3: Nepotism

Andrew James stood ramrod straight before the Trust’s president, Mr. Melton, his hands tucked behind his back. “You asked to speak to me, sir.”

Looking up from his document review, Mr. Melton smiled, his spectacled, gray eyes genuinely pleased to see Andrew, and gestured to a chair. He laced his thin bony fingers, leaning forward onto the ornate mahogany desk in his lavish office. “Andrew, what are you doing here?”

Confused, Andrew’s brows drew together slightly. “You asked to see me, sir,” he reiterated. “Is there something amiss?”

“Why are you not home with your family?”

Unable to hold the president’s gaze, Andrew glanced away, releasing a quiet sigh as he focused out the wide windows, across the rooftops of other nearby buildings. “You’ve met my mother. There’s nothing I can do at home, sir.”

A long silence filled the space between the two men as Mr. Melton considered. “I understand. Nevertheless, I’m worried about you, Andrew. I’m told you’ve spent the last two days shut in your brother’s office long after hours.”

“Nothing new,” Andrew countered wryly. “I’ve spent many more than the last two days working long after hours since I came on with the Trust. It’s how I keep things running smoothly. Amid the lengthy list of my character flaws, certainly you don't fault me for that.”

Seeing Mr. Melton’s face set in a blank patient stare, he rolled his eyes and voluntarily explained himself. “I’ve been going through Russell’s ledgers and balance sheets. The majority of his investments were in bad shape. For that, I’m responsible, sir,” he confessed, his blue-green eyes cast down to conceal the rest of his thoughts.

It wasn’t merely that his brother’s investments had been struggling, or that Russell had balanced the losses with a novel approach. Andrew had reviewed every account file, every business record, every note and communication stored in Russell’s office. Buried inside one client account, he’d found another unlabeled file. One full of jotted and crossed out addresses and, alarmingly, random payments to an undisclosed recipient. It also contained a single returned letter for an address in California with the post office stamp: No Forwarding Address On File. The cryptic note, in his brother’s unmistakable hand, read: She’s found you. Keep away.

Harold Melton and Andrew’s father were old friends and former partners. Under their guidance, the Bank and Trust had grown, prospering through World War I, surviving the Spanish flu epidemic and even the 1929 market crash when other banks had gone under. He and Russell had grown up with the Melton children and Harold had treated them like his sons, especially after their father’s untimely demise a few months after Hoover's Smoot-Hawley Act was passed, further reducing international trade and worstening the Depression, mid-year in 1930, when Andrew was just twenty-two years old.

“Young man, just because this was your brother’s suicide doesn’t make you responsible,” the president replied mildly. He took a sip from his coffee, a cup even Andrew could smell from a few feet away contained mostly bourbon, then skimmed the next page of the document he’d been reviewing.

“I’m afraid it does. Russell reported to me.” Andrew’s eyes became distant. “I must admit that I didn’t audit his holdings the way I did other financers—I assumed he was doing well as long as his accounting was in the black.”

“And was it?” Across from him, the president set his document aside and stared at the younger Mr. James. When Andrew nodded, he continued, “Not an unreasonable policy then. We do keep you rather busy here, Andrew, and your direct reports are supposed to be the best in the business. Why are you so insistent on your culpability?”

“Because I treated him differently.”

“You didn’t invent nepotism, Andrew.” The corners of Mr. Melton’s mouth curled slightly as he chuckled and he looked younger than his years. “Your father and I were partners in this firm. Trust allows you to do more, to advance more, exactly as the trust between our families has. As such, I don’t intend to put the entire onus of this fiasco on you. Whatever else was happening, Russell was primarily responsible— you did what you could to rectify the situation.  You saved the girl. His secretary—what was her name?” He shuffled through a few papers on his desk, and not finding what he sought, dismissed her much more easily than Andrew had been able to.

In fact, he was finding it entirely impossible to do so. 

Constantly over the intervening days since Russell's death, his head was filled with her lingering scent— flower-fresh Ivory soap with the faintest touch of lavender and mint. The skin at the nape of his neck and into his hair tingled randomly, remembering the feeling of her delicate fingers, gently stroking there, the tender caress of her breath across his skin. Worst of all, his mutinous body reminisced all too readily about the recpirocal warmth of her slender figure through their clothes, the tangle of her slim legs with his. 

