Your Personal Story

Each of my projects is different just as every family is different, so I know this one will be too.

It’s a mild May afternoon when my taxi drops me off out front of the Art Deco building at 616 Park Avenue. In the limestone lobby with four columns and a high ceiling, a building security guard points the way to the elevator I’m to use. Soon I’m on my way up to the co-op of Elizabeth Wilson, an heir to the fortune amassed from one of the country’s largest financial services companies. It's my understanding she doesn't yet know I'm here to see her. I'm a surprise present given by her son Thomas for her seventy-fifth birthday, an occasion that took place five days ago.

Before I go on, I should introduce myself. My name is Patricia Wells. I'm forty-three years old. My business is writing family histories. My clients are successful, well-to-do people. Some are in the news so often I'm sure you've heard of them. Others are content with who they are without a lot of publicity. They live all over. In New York and Virginia. Silicon Valley and Dallas. Boston and Miami. I spend time in their magnificent homes asking questions and recording their stories that I transcribe and shape into a book of a few hundred pages. After many hours going over it, follow up questions answered and editorial matters taken care of, relevant photos incorporated, I give it a title. Then I have two copies printed on the finest acid free paper and bound in premium grade leather.

The process from our first meeting to delivery takes several months. My base fee is forty thousand dollars. Extra time and expenses incurred for out-of-town meetings are added on to that. If my clients want more copies, they pay for those too. But they’re worth it, they and I both know. My products are heirlooms intended to be passed on in the way a painting by Georgia O'Keeffe will be with a family a good long time.

On the eighteenth floor I'm met at the door by an attractive woman wearing black slacks and a white blouse. She's near my age, crisp and polite. Her name is Deborah. She shakes my hand with a firm, confident grip.

“I’m Ms. Wilson's personal assistant,” she tells me.

She of course knows who I am and my purpose. Ms. Wilson's been told what I'm here for. I’m no longer a surprise, she mentions as we walk down a rose-colored hallway with stark, black-and-white photos of western landscapes on the walls. At the end of that we enter an exquisite room filled with bright, natural light, a mix of contemporary and vintage furniture, works by notable artists, a giant fireplace.

Deborah offers me a chair next to a polished table with a lamp on it. Before sitting I reach into my bag and take out an envelope with a copy of the contract she emailed to me two days ago, that includes a nondisclosure agreement.

“It’s all signed,” I say, and hand it to her.

"Would you like coffee or tea, or some water perhaps?" she asks.

"Water will be fine, thank you," I say.

"Ms. Wilson will be with you soon," she says. She goes across the room and through a door.

I settle in the chair and look around. No painting by Georgia O'Keeffe is present. Instead, my eyes are drawn to a pointillist style work by Paul Klee. On another wall I recognize a Wassily Kandinsky from his Bauhaus period. On a stand in a corner is a small arched figure by Louise Bourgeois. Over the fireplace is a portrait of a man with a firm jaw. Is it Roger Wilson, the man the family’s wealth and success is traced back to?

Whomever it is, I'm not surprised by any of it. The long couch, deep chairs, the rug that may be Persian, a lamp that might a Tiffany. A floor to ceiling bookshelf at one end of the room is filled with hardbound volumes, many with dark spines, others with colorful dust jackets. Is that where Ms. Wilson’s book will end up? Between distinguished world classics and works by some of the best contemporary authors?

From my bag I take out my materials, pen and notebook, the small device I’ll use to record our conversation, my research notes, the list of questions I have for Ms. Wilson, a sample book to show her.

It's a moment later when a smiling Elizabeth Wilson comes into the room followed by Deborah. Ms. Wilson wears a light blue dress with dark blue spots. She has a perceptible vivacity. On my feet, I take two steps toward her and we shake hands in the middle of the room. Her expression is both serene and alert in a pleasant way.

"It's nice to meet you," she says. It takes just a moment to know I'm in the presence of someone used to getting the attention she expects and yet is generous with hers at the same time. "Thomas assures me this will be interesting. He's heard many good things about you."

"Ms. Wilson, I’ve been looking forward to this," I say. "I've read about all the good work you’re doing at the foundation."

"Yes, we’re involved in many fine projects," she says. "And please call me Liz. It will make both of us more comfortable."

Difficult as it is for me to say, I do that. "I'll call you Liz, thank you."

Generous, concerned with my comfort, Ms. Wilson sits on the couch and I in the chair across from her.

Ms. Wilson and I continue our introductory chatter as Deborah exits the room. A short while later another woman enters holding a tray with a teapot, a cup, a bottle of sparkling water, and a glass. She sets it down on the table and arranges the items for us.

"I think we're fine for now, thank you, Alice," Ms. Wilson says.

The woman goes back through the door. Ms. Wilson fills her cup with tea and I pour water into my glass. We talk some about the fine dry weather New York is having. About the impending summer. About the Human Resources job I left to do this. Ms. Wilson wonders how I came to it. I explain it occurred to me how nice it would be to have a book about my own past and what I know about my family as a resource for my children, their children, and extended family.

