Big Rich

1

The richest man I had ever met came into my bank to complain about twelve dollars.

I learned the rich stayed rich through commitment.

“This monthly maintenance fee is incorrect,” he said, sliding the statement across my desk.

I looked at the paper, then at him.

Silver hair, deep brown skin, tailored navy suit. His watch probably cost more than my house, my car, and the four small people who kept leaving lights on inside both.

The account balance held seven figures. That was one of his smaller accounts.

I lifted my eyes. “The fee applies when your balance falls below fifteen hundred dollars.”

His mouth shifted. “My balance appears healthy.”

“The funds were transferred to another account three days before the statement closed.”

“I see.”

He continued sitting there.

I waited.

He waited.

The branch was scheduled to close in ten minutes.

Emma stood behind the teller counter, pretending to organize deposit slips while openly watching us.

Our security guard had already locked one side of the glass doors.

Somewhere inside the building, the air conditioner made a struggling mechanical rattle.

“Was there anything else, Mr. Whitmore?”

“Richard.”

“Was there anything else, Mr. Richard?”

His smile came slowly.

He was handsome in a distinguished, expensive, somebody’s-grandfather kind of way. Thick silver hair. Trim beard. Broad shoulders filling out his jacket. His face carried the ease of a man who had spent decades expecting rooms to adjust around him.

“I’d like the fee refunded,” he said.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

“You moved four million dollars out of the account.”

“Three point eight.”

“Then suffered a twelve-dollar consequence.”

“Rules should be applied correctly.”

“They were.”

His smile widened. “I like you.”

“That makes one of us.”

Emma coughed into her fist.

Richard leaned back in the chair. “Would you have dinner with me?”

My gaze traveled from his silver hair to the gold ring on his right hand. His left hand was bare.

“Sir, I already have four children. I lack the energy to monitor anybody else’s blood pressure.”

A laugh broke out of him, deep and startled. The sound filled my small office.

I kept my expression level.

He pulled a business card from his pocket and placed it beside the statement. “In case you reconsider.”

“I won’t.”

“You might.”

“I recognize optimism when I see it. I work in finance.”

He stood, buttoned his jacket, and left the twelve-dollar fee unresolved.

Emma hurried into my office as soon as the door closed behind him.

“Have you lost your mind?”

“Several years ago. Charlie was born during the final decline.”

She snatched the business card from my desk. Her brown eyes widened when she read it.

“Veronica, that was Richard Whitmore.”

“He introduced himself.”

“Whitmore Capital. Whitmore Hotels. Whitmore Development.”

“I heard a lot of Whitmore and very little reason I should care.”

“He’s a billionaire.”

My attention returned to the glass doors.

Richard stood beside a black sedan while a tall man in a dark suit held the rear door open. Richard glanced through the glass, caught me looking, and lifted two fingers in a casual salute.

I turned away.

“How many billions?” I asked.

Emma grinned. “Now her ears work.”

“I appreciate context.”

“You told a billionaire he needed his blood pressure monitored.”

“He came in here over twelve dollars. Clearly, his heart requires supervision.”

Emma placed the card in front of me. “Call him.”

“I have children closer to his age than I am.”

“You have a seventeen-year-old.”

“And he looks like he remembers when cars came without seat belts.”

“He looks good.”

“For an elder.”

“For a man.”

I picked up the business card and dropped it into my drawer.

“That man wants a young woman to make him feel lively.”

Emma leaned against my desk. “You’re thirty-six.”

“Exactly. My knees still cooperate.”

“So do his. I watched him walk.”

I closed my drawer. “We’re going home.”

My phone rang before I could collect my purse.

Tatum’s name appeared on the screen.

“Please tell me the house still stands.”

“Charlie put a fork in the toaster.”

I closed my eyes. “Was it plugged in?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s mad because Ollie slapped the fork out of his hand.”

“Tell Ollie I love him. Tell Charlie electricity has claimed stronger men.”

“Penny said you promised pizza.”

“I promised food.”

“She said pizza is food.”

“Penny is nine and unemployed. Her interpretation carries limited authority.”

“Can we get pizza?”

I checked my account balance in my head. Payday was three days away. The light bill had cleared that morning. My car needed brakes. Tatum had senior fees. Ollie had grown out of another pair of shoes, and Penny’s class needed twenty dollars for a field trip.

“We have food at home.”

Tatum groaned.

“Take the chicken out of the freezer.”

“It’s frozen.”

“That explains why I said take it out.”

I ended the call and caught Emma watching me.

“Call the billionaire,” she said.

“I’d rather eat the frozen chicken.”

Richard returned two days later.

He wore charcoal gray this time and carried a leather folder. The same tall driver followed him inside, exchanged a familiar nod with our security guard, and settled into a chair near the entrance.

I spotted Richard from my office and lowered my head.

Emma appeared in my doorway.

“Your boyfriend is here.”

“Tell him I died.”

“He owns part of the company that owns this building.”

“I recovered.”

Richard walked past her and entered my office without waiting for an invitation.

“Ms. Hart.”

“Mr. Whitmore.”

“Veronica.”

“Richard.”

He took the chair across from me and placed the folder on my desk.

I glanced at it. “What happened this time? Did the ATM fail to salute?”

“I run a charitable foundation.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“We’re developing a financial literacy program for working families. Your branch manager recommended you.”

That got my attention.

“My branch manager barely remembers my name.”

“He remembered when I asked who developed the budgeting workshop your branch held last spring.”

“I did.”

“I know.”