Fiduciary Duty Read Online Free Page B

perhaps not even the phone. After I got out, the cabbie remained parked at the curb. He seemed to be writing something on a clipboard. I had no choice, so I walked into the establishment. It was early in the day, too early for the ladies of the evening to be at work. However, a well dressed older woman was seated at a table, apparently doing books. She looked up and asked if she could help me.
    “Do you serve feijoada?” I asked in English, “The cab driver said you have best feijoada in town.”
    Feijoada, made with black beans and pork products and served with a delicious toasted manioc flour called farofa, is Brazil’s national dish. Clearly, this tourist was in the wrong place. The madam didn’t miss a beat and replied in perfect English, “You are mistaken. Feijoada is only to be eaten on Friday or Saturday nights.”
    I sighed audibly. Then I asked to see a menu.
    “I am sorry, sir. We will not be open for lunch today,” she said.
    “Oh,” I replied, “That’s too bad. I’ll be back Friday evening for the feijoada.”
    She looked amused at the statement but let it go uncorrected. When I stepped back outside into the sunlight, the cab I had arrived in was gone. As I walked, I put my wedding ring back on. I was glad to be me again, but it brought back, unbidden, the reason I was on this quest, so far from H and Jeremy.
    I walked for a bit. Eventually I hailed another cab which took me back to the Marriot, and from there I walked to my car.
    Once on the open road outside the city, there are several ways to get to Ternos. Neither the little Fiat nor I were in any hurry, so we took the scenic route – through the mountains to the Port of Santos, where Pelé, the King of Soccer had grown up and gotten his start. In Santos, I bought a second hand surfboard in Brazil’s national colors, yellow and green. From there, Ternos was straight up the coast for about 3 hours. I drove right through Ternos, and kept driving for another thirty miles, stopping at the delightfully named town of Ubatuba, pronounced “Ooba Tooba” in English. Ubatuba is nicknamed the Brazilian Surf Capital, which provided me with some protective coloration for being there.
    The hotel where I had made reservations in my own name was two blocks from the beach. I checked in, unpacked, and came downstairs. In the small lobby, I had the concierge make reservations for me to take surfing lessons the next morning. I made sure to speak English with everyone. I didn’t want anyone in Ubatuba to remember anything unusual about this particular American tourist.
    Since it was still early afternoon, I went for a walk. I picked up a few maps and a couple of tour books at a newspaper stand. Half a block later, I stopped at small sidewalk café and bought some finger food – fried shrimp and fried clams. I hadn’t felt hungry in months, but all of a sudden I was famished. After almost inhaling the food, I added a steak and fries to my order. The steak was a poor cut, and unevenly fried, but it tasted heavenly to me. The fries, which sopped up the steak juice, were even better.
    While I ate, I realized I was more than hungry, I was elated. For the first time in a long while, I was alive, and I had purpose. The dark cloud in which I had lived since H and Jeremy had died had cleared significantly while I was focused on my mission.
    I settled my bill and started walking back to the hotel. Along the way, it started to pour and I sprinted back the rest of the way. I arrived drenched.
    The concierge grinned, and said, “You start your lesson of surf early, Mr. Reynolds.” He pronounced “surf” as “soorf.”
    I smiled, encouraging him, and he continued, “You know, Ubatuba has more than one, how you say, nickname. Not just surf capital. Also it calls self ‘Ubachuva.’ Chuva means rain.”
    For the rest of the day, I read through the tour books and watched TV. I kept an ear out for the Caipira accents similar to those I used to be able to imitate. I knew