“So much about families is left unspoken and unknown,” I say. “So much is forgotten. There’s so much a family tree, important as they are, can't and doesn’t include. Lists and charts don’t reveal what truly went on.”

"Well, it's a brilliant idea, and so necessary," Ms. Wilson says, and I think she means it. "Since Thomas mentioned it, I've been wondering where it will take us."

"That's up to you," I say. “It’s your story to tell however you like.”

I hand her the sample book I’ve brought along. Its subject is of a name I thought even a woman in Ms. Wilson’s position would be impressed by. She flips through the pages.

"It’s a fine object," she says. “It makes me excited to see how ours comes out.”

"It's as exciting for me as it is for my clients,” I say. “We have a lot to do to get there."

"Yes, we do,” she says. “Where do we start? I've been interviewed many times, as you may know, but never like this."

“I’ll guide the way forward if that’s necessary,” I say.

“All right then,” she says.

Ms. Wilson takes my questions. She ponders each for a bit. She’s not impulsive as others are. Who say so much that’s unnecessary for my purposes, even if what they’re saying might be described as interesting.

She’s had the life I imagined. One of wealth and work, though she doesn’t mention the former. There’s no need to. It’s implied in everything else.

Her childhood was a happy one, full of excitement, travel, and private schools. She wasn’t a slacker, if her privilege might imply that. She was an excellent student. Her mother was a great influence. A woman who grew up in a time when women didn’t have the right to open a bank account or get a credit card without their husband’s permission. A talented woman who wrote and published poetry.

“She read everything, all of the books you see here, and she inspired me to do the same,” Ms. Wilson says. “Without her encouragement I would never have accomplished what I did.”

She graduated with honors from Mount Holyoke then from the University of Chicago’s Booth Business School. After that, she went to work for Liberty Investments, the company founded by her grandfather Roger Wilson and expanded by her father Martin. She got married at twenty-six, kept her own name, and had two children in her late twenties. She was thirty-three when she was named Executive Director of Global Business.

“It was a vital position,” she says. “As important as what my brothers did.” I catch the competitive meaning behind her words.

“Yes, I see how it must have been,” I say.

“Do you know what I did?” she says.

“Would you describe it?”

“My father wanted me to grow our overseas presence,” she says. “He trusted I could do that. He sent me to Saudi Arabia, India, Japan. I opened offices. I built alliances. I got the first license to operate financial services in Vietnam for an American company. There weren’t a lot of women doing those things back then. I was fortunate, I know. But I earned everything.”

Ms. Wilson’s responses get longer as she goes on about her meetings with the Prime Ministers and Presidents of countries in Asia, South America, and Africa. About the formal dinners and state functions. The arduous journeys to out of the way places and famous sites. The difficult negotiations and how she handled herself. It’s all stimulating. Yet, it seems no time before Deborah comes in to announce that’s all for today. The two hours Ms. Wilson allotted for my visit are up.

“Well, Liz, this was productive.”

“I’m sorry I can’t stay with you longer,” Ms. Wilson says. “I could go on and on, but I must get ready to leave for London.”

“Of course, I understand,” I say. “It’s what we planned. I have a solid foundation. I’ll go back to my home office and get started on it.”

“I’m glad we got as much done as we did,” she says. She gets up. We shake hands. I tell her to remember that after today she’ll have a clearer picture of what else she wants to include.

When she’s gone Deborah stays with me another minute. She stares at her phone. When she looks up, she says, “She will see you on the twenty-first. Same time as today.”

She’s not asking me. It comes out as a command. I get it. I do.

It turns out to be a week after that, but that’s no problem for me. I finish a project and chase a lead on another.

Now that we have something to work with, there’s not much chit chat about the weather and our summer travels. We get right into it. Our meeting turns out to be as productive as the first. Ms. Wilson’s story builds. It becomes layered and complex. By our third meeting she tells me about the tragic death of her first husband, who was killed in a plane crash in Colorado. Five years later she married a former ambassador, a man she had met in Germany a decade earlier, who remains her partner.

At the end of that she pauses in thought. “You know, I would like this to be more than about me. We can work it into what you have.”

“Yes, of course. In fact, I made a note we might want to mention something about your grandfather Roger, since he was here first and made the company what it is today.”

“I was thinking that too,” Ms. Wilson says. “Coming here with twenty-four dollars and doing what he did. At such a young age, I can’t imagine how difficult that was. He was a persistent man. We owe all this to him.”

From there she stares straight ahead as if fixated on something she’s seeing for the first time. Except to pause to sip her tea, she goes on uninterrupted for the next twenty minutes while my recorder runs, and I write in my yellow pad.

Roger Wilson was born into a family of laborers in Sheffield, England. He was twenty when he boarded a steamer at Liverpool to sail to America. Even if his family was skeptical, he was adamant that one day he would send the funds for them to join him.

“It took years, but he kept his promise,” Ms. Wilson says. “Just as he said he would. He wasn’t going to call for them until he knew he could give them a good life.”

