equalizer.
The elevator doors opened on P2 in the underground garage. Lottie checked her watch--12:08 a.m. She strode toward her custom Lexus, the color of old money; her gait steady and deliberate. She kept her eyes moving--back, front, side to side, her senses on full alert.
Drawing closer, she double clicked the remote clutched in her clammy left hand and engaged the engine. As it idled, she picked up the pace of her cat-like surveillance. She inspected underneath the car before popping the locks. In a single motion, she hopped in, pitched her briefcase to one side, and snapped the locks shut. Gunning the engine, she squealed out of the garage, laying a trail of tire rubber behind her.
Above ground, Lottie's head was spinning dizzily and her brain felt like mush. She cracked her window and inhaled deeply. The night air cooled her sweaty brow and felt liberating to her nostrils. She was grateful to be on her way home. Raymond's warning was still ringing in her ears. "Watch your back, Sweets,” he said. ‘Sweets,’ indeed? He only calls me that when he’s frustrated or short-tempered and trying to camouflage it. Her face surrendered to an involuntary smile when she recalled the first occasion he tagged her with the label.
************
The first time Lottie laid eyes on Raymond was when he graced Max's Diner where she worked part-time as a waitress. She didn't know his name, but he bore the clean-cut, well-dressed marks of a successful executive in his budding thirties. Given his distinguished-looking six-foot-plus frame and athletic build, she marveled that he hadn't picked one of the more trendy eateries, which boasted of bottled spring water and organic sprouts, to do lunch. Instead, he traded the aroma of filet mignon for the odor of chicken fried steak. She assumed he either was humoring himself by patronizing the only retro diner in Manhattan's financial district, or he was ensuring his anonymity by mingling with folk who were far more impressed by a steaming plate of meatloaf than his net worth.
After her first sighting, Lottie noticed he came into the diner several times a week, around the ebb of the noon rush, and mounted a stool at the far end of the chrome-plated counter. He kept to himself and spoke to no one, save Max the owner, who he signaled for his usual fried chicken-caesar salad. He hovered over handwritten charts and graphs until his coffee grew stale; oftentimes crumpling in frustration the ideas he scribbled on napkins and scraps of paper.
His hieroglyphics were hardly intelligible to the untrained eye, but as Lottie passed back and forth to the kitchen, she recognized he was struggling to develop investment profiles. With her God-given talent for the computer, she could picture splashy color graphics for his disjointed data in much the same way as a gifted musician visualizes fine lyrics for a catchy tune. Her summers at the community college back home had paid off.
************
After her first sighting, Lottie noticed he came into the diner several times a week, around the ebb of the noon rush, and mounted a stool at the far end of the chrome-plated counter. He kept to himself and spoke to no one, save Max the owner, who he signaled for his usual fried chicken-caesar salad. He hovered over handwritten charts and graphs until his coffee grew stale; oftentimes crumpling in frustration the ideas he scribbled on napkins and scraps of paper.
His hieroglyphics were hardly intelligible to the untrained eye, but as Lottie passed back and forth to the kitchen, she recognized he was struggling to develop investment profiles. With her God-given talent for the computer, she could picture splashy color graphics for his disjointed data in much the same way as a gifted musician visualizes fine lyrics for a catchy tune. Her summers at the community college back home had paid off.
************
Lottie’s hometown was a sleepy, little agricultural community in rural Alabama, tucked away where the state’s southeastern crease borders Florida and Georgia, and where license plates proudly sport the Heart of Dixie. Union City was a town where King Cotton had once ruled and where the privileged offspring of that heyday had struggled ever since to define their existence without it. Words like mansion, plantation, and ante-bellum were loosely strung together to conjure up images of money and respectability, when in fact only a few of the remaining founding families possessed it.
Lottie's love for computers dated back to her high school days. From the very first time she touched a keyboard, she was a natural. She had a ravenous appetite to learn more and worked odd jobs after school her sophomore year to purchase her own computer. She poured over books and manuals to learn on her own and spent her summers at the local community college pursuing her passion.
She attended Lurleen B. Wallace Community College, one of the many named for the former governor of the State of Alabama during her brief tenure. She became governor in 1966 when her husband, George C., was no longer eligible to seek office after his first term. “Shucks," some townsfolk would say, "Lurleen only started them schools just to prove George wasn’t no monster when he stood in the doorway of the University of Alabama and faced down Federally-mandated desegregation in 1963."
But despite the twenty-year interval since the Wallace era, a remnant of the die-heart separate-but-equal faction remained in tact in Union City, tying up the social and political fabric and stripping away the economic vitality of the community. By 1986, the summer before Lottie’s senior year in high school, it was to the point that skilled, high-paying jobs for young people her age were all but non-existent.
It was also the summer Lottie’s daddy was killed in a freak sawmill accident. Her older sister, Rose, had been so devastated by their father's tragic death she found it impossible to remain in the family home. With their mother's consent, Rose moved away right after the funeral and found a job four hours away in Macon, Georgia, leaving Lottie to fend alone.
