Pulling Strings

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1Our private jet touched down at Miami International Airport, and as always, a chauffeured car was waiting for us. That’s the drawback of flying a private plane into a major airport. It’s impossible to find a taxi when you land at a private hanger. I should have Joe research a smaller landing field.

“Any idea how long this time?” Joe, our pilot, asked.

“At least a month,” I told him. “Maybe six weeks. I think Chris needs a real vacation. She’s been working so hard.”

“Just let us know and we’ll be here,” he said. “Have a good vacation.”

“Thanks, Hon. We’ll call.”

I say our because I’m in a relationship and I hope it will last forever. Actually, all of this is mine. I’m the one whose work provided all the cash and whose dreams always ended up in the Caribbean. I brought her here and introduced her to my lifestyle, to my friends, and to my world.

When I got to college in New York City, over twenty years ago, I discovered that women were much more satisfying than the boy’s I’d dated. In fact, I was sort of a player for a while, going from one to another, but never settling for any one specific woman. I did have one lover that lasted almost three years but that eventually fell apart.

You see, I may be in love, now. I probably am, but I always hold back a part of me in case it falls apart. I can’t let my heart be broken again. It’s happened twice. Once when I wasn’t looking, the other when I caused it intentionally. I couldn’t believe it wouldn’t happen again in the future. The first serious “lover” I had ended up cheating on me, then, when she moved out, took several hundred- thousand dollars’ worth of antiques and art work with her. I know I should have reported her to the police but, hey, I had trusted her. I had turned my back, went away for three days while she packed, and left. I was merely happy that I wouldn’t see her again. If she needed the possessions so badly that she had to steal them, then I wished her luck.

But, Christine seemed different. I already broken my own heart over her once, but she told me she wouldn’t let me do it again. I hope she’s right.

I met Chris a few years ago. Now, I couldn’t imagine being without her.

When I met her, she was an employee at a high-class clothing boutique on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. I was attracted to her from the first time I’d gone into the shop but I’m not the kind of person to advertise my proclivities in someone else’s work place, so I never said anything. I’d go there from time to time just to look at her and occasionally flirt a little. I always asked for her to help me and only went in when I knew she was working. I watched her for months, but she never returned my interest. I wasn’t sure if she was getting it.

By that time, I’d gone into the boutique about once every week, for several months. It wasn’t that I loved their clothes, but I loved checking her out. Then, she offered to deliver a purchase I had ordered. When she made her delivery, I “persuaded” her to come for dinner the next night. Actually, she said she was going to a movie with a friend, but I flat out told her to cancel it. I was amazed when she showed up the next night. I know I can be rather intimidating sometimes, but I hadn’t dared hope she’d follow through with it.

When she accepted my invitation, I knew I’d have her. We flirted and laughed over dinner on my terrace. We’d just finished a large scotch and a full bottle of wine. She asked me if I always drank that much. My response was that it depended on what I wanted to do later. When she asked me what that might be, I couldn’t hold back my desires any longer. I told her I wanted her to make love with me.

Yes, that night, I lured her into my bed. We had an incredible time. And Wow! What fantastic s*x that was! I knew I couldn’t let her go. I seduced her, then I hired her. Yes, I admit it. I know it might seem rather crass of me, but I offered to hire her to be on call whenever I wanted her in my bed. I didn’t want to take the chance that she might not stick around or that she’d have to work when I wanted to do something else. I paid her by the hour, so if she stayed overnight, she’d get even more. Of course she didn’t want to look like a kept woman or a gigolo, so I also gave her the title of Personal Assistant. I paid her to come make love to me, but we told everyone that she only worked for me. I paid her more than she was making at the boutique so she could quit there, had extra time to practice and enough money for more lessons.

You see, Chris is a cellist. She had told me at the start that her ambition was to be good enough to audition for a major orchestra. It had been her dream all her life. She’d graduated from Julliard School of Music. She now played with a string quartet at a museum on the weekends but that didn’t pay the bills.

I’d bought her new clothes and took her to St. Lucia, and that began our story. Little did I know what a monster I’d created. She became even more proficient on her instrument and I like to think that’s how she got all those opportunities to perform. Now, she’s making her own money and although I pay all the bills because it’s my house, she can say she pays her own way. She can purchase whatever she wants and also buy things for other people. We both like that.

You see, Christine graduated over ten years ago, though almost ten years after me. Subsequent to spending almost a decade playing mood-music with the quartet, her career has blossomed. When I’d taken her to St. Lucia for the first time, she met all the right people to help her career. Through an agent we met there, she was hired to play her cello in some major perfume advertisements, and was so successful (and beautiful,) that her whole career had opened up. She’d been on television and in every major magazine you’d look into.

Because of that and a friend that I’d introduced her to, her whole life exploded. She was offered a three-month concert tour, playing with a dozen orchestras around the country.

