The Light of Hidden Flowers Read Online Free

shaking his head. “You remember him, right, Missy? When you were little, we went boating with him and his daughter. Now there’s a guy who’s enjoying his retirement—a guy and his boat. Good times. Good guy, the Murph.”
    “As I was saying, this is just an interview,” Mr. Longworth continued. “We plan to meet with each firm once, and then select two or three for a second round of proposals.”
    My father stood up, smiling widely. “Good for you. I wish you all the best.” Dad extended his hand. “Liz, it was a pleasure meeting you. Take the time you need to grieve your mother. I know from experience that you can’t rush the process. Remember the good times.” Dad reached for her hand and cupped it between his. Mrs. Longworth shuddered as though she might cry.
    “Thank you,” she whispered.
    Mr. Longworth, puzzled and confused, held up his piece of paper. “I’m not finished. I have a list of questions. We haven’t even talked about your qualifications. I haven’t seen your materials. Compared your returns.”
    My father, the towering, friendly Superman. “Charles, my buddy, I’ve been doing this for forty years. My clients are my friends. I would do anything, anytime, for any of them. The other day, a widow client of mine called me because she had a flat tire. I got on the horn and got her fixed up. This business isn’t rocket science. It’s about caring . It’s about trust . You either trust me, or you don’t. If you’re a guy looking to compare returns, then we’re not your firm. Sometimes the market will go up; sometimes it will go down. I can’t predict the weather, but I can react to it.
    “Missy here, sometimes she predicts the weather,” Dad chuckled. “She’s that good.” Dad never missed an opportunity to throw me a compliment. My heart gonged with pleasure.
    “What matters,” Dad said, “is that my clients are living the lives they want to live. With all due respect, Charles, I don’t do interviews. I wish you all the best.”
    Mrs. Longworth issued a little squeal, an indication she didn’t want to let my father go. A hint, I thought, that she wanted my father to rub off on her husband.
    “That’s it?” Mr. Longworth said, his mouth setting into a thin line, gathering papers into his leather portfolio. “You’re saying I should take your firm off my list? Remove it from consideration?”
    “If you want to talk about goals, give me a call. Your goal is your life raft. The farther you get away from it, the more likely you are to drown. Until you know what your goals are, I can’t help you.”
    “I’m confused,” he said. “You’re saying you don’t want my business?”
    “I’m saying that the fit might not be right.”
    With that, my father left the room and returned to his office, clicked on his Frank Sinatra, and hummed along while he shuffled papers.
    I prepared to see them out. “It was nice meeting you,” I said. “Let me give you our firm brochure.”
    Ruffled, bewildered, and dismayed, Mr. and Mrs. Longworth stood and straightened their designer suits. Jenny showed them to the door.
    As I watched them walk away, I wondered whether Mr. and Mrs. Longworth had ever been refused service in their lives. I wondered what their conversation would be like as they drove down King Street, whether Mrs. Longworth would need to fluff Mr. Longworth’s ego, whether my father had inflicted a bruise that would change colors for days.

    I walked down the hallway and poked my head into Dad’s office. “That was a lot of money you let walk out the door.”
    Dad leaned back, crossed his shiny wing tips across the corner of his desk. “I’m seventy years old. With every new person we take on, I need to ask myself: Would I be happy to hear they were coming in for a meeting? At this point in the game, it’s like dating. I need to be sure before I jump into a relationship.”
    I slid into Dad’s office and closed the door. “True, but you were a little harsh with