Morning sunlight spilled through the lace curtains of Barbara's bedroom, scattering soft patterns across her ivory bedspread. The young heiress sat on the edge of her bed, her silk nightgown trailing against the polished oak floor. She twirled the black coiled cord of the telephone around her finger—hesitating, frowning, then finally sighing as she lifted the receiver.
Outside the tall windows, a few pigeons cooed lazily on the balcony railing, their sounds only deepening the stillness of the room.
Barbara hesitated one more moment before dialing a familiar number—the private line of her aunt, Marjorie Merriweather Post, at her Long Island estate.
"Good morning, Auntie. It's me—Barbara," she said softly, her voice carrying an edge of uncertainty.
The faint clink of porcelain came from the other end, followed by the unhurried, elegant tone of Marjorie's voice.
"Barbara, darling? It's rather early. What is it you need?"
Barbara hesitated, her fingers tightening around the receiver. "Do you remember the Swiss watchmaker who made that enamel pocket watch for you last year? The one in Geneva?"
There was a pause—a brief, assessing silence—before Marjorie's tone turned mildly curious.
"Why do you ask, dear? Planning to commission one for yourself?"
"Oh—no, not for me," Barbara said quickly. "It's for a friend. She wants to buy something special for her brother's birthday—a unique watch."
"A friend?" Marjorie repeated, her voice sharpening slightly. "And who might that be?"
"Mary Cassidy," Barbara replied too fast, then corrected herself, trying to sound casual. "She's the red-haired girl who played the piano so beautifully at my little salon yesterday."
"Cassidy?" The languid tone on the other end suddenly vanished. Marjorie's voice became cool, deliberate. "Would that be any relation to Shane D. Cassidy?"
Barbara blinked in surprise. "Yes… he's her brother. She only said he works in investment—something to do with Wall Street, I think."
There was a faint rustle of newspaper before Marjorie answered, her tone smooth once more. "I see. Nothing to worry about, my dear. I'll have Paul send you the names of a few reputable Swiss watchmakers this afternoon."
"Thank you, Auntie!" Barbara exhaled in relief.
"Do keep up your piano practice," Marjorie replied evenly—and the line went dead with a soft click.
Barbara sat still, staring at the receiver. Something in her aunt's tone had shifted—too abruptly, too cautious. But she brushed the thought aside, convincing herself it was nothing.
...
Sunlight streamed into the grand breakfast room of Marjorie Merriweather Post's estate, illuminating the soft gold tones of the wallpaper and the gleam of silverware. She set her coffee cup down gently, crossed the room, and stopped by her writing desk.
Spread open before her was that morning's New York Times, its financial section bold with headlines. Her eyes fell on a photograph printed across the center page—taken at the top floor of the Morgan Tower.
In the image, the president of J.P. Morgan stood at the head of a long conference table, shaking hands with a tall young man in a dark, perfectly tailored suit. His expression was calm, his bearing dignified, his youth offset by an unmistakable sharpness in his gaze.
The caption read:
"Market Overheating Concerns: Morgan Hosts Closed-Door Session with Emerging Investors."
Below the photo, in fine print:
"Among the attendees: Mr. Shane Cassidy, principal partner of Vanguard Holdings and majority shareholder of Pioneer Optics."
Marjorie's fingers traced the name slowly. She remembered reading about Pioneer Optics, a company rumored to be working with new precision lenses for motion-picture cameras. And "Vanguard Holdings"—yes, that name had been whispered in the financial circles of Fifth Avenue for months now, often with both admiration and apprehension.
She tapped the newspaper lightly, her expression unreadable. "So, that is the brother," she murmured.
The girl from yesterday—Mary Cassidy—had struck her as shy, polite, and gifted. But the brother? A financier, a new player in a city ruled by men like Morgan, Rockefeller, and Vanderbilt.
She pressed the small call button on her desk.
Moments later, her butler appeared at the door.
"Paul," she said calmly, "prepare the catalogues of the Swiss watchmakers—Master Maurice of Geneva, and the others we've worked with. Have them delivered to Miss Barbara this afternoon. And…" she paused, her gaze flicking back to the newspaper, "…look into Mr. Cassidy's public schedule. I want to know if he's hosting any events around the sixteenth."
"Yes, madam." Paul bowed and exited silently.
Marjorie leaned back, her thoughts drifting. The city's financial world was changing rapidly—young men with modern ideas were beginning to challenge the old guard. And Shane Cassidy, if half the rumors were true, was one of them.
As promised, Paul delivered a finely bound leather folder to Barbara's residence. Inside were glossy catalogues and handwritten notes detailing various watchmakers, their styles, and their waiting periods.
"Madam asked that you pay attention to the completion timelines," Paul reminded politely before taking his leave.
Barbara and Mary sat together on the sofa, eagerly leafing through the illustrated pages.
Mary's eyes soon settled on the works of Master Morris, a relatively new craftsman known for precision and elegance. His wristwatches were refined, minimalist—each piece a blend of utility and grace.
"This one," Barbara said, pointing to a clean silver model with three hands and a dark leather strap. "It's simple, masculine—something a man like your brother would wear."
Mary's face brightened. "Yes! Shane would love this. It's just his style." But her smile faded when she read the small print below the entry.
"Minimum order period: eight to ten weeks."
Her voice fell. "Eight weeks… that's far too late. His birthday is in two days."
Barbara frowned sympathetically. "Most of the independent masters are like that—their work takes time. Quality over haste."
Mary looked down at the design again, her fingers brushing the page. The disappointment was unmistakable.
Then, suddenly, Barbara's eyes lit up. "Wait! I remember something. Master Morris sometimes keeps a few finished pieces in his New York showroom—samples for wealthy clients. If we can reach him tomorrow, perhaps he'll allow you to purchase one immediately."
Mary's eyes widened with hope. "Do you really think that's possible?"
Barbara smiled, full of confidence. "If we ask politely—and explain it's for your brother's birthday—he might make an exception. You could even have his initials engraved. It won't be custom-made, but it will still be special."
Mary clasped her friend's hands in delight. "That would mean everything to me, Barbara. Thank you."
Barbara laughed softly. "Then it's settled. Tomorrow, we'll go to Fifth Avenue together and find the perfect watch for your brother."