It wasn't simply her beauty though— not the tender flesh, soft as a baby's on the wrist he'd held, not the fine smooth complexion or even her indescribable eyes— after all, if he desired mere beauty, Andrew could simply attend one of the annoying plethora of parties his mother was incessantly hosting, replete with high society's cream of the crop in terms of young beautiful and eligible women, viciously stalking a marriageable man of the right social stature, the right financial success, insatiably hungering like Harpies. 

Not a one of whom would have risked their lives to save his brother. 

Which made this young woman worth something considerably more.

“At least we won’t have to pay a settlement to her family. And so the only thing left is to lay your brother to rest and reassign Russell’s accounts. You say you’ve gone through them. How do you recommend they be split?”

“I don’t.” Andrew’s tone was firm. “I want them assigned to me.”

“Andrew—.”

“Please, sir, hear me out,” Andrew pleaded. “My brother’s numbers were legitimately in the black, even though his primary investment was real estate.”

“Good God, no wonder he jumped. I had no idea the man was so handicapped.” Mr. Melton’s face screwed up, pained. “Why was he holding properties?”

Andrew’s broad shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “Most of his holdings he’d had since before the crash. Many of them had nearly doubled in value. But after—,” he cut off. Mr. Melton needed no explanation of the turn of fortunes so many had suffered in the Great Crash of '29.

“Naturally afterwards, he was left holding a lot of debt— he should have come to one of us.”

“That’s the thing, sir. He wasn’t. The way he was balancing everything to keep his accounting good was complicated but rather brilliant—it just couldn’t stand a decade’s worth of testing. I don't understand why he didn't talk to one of us either, but perhaps he thought given enough time he could rectify the portfolio.”

When the president said nothing, Andrew leaned closer, excited. “Real estate shows no sign of rebounding but the market does. Between the Japanese and the Germans, we’re headed for a war market.”

“And that’s relevant to your brother’s accounts how?” Shrewd gray eyes pierced into Andrew’s. Like his father, this young man’s instincts about and understanding of the stock market and global economy were equaled by none in the business. If Andrew had an insight, it was more than worth the effort to listen.

“Manufacturing, sir. Food processing, uniform and equipment manufacturing, warehouse storage prior to shipping. You have to have someplace to do it, and someplace to store the outcome of it.” Andrew leaned forward, his hands on the opposite side of the president’s desk. “Paired with the infrastructure and manufacturing investments in my portfolio, this Trust stands to make a significant amount of money on Russell’s investments when war breaks out.”

“You mean ‘if’ war breaks out.”

Andrew shook his head. “No, sir. War isn’t an if. It’s a when. Hitler is clearly advancing his agenda and the Japanese are pushing from the other side of the continent. American allies in Europe don’t have the capacity to stand against a war on two fronts without our support.”

“Powerful as FDR has become, son, he doesn’t have American support for a war, especially after the last one being viewed as a way for munitions manufacturers to profit. He has an election to win next year. He can’t afford to alienate the public.”

“Respectfully, sir, things are changing rapidly in Europe. Whether the US of A and its isolationism policy can survive remains to be seen. I personally have my doubts.” Andrew fixed the older man, the more fatherly of the men he’d grown up with in life, with a direct and earnest look. “With all due respect, sir, I haven’t been wrong in all the time I’ve worked for the Trust. Please, let me do it. Let me turn Russell’s legacy here around, sir.”

Leaning against his chairback, the Trust president eyed him thoughtfully. “Very well, Andrew. But—,” he paused for emphasis, “not until Monday. As the only adult male James, you have a family to look after and your own grieving to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Andrew conceded reluctantly then stood and quickly left the office before any other terms could be applied to his small victory.

It was just as well anyway. He'd already assumed responsibility of Russell's accounts in every other capacity besides the president's approval. Doubtless, it was a lot— between his own expansive account holdings and the addition of his brother's, he'd have to develop some tolerance and train a secretary.

And Andrew had the perfect woman in mind.