Burn

At eight thirty, she was watching the clock as she flipped through the phone book’s advertising pages. There was nothing under "money handlers," which was frustrating, because how the hell else would it be listed? Maybe there was something under "banks." What she learned was that there were a lot of banks in the Chicago area, and most of them advertised themselves as "full service" banks. What was that? Maybe they pumped gas for your car and checked the oil. Banks cashed checks, right? What else was there? Unfortunately, the ads didn’t say what those services were, so she was still in the dark.

She slammed the phone book shut and angrily paced the kitchen. She hated feeling ignorant, hated that she couldn’t look up what she wanted in the yellow pages, because she didn’t know how things were listed. But she’d never had a bank account, mostly because she never had much money and a bank account seemed stupid. She paid her bills either in cash, or by money order. That wasn’t the wrong way to do things, was it? Lots of people handled their bills that way – most of the people she knew, in fact.

Already she was running into that wall she’d sensed – the wall between the life she knew and the life all that money would automatically bring with it. Other people had managed, and she would, too. She could figure things out.

Opening the phone book again, she looked up one of those full-service banks, checked that the clock had ticked past nine, and dialed the number. When a woman answered in a modulated, professionally friendly tone, Jenner said, "I saw your ad in the phone book. Exactly what does ‘full service’ mean?"

"It means we offer financial planning and investment services, as well as financing for home, autos, boats, unsecured personal loans, and a variety of checking and savings plans that can be tailored to your needs," the woman said promptly.

"Thank you." Jenner disconnected, having found out what she needed to know. Financial planning. She should have thought of that. She heard the term on television all the time. The financial markets were always doing something, going up, going down, spinning in circles and evidently doing everything except kissing its own ass.

Lesson number one: What she thought of as "money," people with a lot of money thought of as "finance."

Going back to the advertising pages, she looked up "Financial Planners." There were a number of listings, including some she’d seen in commercials. There was also several subcategories, for mutual funds, stocks and bonds, investment and brokerage firms.

She read the listings under "Financial Planning Consultants" three times, then chose Payne Echols Financial Services. Their ad was more than a simple listing, but less than a full page, which she figured made them established but not the biggest firm in town. The big boys might secretly make fun of her, or, worse, take advantage of her. A midsize firm would be more likely to count its blessings, and treat her better.

Choosing a firm was just one decision, but that one small step made her feel better. She was in control of this. She didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do. If she didn’t like the people at Payne Echols, she’d choose another investment firm.

She blew out a small breath and dialed the number. On the second ring, another of those professionally modulated voices said, "Payne Echols Financial Services. How may I direct your call?"

"I don’t know. I want to make an appointment with someone, as soon as possible."

The woman paused briefly. "May I ask what sort of services you require? Then I’ll know which of our financial planners have the proper expertise."

"Ah …" Jenner thought quickly, wary of blurting out the truth. "I’ve received an inheritance, about fifty thousand, and I want to invest it." She plucked the number out of midair, but it seemed like a good number, big enough to need advice but not big enough to attract attention.

"Hold, please," the woman said, returning to her smooth tone. "I’ll connect you."

"Wait! Who are you connecting me to?"

"Ms. Smith’s assistant. She’ll book your appointment."

There was a half-second of dead air, then some generic tinny music began assaulting her eardrums. What were they trying to do, bore her into hanging up? Why didn’t companies play lively music, something interesting?

She waited a few minutes, trying her best to ignore the awful music. How long did it take to switch a call? She tapped one toe, growing vaguely annoyed. Just as she was beginning to think about hanging up, there was a faint click and another smooth female voice said, "Ms. Smith’s office, how may I help you?"

She was getting tired of all these impersonal, perfect voices. Would these people be fired if they ever revealed anything as mundane as interest? "My name is Jenner Redwine. I’d like to make an appointment with Ms. Smith."

"Certainly, Ms. Redwine. When would you like to come in?"

"As soon as possible. Now."

"Now? Well … Ms. Smith does have an opening in forty-five minutes. Would it be possible for you to be here by then?"

"I’ll be there."

Jenner hung up, then securely tucked the lottery ticket and scrap of newspaper in her wallet, dropped the wallet back in her denim purse, then went outside and unlocked the Goose. The driver’s door stuck, as usual, and she swore under her breath. Forty-five minutes wasn’t very long, in Chicago traffic, and she didn’t have time to wrestle with the door. Gripping the handle, she gave it one more tug and the door flew open, almost knocking her butt on the ground.

"The first thing I do," she muttered, "is get a new car." It didn’t have to be a fancy car, just something new, without a single ding, and with nonsticking doors. And after that … she didn’t know. She couldn’t think much about "after that." One step at a time, and the first step was getting the money organized and settled.