His smile is more yacht party than business meeting as he greets me with a loose handshake, the mild crinkling around his blue eyes the only evidence of his age. My senior by at least a few years, the way he runs his fingers through his sandy hair reminds me of a self-conscious boy.
We talk business—he’s in charge after all—but the conversation quickly drifts to his children’s prep school and his own days at Deerfield. They just put a new roof on the family house on Nantucket.
When I bring the subject back to the matter at hand he reclines in his chair. He’s clearly comfortable in his blue blazer. His shirt is unbuttoned at the neck.
He seems preoccupied for a moment and says, “I’ll have Ann draw up the papers. Let’s get some lunch.”
I realize then that he had intended to agree all along.
