The Light of Hidden Flowers by Jennifer Handford Read Free Book Online Page A

school sweetheart. She was so sweet, so cute, and so damn smart. I’d never met anyone as smart as she was. I loved her and her dad. Missy never posts on Facebook, but she “likes” everything I post. That is so like her, to care for everyone else, but never one to get out in front.
    Missy had been on my mind all day. It was her birthday—not that I needed an excuse for her to be on my mind. I sent her a happy birthday wish, just a generic “have a nice day.” But if there were no rules, if there was no social etiquette I’d violate by doing anything more than wishing my high school girlfriend a happy birthday, if it didn’t matter that I was a married—now separated—guy, if it was acceptable for me to lay it all on the line, I would have posted the memory of my eighteenth birthday.
    We went to dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. Missy got me a collector’s edition Mets baseball and a teddy bear wearing a T-shirt that said “Missy loves Joe forever.” She told me she had it made at the T-shirt shop. After dinner, we walked through the mall. We took a strip of pictures in the photo booth kiosk. I still have that tattered strip in the middle of my yearbook.
    That’s what I would have liked to say: “Hey, Miss—remember my eighteenth birthday? That was a great night.”
    And then I’d ask her if she was single, and if she ever thought of me, and if she’d like to re-create my eighteenth birthday as much as I would.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    The next week, the Longworths were back in our conference room. Mr. Longworth held a giant stack of documents, per our request. Our sheet labeled “List of Documents for a Financial Plan” sat neatly on top. That was our standard operating procedure. The first step was for new clients to collect their documents, the pile of paper that captured their financial life. Dad likened himself to a doctor: “If you’re sick, you don’t go to the doctor and give him half the information, and then go to another doctor and give him the other half. How could he treat you? I’m the same way: I can’t make a diagnosis unless I have all of the information.”
    Dad wore a conciliatory expression today. As if he felt sorry for the stress he had caused by suggesting they might not be a good fit, Dad now worked extra hard to demonstrate his pleasure in seeing them again. He wanted his new clients to know that they were on the same side.
    “I gathered everything you asked for,” Mr. Longworth said cautiously, sliding the mountain of papers in our direction. “Tax returns, net worth statements, investment summaries, estate planning documents, retirement reports . . .”
    “Thank you,” I said, accepting the pile of papers. This stack alone would keep me busy for the next few days. I would pick through each document, input numbers and values into my software programs. I’d calculate and run scenarios. I’d assign projected returns, and then I’d spend a day or so reading through their legal documents, confirming that all bases were covered: revocable trusts, wills, medical directives, powers of attorney. I’d verify that their irrevocable trusts were funded properly, that gifts made to fund the insurance policies were “arm’s length,” that no impropriety could be detected by the IRS. Then I’d start in on my PowerPoint of recommendations.
    And Mrs. Longworth brought her own stack of work, also gathered at our request: photo albums and a yellow pad with the title “Goals” etched in pencil at the top center. She opened the album. “These are our granddaughters—Loralie is six, and plays soccer. Emma is ten and is a real theater bug. I’d really like to be closer to them. They’re in North Carolina. We have a condo there.” Mrs. Longfellow turned the page and showed us a picture of their lovely waterfront home. From their veranda they could watch the pelicans slice through the horizon, and the sun plunge into the infinite sea.
    “And I serve on the board of the One by One,” she