Crazy for Cornelia Read Online Free Page A
Author: Chris Gilson
lifelong allegiance to Chester Lord.
But Tucker fired most of them anyway. He replaced them with his own people, young zealots with laptops who looked sixteen
years old to Chester and leapt at Tucker’s orders.
Then Tucker forged a bold and profitable alliance between Lord & Company and Koi Industries of Hong Kong. Chester recoiled
from the Kois, father and son. They were no better than modern-day pirates. The Kois would somehow get ahold of plans for
competitive products, probably by industrial spying, and quickly build cheaper knockoffs. The Koi sedan they called the Panda
looked like a toy Honda. The Koi computer blatantly violated Compaq and Intel patents. Still, Tucker’s partnership with the
Kois coined money for Lord & Company. Secure in his role as president and chief executive officer, Chester practically sweated
gratitude. He couldn’t even complain when Tucker pressed him to move the firm from its fine old quarters on Wall Street to
the garish Koi Tower on Madison Avenue.
Chester stopped to stare at his dad’s shrunken image. He wondered what the old man would think of the brassy new Koi Tower.
By the time his right loafer left the staircase and landed on the marble floor, Chester passed the only life-sized paintings,
of Elizabeth and Cornelia. His daughter’s smirk mocked him.
How could he meet people today, after Cornelia’s latest humiliating appearance in the tabloids? His upper body slumped again.
Then he rasped to himself,
Good God, pull yourself together
. Whatever happened to the code of his class, “Never complain, never explain,” immortalized by one of the Fords when police
stopped him for drunken driving.
Chester squared his shoulders. Duty compelled him to greet his guests with head held high, despite the damnable article about
Cornelia. He crossed the black and white tiles of the smart foyer andheaded for the living room. The family co-op consisted of twelve rooms, fashionably crammed with the plunder of centuries.
A sweeping hundred-foot penthouse terrace, relandscaped each season, dwarfed the tallest trees of Central Park and the spired
gothic sky-scrapers of the West Side.
By all rights, Chester should feel like Captain Zeus on the bridge of a mighty Olympian ship. His view of Central Park and
the West Side was unbroken to the Hudson River and the Palisade cliffs of New Jersey. Instead, he longed to hide anywhere,
even in one of his bathrooms.
He felt his heart skipping wildly. But it was only anxiety, not a deadly heart attack. He felt like a man held together by
Brooks Brothers and Scotch tape. Perhaps he’d be better off with a massive coronary like Dad. At least it would all be over
soon, and he’d have quiet and tranquility, a nice long nap. He took a deep breath, wiped his palms on his pants.
So what if he didn’t show up for the board meeting? They would reject all the applicants anyway. If tomorrow he pulled the
covers over his head and stayed home from Lord & Company, Tucker Fisk would run the business without him. What difference
did Chester make to anyone? With all his means, his influence, he couldn’t even help his own daughter.
When Chester passed the bathroom and saw his slumping frame in the mirror, he seized up in fright. He quickly pulled himself
up straight and pressed on.
Promptly at 3:00 P.M. , late enough to justify cocktails but early enough so they wouldn’t doze off, the members of the 840 Fifth Avenue co-op board
gathered in the Lords’ sitting room. They consisted of four WASP males and a German Jewish widow—375 years of experience snipping
coupon bonds with Tiffany scissors.
The board members perched on fussy eighteenth-century chairs designed for people who wore powdered wigs and complained of
gout. Chester nodded to his Scottish butler, O’Connell, a sturdy, inscrutable presence. O’Connell still wore a plaid kilt
and long socks under his jacket and tie, and still rolled his r’s in a thick
But Tucker fired most of them anyway. He replaced them with his own people, young zealots with laptops who looked sixteen
years old to Chester and leapt at Tucker’s orders.
Then Tucker forged a bold and profitable alliance between Lord & Company and Koi Industries of Hong Kong. Chester recoiled
from the Kois, father and son. They were no better than modern-day pirates. The Kois would somehow get ahold of plans for
competitive products, probably by industrial spying, and quickly build cheaper knockoffs. The Koi sedan they called the Panda
looked like a toy Honda. The Koi computer blatantly violated Compaq and Intel patents. Still, Tucker’s partnership with the
Kois coined money for Lord & Company. Secure in his role as president and chief executive officer, Chester practically sweated
gratitude. He couldn’t even complain when Tucker pressed him to move the firm from its fine old quarters on Wall Street to
the garish Koi Tower on Madison Avenue.
Chester stopped to stare at his dad’s shrunken image. He wondered what the old man would think of the brassy new Koi Tower.
By the time his right loafer left the staircase and landed on the marble floor, Chester passed the only life-sized paintings,
of Elizabeth and Cornelia. His daughter’s smirk mocked him.
How could he meet people today, after Cornelia’s latest humiliating appearance in the tabloids? His upper body slumped again.
Then he rasped to himself,
Good God, pull yourself together
. Whatever happened to the code of his class, “Never complain, never explain,” immortalized by one of the Fords when police
stopped him for drunken driving.
Chester squared his shoulders. Duty compelled him to greet his guests with head held high, despite the damnable article about
Cornelia. He crossed the black and white tiles of the smart foyer andheaded for the living room. The family co-op consisted of twelve rooms, fashionably crammed with the plunder of centuries.
A sweeping hundred-foot penthouse terrace, relandscaped each season, dwarfed the tallest trees of Central Park and the spired
gothic sky-scrapers of the West Side.
By all rights, Chester should feel like Captain Zeus on the bridge of a mighty Olympian ship. His view of Central Park and
the West Side was unbroken to the Hudson River and the Palisade cliffs of New Jersey. Instead, he longed to hide anywhere,
even in one of his bathrooms.
He felt his heart skipping wildly. But it was only anxiety, not a deadly heart attack. He felt like a man held together by
Brooks Brothers and Scotch tape. Perhaps he’d be better off with a massive coronary like Dad. At least it would all be over
soon, and he’d have quiet and tranquility, a nice long nap. He took a deep breath, wiped his palms on his pants.
So what if he didn’t show up for the board meeting? They would reject all the applicants anyway. If tomorrow he pulled the
covers over his head and stayed home from Lord & Company, Tucker Fisk would run the business without him. What difference
did Chester make to anyone? With all his means, his influence, he couldn’t even help his own daughter.
When Chester passed the bathroom and saw his slumping frame in the mirror, he seized up in fright. He quickly pulled himself
up straight and pressed on.
Promptly at 3:00 P.M. , late enough to justify cocktails but early enough so they wouldn’t doze off, the members of the 840 Fifth Avenue co-op board
gathered in the Lords’ sitting room. They consisted of four WASP males and a German Jewish widow—375 years of experience snipping
coupon bonds with Tiffany scissors.
The board members perched on fussy eighteenth-century chairs designed for people who wore powdered wigs and complained of
gout. Chester nodded to his Scottish butler, O’Connell, a sturdy, inscrutable presence. O’Connell still wore a plaid kilt
and long socks under his jacket and tie, and still rolled his r’s in a thick
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