The Mentor Read Online Free PDF Page B

society.
    “John, terrific to hear your voice. How are you?”
    “Brutally hot up here in Cambridge.”
    “You’re not in Maine?”
    “Marnie’s not well.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “Listen, Anne, I just got off the phone with Ted Weiss.”
    Anne tensed. Ted was her chief financial officer. “I know, John, we lost money last quarter. But wasn’t that projected?”
    “It was. But not to this extent.”
    “Sales are incredible, it’s costs that are killing us, but we’re getting them down. I think it would be insane to compromise our standards; in the end they’re what sets us apart.”
    “Anne, companies that don’t make money can’t stay in business.”
    “What are you saying?”
    “I’m saying that I’ve got five million dollars invested in you, and now Ted Weiss tells me you need three million more. There comes a time when one has to cut one’s losses.”
    “John, please,
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wasn’t expected to turn a profit until next spring. We’re a little behind where we want to be, but we’re establishing a name for ourselves. So many exciting things are happening. Let me put together a presentation and I’ll fly up tomorrow.”
    “Anne, you’re a very talented and attractive woman and I’m always happy to see you, but I don’t think this is going to work out.”
    Anne punched mute.
    “Driver, turn around. Take me back to the airport.”
    It was Anne’s first visit to Cambridge’s Brattle Street neighborhood and she was dazzled. Enormous old mansions shaded by ancient trees lined the quiet streets, lawns stretched away to shaded dells, graceful fountains gurgled. There was a sense of order and security, of old wealth discreetly multiplying. Nothing evil would ever happen on these beautiful buffering streets.
    On the plane Anne had spent twenty minutes meditating and then changed into a white linen shirt dress that hugged her derriere. She’d noticed John Farnsworth admiring her body on more than one occasion. She had the cabby stop at an antiquarian book storeat the foot of Beacon Hill, where she bought a beautiful nineteenth-century edition of
Alice in Wonderland
. It set her back six hundred dollars, but she hoped it would turn out to be a wise investment. She knew the next hour could make or break her company, her dream.
    The taxi turned into a circular driveway. The Farnsworth house was an immense stone Gothic surrounded by exquisite lawns and gardens. Anne got out of the cab. The air was heavy and fragrant. She closed her eyes, took two deep breaths, and rang the bell. The door was answered by a thin gray-haired woman in a uniform and crepe-sole shoes.
    The front hall was the size of a small ballroom with dual parlors opening off it. Wood gleamed and glass sparkled; carpets cushioned and silk glistened. A Degas hung over a distant fireplace. The whole house was hushed as if in deference to the ailing Mrs. Farnsworth.
    As the maid led her through a series of rooms, Anne thought: Do Americans still live like this? They came to a vaulted circular library with high stacks reached by a rolling staircase—a room that had awed Anne in
Architectural Digest
. The maid knocked gently on curved oak pocket doors.
    “Yes?”
    The maid slid one door open and then disappeared.
    “Anne, come in.”
    John Farnsworth’s inner sanctum was dominated by an enormous desk, a model schooner on a library table, and a painting of a black Labrador retriever over the mantel. The room smelled faintly of wood polish.
    John sat behind the desk, his large head sporting a ring of white hair, jowls, and a ruddy spray of broken blood vessels. In a Wal-Mart he’d probably be taken for a retired pipe fitter who drank too much, but sitting there in his hunter-green blazer and tie, his flinty eyes flashing, his chin held at just the right angle, he oozed old-money confidence. He stood and shook Anne’s hand.
    “Welcome.”
    “The house is beautiful. I’m afraid
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can’t compete.” The last thing she’d want