Читать книгу Bad Dad - Alice Shane - Страница 5

Lester Fuller was the sole heir and CEO of Fuller Energy, a natural gas exploration company with drilling rigs thrusting skyward over the landscapes of Pinedale and Dubois,Wyoming.

The enterprise was launched by his wildcatter grandfather, Jacob Fuller, at the turn of the 20^th Century, when the industry was in its infancy.

His father, Charles Fuller, an engineer, entrepreneur, visionary, linked up to federally-funded pipelines in the 1970’s, enabling Fuller Energy to transport natural gas throughout the entire Midwest – a hookup that catapulted the company into a leading independent energy producer and supplier.

No less ambitious than his father and grandfather, Lester exhibited the same bold shrewdness that characterized their aggressive entrepreneurialism. Under his aegis, Fuller Energy expanded into a $3 billion entity via a tie-in to the Rocky Mountain Express pipeline, permitting the company to pump gas from its own wells directly into Ohio, Pennsylvania and Canada.

Natural gas wasn’t the only source of Lester’s considerable fortune, he revealed to Margo soon after they met. He had inherited 40,000 acres of prime farmland – lush rolling hills and valleys in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, which he sold to a real estate syndicate for $150 million. Lester had negotiated the deal himself, without a broker who would have pocketed a hefty 6%. Instead, he was able to reinvest the money he saved by cutting out the middle man. It was a transaction he was inordinately proud of, orchestrated shortly before their marriage

A financial journalist, Margo was impressed with Lester’s business acumen from day one – his deep knowledge of the stock market, his understanding of Wall Street psychology – savvy that drove him to vigorously monitor the activities of his accountants and portfolio managers whom he didn’t trust.

“Every so often, you’ve got to remind them who’s money it is, who’s boss,” he told her in one of those rare moments early in their relationship when he felt comfortable disclosing details about his finances.

Since their marriage four years earlier, they lived in Heron Cove, New Jersey, an exclusive enclave of sprawling mansions facing the ocean. Theirs was a 14-room, 8,000 square foot custom-built Mediterranean style home in full view of the water, with sliding glass doors leading onto the beach from every downstairs room – the living room, dining room, library, den, workout room, kitchen. Margo loved feeling the sand under her feet when she walked onto the beach directly from the house. Indoors, she could view the entire panorama via massive floor-to-ceiling windows and doors.

But Lester had regrets about buying the house. First and foremost, he was a businessman who hated being out-negotiated.

“They saw me coming, those sharks,” Lester complained bitterly to Margo. He had shelled out $7 million for the property which, in his estimation, wasn’t worth more than $5 million, if that. It was the convenience of having a residence near the water, accessible to Wall Street by water taxi from Red Hook that had been so seductive.

The purchase, an impulsive one, was made during a period when investment bankers and corporate moguls operating out of the New York financial district were eager to settle in New Jersey, away from the threat of another 9/11 terrorist attack, their demands for waterfront homes driving prices up to astronomical levels.

Margo religiously read the Wall Street Journal’s real estate section during the early years of their marriage, deriving enormous satisfaction from watching the value of their home spiral upward. These days, of course, she had no idea what it was worth. Money was tighter. The prospect of another 9/11 had dimmed in the collective consciousness. It was entirely possible it’s value had plummeted. Not that she cared. She loved this house. But it was time to contact an appraiser, find out what the house was currently worth.