Page 50 of Playoff
I squared my shoulders and held out my hand. “Mr. Garvin. I’m Jessica Johnson. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
His eyes flicked up and down my body as he shook my hand, hanging on for a moment too long. I was glad my suit had a long jacket that covered my ass.
“Ah, thanks. Right. So, about Mom’s investments?”
I waved him to a seat. “I’ve prepared a copy for you of everything your mother invested with us.”
Once he sat down across the table from where I had my stack of papers, I passed over the booklet I’d made. Mrs. Garvin and I met frequently to review how her funds were doing and to assess new ones coming out. She had a healthy portfolio, and was very interested in the products she invested in. She didn’t care only about the cash return, but the impact those companies had on the environment, and whether the firms exploited their resources, including their human ones.
While her son looked through the notes, I reminded myself that he could also have a conscience. I waited. He gave the pages more attention than I’d anticipated.
After scanning the last page, he flipped it closed and leaned back. “These are performing better than I’d expected.”
“Your mother wanted a healthy return on her investment, but she was also concerned about the practices and ethics of companies she put her money into. Every holding in her portfolio was carefully researched beforehand.”
He steepled his hands in front of him. “I’m a bottom-line kind of guy. Show me the money, you know?”
That was how my parents had been, and look what happened to them. I met his gaze and knew this was probably a losing battle, but for Mrs. Garvin I tried.
“Your mother carefully assessed the risks attached to all of her choices. She was aware of investment scams taking advantage of people only interested in a high ROI. It’s a fact that the higher the return promised, the greater the risk. If someone offers you a high return without risk, it’s not legit. She didn’t want to gamble with her money—not irresponsibly.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m not some eighty-year-old losing my marbles who’s gonna give all my money to someone phishing my email. I can assess risk on my own.”
Everyone thought that. And yet the scammers kept prospering. “A lot of people have been caught up in Ponzi schemes. Not just eighty-year-olds with dementia.”
My voice was a little sharp, but my parents weren’t the only ones who had bought into what the Denbrowskis had been selling. It was easy to think you were smarter than everyone else and found something that would beat the market. Very few could manage that over a long period of time.
He slapped my booklet. “Well, as soon as probate finishes, I’ll be changing some of these. I want moneymakers, not charity projects.”
I clenched my jaw. None of the funds in that folder were charities. Mrs. Garvin had more than doubled what her husband left her when she was widowed. “We can certainly help you with that when that time comes.”
“And you can’t change it up right now?”
“Sorry, no.”
“So, does your whole firm do these feel-good kinds of investments? Or have you got some that are more lucrative?”
My lips narrowed. If he thought these were low earners, then his expectations were high. There were advisors here who would happily recommend riskier products. Not me. Not with my family’s history. I was one of the most conservative advisors in the office. I had a lot of older clients who appreciated that, but I did get pressured to pitch riskier offerings. Losing the Garvin portfolio to another advisor wouldn’t look good, but better that than losing the file altogether.
Mr. Garvin and I were not going to be able to work together.
“When the estate is settled, why don’t I let you speak to another advisor who might work better with your needs?” After all, Mr. Garvin was younger. He wasn’t as focused on security as his mother, and that was his choice.
He rocked his chair as he considered. “All right, I’ll give your guy a try. But I expect someone who’s going to work for this, right?”
My hands in my lap fisted. The person I’d been considering passing him to was a woman, ten years older than us, so she wasn’t “my guy.” And the insinuation that I’d been lazy? He had no idea how much work I’d invested in that portfolio that he intended to blow up. Finding solid, ethical products that also gave a good return without involving unacceptable risks? Was a lot harder than looking for simple return ratios.
I forced a smile. “Let us know when it’s time.”
I stood, encouraging him to go. Some people, the hard workers he was looking for, might try to change his mind or start pitching products more in line with what he wanted right now. And normally I’d do at least some of that. But Mr. Garvin and I would never get along. And after what had happened with our family, I refused to push risky investments. I’d gone into this career to keep people safe from what had happened to us, not make it worse.
Garvin stood, looking surprised, but then nodded his head and left, leaving the document I’d prepared on the desk.
I sighed. My boss wasn’t going to be excited about this result, but hopefully one of the other advisors could bond with Garvin and keep the file in-house. I just couldn’t gamble away all of Mrs. Garvin’s hard work.
I tried not to let that meeting ruin my day, but my mood was definitely not chipper afterward. Later that afternoon, I was informed about another client who’d passed away over the weekend.
I hated Mondays.