I’d been afraid I’d lost her when we had a fight before she left on tour. Of course, the argument was my fault, but I had to get her to take the tour. She was scared. She’d never been out on her own like that before, so I pushed her away from me so she’d go. I’d told her she was a failure and wouldn’t take the tour because everyone would see how mediocre she was, and she couldn’t blame it on anyone else. I wasn’t sure how she had responded but I knew she’d accepted the tour. So, all the time she was preparing for the tour and then the tour itself, we were apart.

I watched as review after review lauded her playing and her beauty. I was so proud of her but I, personally, hadn’t taken it well and became a bit of a recluse. I had broken my own heart. Several months later, she marched back into my house to tell me how wrong I’d been and that I couldn’t push her away again because she loved me. I hope my belief in her wouldn’t come back to bite me.

I’ve always been the one in charge but now I have Christine. I think that now that she’s proven how good her cello playing is, she’s overshadowed everything I did…except make millions. I still have more money, but she’s admired more because she’s beautiful and talented. Those are two attributes I can never compete with her in. Okay, so I was born with purple eyes and hadn’t gained a dress size since I was a teenager, but those are my only pluses.

Now, I was happy, but I didn’t want to take the chance on losing her again, so I asked her to move in with me. We are a committed couple. I hadn’t bought her an engagement ring, yet, but I will very soon. I didn’t want her to slip away from me.

* * * *

I watched as our luggage was transferred to the car. Now, we’d be whisked away to the marina where my yacht, The Phantom Broker, was waiting for us.

The seventy-five-foot, white Marlow Explorer sat at the end of the third dock. It was one of the first really extravagant things I’d bought myself when I made my fifth million. That winter, I’d taken my then-lover Joyce on vacation to St. Croix and we’d had a blast. But seeing all those beautiful yachts sitting there in the harbor hit me. What freedom! With your own yacht, you could go wherever you wanted and didn’t have to worry about airlines, their schedules, and airplane food. I had started my own brokerage house by then and the market was booming. Things looked good for me.

I’m Car Weldon, by the way. Car is short for Caroline, which my little brother couldn’t pronounce. He called me Cah. My relatives all laughed that he really had a Boston accent, and so my name morphed into Car.

I own a lot of things. In fact, I own the plane we’d flown here in. I’m a very successful stockbroker who, before I reached age thirty, had managed a fantastic portfolio that made me mega-rich. I seemed to have the innate ability to know when to buy and sell stocks. The very first thing I bought with my first million was an estate overlooking the Hudson river, north of Manhattan. Actually, a million didn’t quite cover the whole thing but I had it paid off in less than a year. It was probably the least expensive thing I bought.

Then, of course, I had to hire a cook. Being that far outside Manhattan and not very close to Yonkers or the Bronx, meant that I couldn’t just call out for food like I used to. I’d flunked home-ec two years in a row when I was in high school, so I didn’t dare cook for myself. I didn’t have the patience. I always set the stove too high so things would cook faster. That didn’t seem to work: food always burned. I was fairly okay with sandwiches, though, as long as I didn’t have to slice too many things. I was good with peanut butter and jelly, but what good is having money when all you eat is kid’s stuff?

Also, parking near Wall Street was so expensive and getting around the city so nerve-wracking, that I finally realized that I’d have to hire a driver so I didn’t have to pay those high prices or risk getting ticketed or towed. I mean, if I paid twenty-five or thirty dollars a day to park near Wall Street, then had to find a place to park further up Seventh Avenue so I could shop, that was even more money. It was sometimes so time-consuming, that I’d blow a half tank of gas, just driving around the block looking for a space. Of course, I could pull into a different parking garage uptown, but that would cost at least five to ten dollars, just so I could run into a*****e to buy one little thing. Then if I wanted to go five blocks away to get something else? No. Leaving my car in the garage on Wall Street, would cost twice that in cab fees, and I definitely wasn’t going to take a subway.

I’d taken the subway everywhere while I lived in Manhattan and was going to school there, but now that I had money, I wasn’t going to fight the crowds and the stench that was always down there. Well, you can see my predicament. Having a chauffeur on staff was ultimately cheaper than all the parking spaces and risk of tickets. It also gave me the freedom to stop at stores and shops without circling the block ten times or walking a dozen blocks. I needed someone to watch the car for as long as I wanted to stay at the stock market but be ready when I wanted to leave. I guess I seem high maintenance, but I don’t have that much time to spare, not if I want to keep my millions. So, I ended up with four people working for me: a cook, a chauffeur, a housekeeper, and a gardener. Once I had it, I had to keep my property looking good, inside and out.

The people I hired were wonderful. My driver, Jack, had been with me for almost eight years. He’s been my shoulder when things didn’t go right and helped me celebrate when they went well. He’d even been my wingman a couple times.

Susan, my housekeeper, and Judith, my cook, were both in their fifties and single. Susan had always been single, but Judith had been married, was divorced, and had two grown daughters, so she was on her own. Those three also lived on my estate; Susan and Judith had their own rooms in the wing behind the kitchen and Jack had a bachelor pad over the garage. My gardener, Rob, had a family, and lived about five miles away. He worked four days a week unless something needed extra care. I only have fifteen acres.