“But Mamma!” Lottie had objected strenuously. “It’s my senior year. I can’t leave Lincoln and transfer ‘cross-town to Jim Folsom High just ‘cause you work at the Poteet Mansion. I’ll have to leave all my friends. I’d miss my senior trip! Rose got to go on her senior trip. But you and daddy always did love her best—“
“Gal, don’t speak ill of yo’ daddy. He dead.”
“But why can’t I just come home alone--“
“You’ll do no such thing, Lottie Mae,” Miss Charity bellowed. “You’ll do what I say. You’ll come to the mansion every day after school. And that’s that.”
"But I’m nearly eighteen--“
"That’s that!”
During those incredibly lonely days without her daddy or Rose around, the computer became Lottie's escape hatch from the sadness that threatened to overtake her. Its cold companionship and her fervent prayers were her only solace. She couldn't unload her burdens on her mother; she was tending to her own grief. So that summer while other girls her age were dating, in hopes of finding a husband to care for them after graduation, Lottie hid away in her room for hours, melding with her computer and perfecting her skills.
************
Lottie's love for computers dated back to her high school days. From the very first time she touched a keyboard, she was a natural. She had a ravenous appetite to learn more and worked odd jobs after school her sophomore year to purchase her own computer. She poured over books and manuals to learn on her own and spent her summers at the local community college pursuing her passion.
She attended Lurleen B. Wallace Community College, one of the many named for the former governor of the State of Alabama during her brief tenure. She became governor in 1966 when her husband, George C., was no longer eligible to seek office after his first term. “Shucks," some townsfolk would say, "Lurleen only started them schools just to prove George wasn’t no monster when he stood in the doorway of the University of Alabama and faced down Federally-mandated desegregation in 1963."
But despite the twenty-year interval since the Wallace era, a remnant of the die-heart separate-but-equal faction remained in tact in Union City, tying up the social and political fabric and stripping away the economic vitality of the community. By 1986, the summer before Lottie’s senior year in high school, it was to the point that skilled, high-paying jobs for young people her age were all but non-existent.
It was also the summer Lottie’s daddy was killed in a freak sawmill accident. Her older sister, Rose, had been so devastated by their father's tragic death she found it impossible to remain in the family home. With their mother's consent, Rose moved away right after the funeral and found a job four hours away in Macon, Georgia, leaving Lottie to fend alone.
“But Mamma!” Lottie had objected strenuously. “It’s my senior year. I can’t leave Lincoln and transfer ‘cross-town to Jim Folsom High just ‘cause you work at the Poteet Mansion. I’ll have to leave all my friends. I’d miss my senior trip! Rose got to go on her senior trip. But you and daddy always did love her best—“
“Gal, don’t speak ill of yo’ daddy. He dead.”
“But why can’t I just come home alone--“
“You’ll do no such thing, Lottie Mae,” Miss Charity bellowed. “You’ll do what I say. You’ll come to the mansion every day after school. And that’s that.”
"But I’m nearly eighteen--“
"That’s that!”
During those incredibly lonely days without her daddy or Rose around, the computer became Lottie's escape hatch from the sadness that threatened to overtake her. Its cold companionship and her fervent prayers were her only solace. She couldn't unload her burdens on her mother; she was tending to her own grief. So that summer while other girls her age were dating, in hopes of finding a husband to care for them after graduation, Lottie hid away in her room for hours, melding with her computer and perfecting her skills.
************
"Don't you like computers, sir?" Lottie inquired of the man on the first occasion Max had signaled her to serve his fried chicken-caesar salad.
"What's it to you, Sweets," he said, obviously having a particularly difficult time collecting his data.
"My name is Lottie."
"Hmph." He fumbled with his notes.
"Lottie Garrett."
Raymond looked up from his work and glared at her. "And what do you want of me, Ms. Lottie Garrett?" he said in such a way as to emphasize that besides being at least ten years his junior, she was neither his social nor intellectual equal. Motioning to the mass of scraps on the counter, he said, "As you can see, I am quite busy." He lowered his crown of jet-black hair and returned to work. "Quite."
"What's it to you, Sweets," he said, obviously having a particularly difficult time collecting his data.
"My name is Lottie."
"Hmph." He fumbled with his notes.
"Lottie Garrett."
Raymond looked up from his work and glared at her. "And what do you want of me, Ms. Lottie Garrett?" he said in such a way as to emphasize that besides being at least ten years his junior, she was neither his social nor intellectual equal. Motioning to the mass of scraps on the counter, he said, "As you can see, I am quite busy." He lowered his crown of jet-black hair and returned to work. "Quite."
"Have it your way!" Having been in the city only a few months, Lottie was easily put-off by what she termed, legends in their own minds--people with high-minded ways, puffed-up egos, and little regard for the feelings of others. That’s what I get for trying to help him. Her hands twitched with anger, and she jammed them into her apron pockets. Wait ‘til I see Mr. Big-Shot again, I’ll show him a thing or two.
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