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He had twenty-four million dollars sitting in diversified commercial portfolios, municipal bonds, and liquid treasury reserves across three national banking institutions. He owned five hundred acres of prime commercial real estate between Philadelphia and Harrisburg. He owned an eight-thousand-square-foot fieldstone manor house in Lititz with five working fireplaces, radiant floor heating, and a sub-zero wine cellar containing bottles that cost more than this woman’s entire annual wardrobe.
And yet, sitting forty feet away from him, an eight-year-old child was dividing a four-dollar stack of buttermilk batter as though it were the last sacrament on earth, while her mother swallowed air to keep from fainting.
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The waitress—a tired woman named Brenda with two silver pens tucked into her white apron—walked past Arthur’s booth with a glass pot of decaf. She glanced down at his untouched steak, her brow furrowing with mild concern.
“Everything alright with the cut, sir? I can have the cook fire another one if it’s too tough.”
