He strode again to the windows to stare out, his
back straight. "They can't ignore my invitations, not
; when they responded," he mumbled to himself. I couldn't understand how his business friends
could dare to offend him when he had to be their most
important client, and everyone loved a party, especially the kind of party they had to know would be
sensational.
Somehow or other, Bart was accomplishing
miracles with that five hundred thousand a year,
making it grow in ways that Chris would have found
too risky. Bart risked everything . . . calculated
gambles that paid off handsomely. Only then did I
realize that perhaps my mother had meant it to be this
way. If she had given Bart all the fortune in one grand
huge sum, he wouldn't have worked as hard to build
his own fortune, which would, if he kept it up, far
exceed what Malcolm had left him And in this way
Bart would find his own worth.
Yet what did money matter when he was so
disappointed he couldn't eat a thing that was lavishly
displayed? However, disillusionment drove him to the liquor, and in a short while he'd managed to swallow half a dozen strong drinks as he paced the floors,
growing angrier by the second.
I could hardly bear to watch his
disappointment, and soon, despite myself, tears were
silently wetting my face.
Chris whispered, "We can't go to bed and leave
him here alone. Cathy, he's suffering. Look at him
pacing back and forth. With every step he takes his
anger grows. Somebody is going to pay for this
slight."