There was more applause. Lara was handed a ceremonial hard hat and a chrome-plated shovel.
“Time to go to work, Miss Cameron.”
The flashbulbs began to pop again.
Lara pushed the shovel into the dirt and dug up the first bit of earth.
At the conclusion of the ceremony, refreshments were served, while the television cameras kept recording the event. When Lara looked around again, Murchison was nowhere in sight.
Thirty minutes later Lara Cameron was back in the limousine headed for the office. Jerry Townsend was seated next to her.
“I thought it went great,” he said. “Just great.”
“Not bad,” Lara grinned. “Thanks, Jerry.”
The executive suites of Cameron Enterprises occupied the entire fiftieth floor of Cameron Center.
Lara got off at the fiftieth floor, and by then the word had gotten around that she was arriving. The secretaries and staff were busily at work.
Lara turned to Jerry Townsend. “Come into my office.”
The office was an enormous corner suite overlooking the city.
Lara glanced at some papers on her desk and looked up at Jerry.
“How’s your father? Is he any better?”
What did she know about his father?
“He’s…he’s not well.”
“I know. He has Huntington’s chorea, hasn’t he, Jerry?”
“Yes.”
It was a terrible disease. It was progressive and degenerative, characterized by spasmodic involuntary movements of the face and extremities, accompanied by the loss of mental faculties.
“How do you know about my father?”
“I’m on the board at the hospital where he’s being treated. I heard some doctors discussing his case.”
Jerry said tightly, “It’s incurable.”
“Everything is incurable until they find the cure,” Lara said. “I did some checking. There’s a doctor in Switzerland who’s doing some advanced research on the disease. He’s willing to take on your father’s case. I’ll handle the expenses.”
Jerry stood there, stunned.
“Okay?”
He found it difficult to speak. “Okay.” I don’t know her, Jerry Townsend thought. Nobody knows her.
History was being made, but Lara was too busy to notice. Ronald Reagan had been re-elected, and a man named Mikhail Gorbachev had succeeded Chernenko as leader of the USSR.
Lara built a low-income housing development in Detroit.
In 1986 Ivan Boesky had been fined a hundred million dollars in an insider trading scandal and sentenced to three years in prison.
Lara started development on condominiums in Queens. Investors were eager to be a part of the magic of her name. A group of German investment bankers flew to New York to meet with Lara. She arranged for the meeting immediately after their plane landed. They had protested, but Lara said, “I’m so sorry, gentlemen. It’s the only time I have. I’m leaving for Hong Kong.”
The Germans were served coffee. Lara had tea. One of the Germans complained about the taste of the coffee. “It’s a special brand made for me,” Lara explained. “The flavor will grow on you. Have another cup.”
By the end of the negotiations Lara had won all her points.
Life was a series of serendipities, except for one disturbing incident. Lara had had several run-ins with Steve Murchison over various properties, and she had always managed to outwit him.
“I think we should back off,” Keller warned.
“Let him back off.”
And one morning a beautiful package wrapped in rose paper arrived from Bendel’s. Kathy laid it on Lara’s desk.
“It’s awfully heavy,” Kathy said. “If it’s a hat, you’re in trouble.”
Curious, Lara unwrapped it and opened the lid. The box was packed with dirt. A printed card inside read: “The Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel.”
The building projects were all going well. When Lara read about a proposed inner-city playground that was stymied because of bureaucratic red tape, she stepped in, had her company build it, and donated it to the city. The publicity she received on it was enormous. One headline read: LARA CAMERON STANDS FOR “CAN DO.”
She was seeing Paul once or twice a week, and she talked to him every day.
Lara bought a house in Southampton and lived in a fantasy world of expensive jewels and furs and limousines. Her closets were filled with beautiful designer clothes. “I need some clothes for school.” “Weel, I’m nae made of money. Get yourself something frae the Salvation Army Citadel.”