Page 3 of Hide and Keep

“Mr. Munreaux, how are you this evening?”

“Uh, good. You?”

I cringe. My father would never ask anybody that.

A tight chuckle drifts through the speaker. “I’m doing all right. Mr. Munreaux, I apologize for the inconvenience, but I must ask, what’s the password?”

I mouth “Milan” to the driver and he repeats it out loud.

“Fantastic. Speaking of Milan, aren’t you getting ready to head there soon?”

My head almost nods off my neck. Milan is where they hold the largest motorcycle exhibition every November. Of course the founder of Munreaux Motorcycles will be there.

“Uh-huh.”

“Got any fun surprises up your sleeve this year?”

I mime twisting a key between my lips.

Following my lead, the driver says, “I guess you’ll have to tune in to find out.”

Another chuckle, this one easier.

“Fair enough. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, can I get your approval for transferring three hundred thousand dollars out of your money market account?”

“I approve.”

I take the phone off speaker to ask, “Is that all you need from him? He’s running out the door.”

“Yes. Thank you for your patience.”

Turning my face away from the phone, I yell, “Bye, Father!” adding to the confusion of the driver.

“What account would you like the money transferred to?”

“High-yield checking.”

“You got it.” There’s some typing. “Okay, three hundred thousand has been—”

“Oh crap! Actually, it was supposed to go into the high-yield savings account.”

“Not a problem, Miss Munreaux. Bear with me just a moment.” More typing. “Three hundred thousand dollars from the high-yield checking into high-yield savings. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Umm… Maybe? I’m kind of confused now. I can’t remember if he did want it in high-yield savings or if I’m just getting confused by the names.”

“Checking. That’s where checks come out of,” the driver whispers, reminding me what I said this money was for.

“Would you like to call and ask him, then call me back?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just buzz him on the intercom. He’s probably still in the garage, deciding which car to take.” After putting the advisor on “hold” for thirty seconds, I get back on and say with faux embarrassment, “Okay, so…apparently, I did confuse myself. I had it right the first time. It’s supposed to go in high-yield checking.”

After a brief pause, he says, “All right, that’s all finished. Three hundred thousand dollars have been deposited into the high-yield checking account. Now, because of your father’s preferences for getting alerted anytime there’s a withdrawal from an account, he will be receiving three separate texts. Please let him know not to be alarmed, they’re just in reference to the transfers done tonight between different accounts.”

I let myself smile as I say, “I will,” before hanging up. I may have only shuffled three hundred thousand dollars around, but my father will think I withdrew nine hundred thousand and that will ruin his night. Just like he ruined mine.

The rest of the wait is so full of questions about my father and our garage, specifically how many motorcycles it must contain, that by the time we reach the front of the line, I’m dying for fresh air. It’s always the same once people realize who I am. All they want to talk about is my father and his company. It’s never about me. I’m only a bridge to Arthur Munreaux, not my own destination.

After adding a three-hundred-dollar tip to the electronic payment, I thank the driver again and get out.

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