Undo Part 47

Taking advantage of her impairment, which, before falling in love with Jean-Pierre, she would have never considered, she fluttered her four-fingered hand in the air. She sighed. "Oh well."

Managing to restrain his surprise, he glanced pensively at the papers in his hand, then at the woman who stood in front of Greta. Like the others in line, the woman's attention was fixed on the front of the line. Greta read the young manager's mind with delicious knowing: She is Matthew Locke's wife, with a history of enormous deposits. And very large balances. And, she knew, he had never before seen her disfigured hand. Pity.

He leaned closer. "Wait over at my desk. I'll be finished with this transaction in just a minute, then I'll take care of you."

She graced him with a thankful smile and casually strolled over to the manager's desk and seated herself. She opened her purse, busied herself emptying old receipts and gum wrappers. A few minutes later the manager returned and seated himself opposite her. He collected her litter and, all business, discarded it in the wastebasket beneath his desk. Clasping his hand together atop the desk blotter, he beamed with antic.i.p.ation, plainly expecting a big deposit. "Now, what is it I can do for you, Mrs. Locke?"

She produced her checkbook and flattened it on the desk before her. "I'd like to withdraw some of my funds," she said.

His expression seemed to flatten a little. "How much would you like to withdraw?"

She looked from side to side, then leaned forward, her chin an inch above her poised pen. "A quarter-million dollars," she whispered.

"I see," he said, blinking, looking personally offended. "Is there something wrong with our service?"

She gave a little laugh. "Oh, no. No, no. You're always so kind and friendly. It's really not that much money - relatively speaking," she said with a shake of her shoulders, a subtle reminder of their overall balance.

"From which account will you draw the funds?" he asked, his fingers working quickly over the keyboard of the computer terminal beside the desk. "Your personal checking account balance here doesn't total that amount."

"I know. I'd like you to arrange to collect it from the market fund account, and then deposit it into this," she said, indicating the account number in her open checkbook. She unfolded the small slip of paper Jean-Pierre had given her and showed it to the manager. "Then I'll write a check, which I'd like wired to this Swiss account."

"Very well, Mrs. Locke." He opened one of the desk drawers.

"We'll just need to fill out this form," he said, tearing off a small pink sheet. "Are you and Mr. Locke traveling?" he asked casually as he transcribed her account number onto the form.

"Nope. Just me. It's to help set up affairs in Europe before I depart for an extended trip."

He tapped the account number into the computer terminal and a moment later the account activity unrolled on the display. "Oh,"

he said, frowning. "Mrs. Locke, this is a joint account. I'm afraid we're going to need Mr. Locke's signature on this form before we can provide wire authorization."

She straightened. "But the account is in my name," she said, puzzled.

"Yes, Mrs. Locke," he said patiently, "your checking account is in your name, but the funds are coming from your joint account with Mr. Locke."

"But they are leaving from my account," she insisted, as if this made a difference.

"Yes, they are, but to get into your account they must first come out of the market fund, which is in both names."

"Is there any other way?" she said, distressed. "I mean, It's really such a small amount. Couldn't we just this once make it work somehow?"

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Locke. We must have Mr. Locke's signature on this form before we can proceed with the transaction. I'm sorry."

The manager wrote an X beside the line that needed Matthew's signature. "Normally, Mr. Locke would have to appear in person.

But if you can just have him sign this and then come back with it before three o'clock, we can complete the transaction today."

Pulling out of the bank's parking lot she decided to drive to Wallaby and have Matthew sign the form immediately. It was best to just get the whole transfer done and over with.

When she had asked Jean-Pierre why he couldn't first go over to France and open a joint account in both their names, he had told her that this was the best way, something to do with interest rates and international rules and regulations and other things she didn't understand, or care to know more about. The long and short of it, according to Jean-Pierre, was that a delay would cause them to lose thousands of dollars in interest. He obviously knew what he was talking about, and she had agreed to do it his way. After all, she rationalized, it was for their future. And besides, he had promised he would make no decisions without first consulting her. This way, if he found something that they liked, he would be able to act fast, securing the property quickly, without having to wait for signatures to arrive via slow, international means.

She pressed hard on the accelerator, hoping to catch Matthew while he ate lunch in his office, as he customarily did this time of day.

Chapter 18

"Matthew, it's all so positive," Laurence Maupin said with smiling allegiance as she closed the copy of the "Wall Street Journal" resting on his desk. "You've got the press in the palm of your hand these days."

"I'd say you've had more than a little to do with that."

"Just doing my job."

"And more," he said with a mischievous grin.

His secretary opened his office door and leaned in. "Matthew, your meeting with the executive staff has been moved to one-thirty."

He thanked her and she returned to her desk. He closed the issue of "Business Week" he had been reading, which featured an article Laurence had pitched. He appraised his young a.s.sistant appreciatively as she flipped through a manila file folder. She looked at him.

"How about some lunch?" she asked, closing the folder.

"Sure. What are you up for?"

"You pick."

"I haven't had sus.h.i.+ in a while."

Laurence wrinkled her nose. "Hmm. I've somehow managed to avoid sus.h.i.+ all these years. Well, I guess it's time I tried it."

"You'll love it," he said, escorting her out of his office. To his secretary Eileen, he said, "We're going next door for lunch."

They boarded the elevator. "I'm curious as to why the executive staff pulled together for a meeting this afternoon," Matthew said. "No one has indicated a problem or situation of any sort to me."

"Perhaps it's to congratulate you on the fact that the Joey II is s.h.i.+pping two months ahead of schedule, with thousands of orders waiting to be filled."

"Maybe," he said, without conviction. "But we usually don't call together an executive staff meeting without some prior notice.

And I'm usually the one to call them."

They crossed the Wallaby parking lot and walked along the sidewalk. "Who did call this one?" she asked.

He stopped in his tracks, and looked at her. "You know, I don't know," he said with mild astonishment. "I hadn't thought about it until you just asked. I suppose it was Hank Towers."

"Well, I can't imagine it being anything but good. Things have gone up, up, up since you've taken control."

"Yes, and I can thank you for that too," he quipped, s.h.i.+fting the topic from business to pleasure.

She touched her fingers to her lips to stifle a laugh as he opened the restaurant door for her. The j.a.panese hostess greeted them with a bow, and indicated for them to follow her. She led them into the dining area.

"I'd prefer a room in back," Matthew said when the hostess presented a table in the crowded general dining area, occupied mostly by Wallaby employees.

She nodded kindly and led them to the rear of the restaurant, to one of the more private rooms, screened off from the rest of the place with sliding rice paper and teakwood part.i.tions.