The Mentor Read Online Free PDF

winter months in a stacked box on some bleak patch of Florida scrubland violated by dreary condo towers that look as if they belong in a working-class neighborhood of a Third World country. They visited New York a couple of times, but were overwhelmed by the city and ended up sequestered in their hotel room, phoning relatives back home, praising their son’s generosity and keeping track of the weather and what was on sale at the supermarket.
    Charles and his parents have whittled their communication down to three-minute Christmas and birthday phone calls in which they mouth numbingly rote sentiments. He has long since stopped seeking their approval. In truth, except for some ambiguous guilt after their phone calls, he feels virtually nothing toward them. Charles often wonders where his talent comes from, secretly believing that it’s a greater gift for having sprung full blown from such barren soil.
    Anne stirs beside him and he gets a gentle gust of her bath soap, crisp and citrusy. He hates her. He hates his parents. He even hates Nina, almost. Why hadn’t she pushed him harder on
Capitol Offense
? She loved the idea originally. He can tell she isn’t wild about the book; oh, she’s steadfast and true, but he can tell. Charles’s rage is making his temples throb. And then, like a bolt, he knows—knows what he has to do, where he has to go.
    Charles gets out of bed and quietly slips into jeans and a T-shirt. He walks into the living room, picks up the phone, and calls his garage. “This is Charles Davis. I’ll be picking up my car in ten minutes.”

7
    Anne lies still as Charles gets out of bed and leaves the room. The clock on her night table reads 4:36 A.M. Minutes pass and then she hears the front door close—no doubt he’s off on one of his brooding nocturnal walks. Now she’s alone in the apartment. Good. Yes, he’s a great writer, yes, she has to make allowances, but that scene he threw at the Rainbow Room was infantile; they’re going to be the laughingstock of Manhattan for the next month. She’s fighting tooth and nail to hold her company together and he throws her a curve like that. Everything is always Charles! Anne tosses off the covers and walks down the long hallway into the living room. She opens the cabinet and clicks on the television, channel-surfing until she finds an infomercial for a line of skin-care products. The pitchwoman is a pretty young blonde who’s got to be on speed; she’s talking so fast she’s almost slurring her words. Anne finds the mindless diversion comforting.
    “All you pregnant women out there? Are you breaking out?When I got pregnant with Amber, oh-my-God, I had the worst breakout of my life.”
    Anne clicks off the television and lies down on the couch. She grabs a pillow and hugs it to her. The city is so quiet it’s frightening. Try as she might to calm her mind, the memory keeps bubbling up like a toxic spring.…
    It was the third week of August and New York was limping into its late summer wilt. Anne had just gotten off the plane from Savannah, the last leg of a southern buying trip in search of interesting folk art. Outside Savannah she had discovered a family living beside a tidal flat who made these extraordinary cloth dolls with hand-painted eyes, whimsical and a little spooky. Perfect. But the rest of the trip had been a bust and Anne was exhausted when she climbed into the taxi at La Guardia. She rested her head on the back of the seat and closed her eyes as the driver made his way out of the airport.
    Her cell phone rang. Anne debated whether or not to answer it and decided she had to.
    “Yes?”
    “Anne, it’s John Farnsworth.”
    Farnsworth was the seventy-two-year-old financier and venture capitalist who had provided the start-up money for
Home
. He was from one of New England’s oldest and wealthiest families; he and his wife, Marnie, longtime acquaintances of Anne’s mother and stepfather, were high-profile philanthropists, pillars of Boston