The Marriage List by Jean Joachim Read Free Book Online

blasting, people sitting on stoops,
playing cards, boom boxes blasting. They drove past block after
block of three and four story brownstones, some colorful, some red
brick and some the traditional brown.
    Grey found a parking space in front of
Firenze a small Italian restaurant. He opened the door for Carrie
and escorted her inside.
    There were a dozen tables squeezed into the
tiny restaurant. The walls were dark green and each table sported a
Chianti bottle with a candle burning in it. They were early and the
place was almost empty. Carrie ordered the ravioli and Grey had the
chicken parmigiana with spaghetti.
    "How was work today?" Grey asked, cutting off
a piece of chicken.
    "We're working on three new approaches for
this one client. Sometimes I get confused because I'm working on
too many different things at the same time. You worked today too,
right?"
    The ravioli seemed to melt in Carrie's mouth;
she had never tasted pasta so good.
    "Susan and Max like to run their research by
me before they present it to John. John was my boss. When he
retired he decided to start this business and he brought me along.
Of course I had to kick in equal start-up money, but that wasn't a
problem."
    "How did you make all your money?" Carrie
blurted out, then blushed at the boldness of her question.
    Grey looked at her and laughed.
    "I'm so sorry. That was rude of me. Please,
forget I asked."
    "It's okay. I bought townhouses to start
with."
    "Townhouses?"
    "To save money I used to take my dates on
lots of interesting walks. We'd walk up to Harlem and back. I
noticed gentrification was beginning to move North, so I looked
into buying a few townhouses, refurbishing them and selling them at
healthy profits." Grey took a sip of his red wine.
    "Pretty smart," Carrie said, cutting another
piece of ravioli in half with her fork.
    "Guess so. I also bought one for myself and
kept it."
    "You live in a townhouse?" she asked, her
eyes wide.
    "Uptown. It isn't big, but it has enough
space for me…and for…the future," he said, coughing, "I made a ton
of money that way and then I invested it in carefully researched
companies…companies I was watching for my clients. I made about
twenty percent each year."
    "Someday, if I become a creative director,
will you invest my money for me?"
    He chuckled. "How about I teach you how to
invest and you can do it yourself?"
    "I like that idea. So tell me about your
house," she said, smiling as she wiped her lips with the
napkin.
    "It's orange brick with white trim, only
three stories with a basement and a garage. That was important.
It's about thirty blocks north of your place, near Manhattan
Avenue. I'll drive by when I take you home."
    "Wonderful! I'd love to see it. I can't
imagine, three stories! It must be heaven."
    "It's comfortable, though I only live on the
first floor. Haven't figure out what to do with the rest yet."
    Grey turned his wrist to look at his new iPod
watch.
    "Almost the witching hour. Have to get a rain
check from you on pastries for dessert."
    I have a completely different kind of
dessert in mind for you the next time we meet. She eyed his
torso hungrily wondering what he looked like underneath his
corporate veneer then nodded and smiled at him.
    Grey drove her back to her office fifteen
minutes before she was due. They sat in the car smooching like a
couple of teenagers until she had to go in.
    "I had a wonderful time today."
    "It helps when the Yankees win," he said,
playing with the car keys.
    "Oh, did they win? I didn't notice," she
teased.
    "What?"
    "I'm kidding. My wonderful day had all to do
with you, silly," Carrie explained, opening the car door.
    "I'll call you tomorrow," he said, when she
closed the door.
    "Good night."
    "Good night, honey," he said, raising his
hand.
    Grey put the car in gear and roared away from
the curb.

Chapter Seven
     
    On Sunday, Carrie slept late, recovering from
her six-day work week. At eleven o'clock, the phone rang.
    "Good morning," came the smooth,