Roger settled in Paterson, New Jersey. He worked during the day and took classes at night. A degree in finance began a career that took him from being a loan processor at a local bank to becoming its CEO. In that role he merged it with several other banks then acquired a large New York bank and gave the company a new name, Liberty Investments. After Roger’s death at sixty-six her father was appointed his successor. Martin’s expansion of Liberty Investments’ financial services stretched its global reach.

“He scooped up more companies, made me a partner, and sent me out to open new markets,” Ms. Wilson says.

That was in 1980. It’s at this point Ms. Wilson pauses. She looks at me to see if I know where she wants to go from here. I don’t. Since I’m not sure, I have nothing to relate to her.

“I didn’t know until much later,” she says. “It needs to be mentioned.”

“Yes, of course,” I say.

She would learn it later. Not from her father, but from a close associate at the firm.

What she didn’t know until then was Liberty Investments’ involvement in helping to finance the German government from 1933 to 1942.

“Remember, a lot of companies were doing business with them,” she says. “Not just us.”

No matter how it’s explained, Liberty Investments was involved with financing Germany’s government in the years leading up to and during the war, and I detect the tragedy of that fact in Ms. Wilson’s tone. When the US became involved, the company made a greater effort to support the Allied powers.

“Roger couldn’t break the contracts he negotiated and signed. We shouldn’t forget the company did so much more to defeat them.”

When the war was over so was Liberty Investments’ collaboration with the regime. Its finances were refocused toward the rebuilding effort.

I admit it was troubling to hear this. Up to then I hadn’t entertained anything quite like it. Oh, I’d heard the dirt, dishonor, and neglects. Some of which made it into the published versions. Of course, before that, I made sure my clients reviewed what they had said. Some struck it. Others, as Ms. Wilson stated, considered it part of the story they wanted to tell for whatever their reasons were. To reveal the truth. To cleanse the past. To exact revenge. I don’t ask for a motive. But until that moment, nothing had made me so uncomfortable. Yet, I listened without judgement.

I finish noting something on my pad. When I look up Deborah comes into the room with the news Ms. Wilson’s time is up for today.

Our final get together is on a Tuesday morning in Southampton, Long Island. Down a long driveway to the main house, the clapboard three-story home sits on two landscaped acres with a view of the ocean. I don’t know how many rooms it has, but there are enough to accommodate many people.

Ms. Wilson and I spend ten minutes walking along the path that circles the grounds. Past the garden, pool, and tennis court, we go around to the back porch and sit facing the water. This time Deborah’s with us. Not sitting with us, but on a chair at the other end of the porch checking her phone and working with her papers. There’s no way to ignore her presence. No way she’s disregarding our conversation. Alice is there to make sure we have what we need.

It's been over a month since I last saw Ms. Wilson. It takes a while to get her focused so we can finish up. I have a draft of over two hundred pages. I show her the thick folder secured with a rubber band. I don’t hand it to her to look at. It’s more of an impetus to get her motivated to wrap it up.

At the end of my recap, in hopes to get some material from her that brings the story up to the present, I say, “What else would you like to tell the future?”

“The present will be the long past, in another generation,” Ms. Wilson says.

“But not forgotten,” I say, and smile.

“Yes, of course,” she says, and smiles too.

“We haven’t said much about your work at the foundation,” I say.

I admit I haven’t thought much about the Wilson Charitable Foundation. Considering her privileged upbringing, her role at Liberty Investments, her travels, associations, what she had to say about Roger and Martin, the connection to Germany, the foundation seems a minor episode.

“Yes, it’s been much of my work these past years.”

“The last time we were together you mentioned your involvement with several museums.”

I had read online how the Wilson Charitable Foundation went about its business of giving to non-profits and others in a quiet way until 2010. That year it gave one hundred million dollars to a renowned New York cancer hospital to build a research center on the Upper East Side. The donation was made after her younger brother William died of lymphoma. It was the start of other large well-publicized donations to medical facilities, museums, and universities that included an endowed chair at the University of Chicago’s Booth Business School in the family’s name.

“We also support policy organizations and nonprofit advocacy groups for the financial industry,” Ms. Wilson says. “It’s important we do that. I grew up believing too much government isn’t good. Any imposition by it to control our lives and wealth is unproductive.”

I know what she means. I had been out to the site. I saw the list of their commitments. I Googled several recipient organizations. I noted the foundation funded elected officials who supported them. In 2014 it gave millions of dollars to the Roberts Institute, a California research center that promotes itself as a premier source for market-oriented ideas, which includes the deregulation of financial markets. Of course, I didn’t think a foundation built on Wall Street wealth would do the opposite. It’s not my business to express my opinion one way or another even if I have one.

This is when Ms. Wilson brings up a more recent initiative the foundation is involved in. Their funding of the Democracy Defense Fund, an association that provides grants to those involved in preventing election fraud such as occurred in 2020 and to support future political candidates. That was something I missed, or ignored, or that, until now, was unknown to the public.

“It wasn’t my idea,” Ms. Wilson says. “I didn’t agree with it. I’ll leave it at that.”

However it is, she doesn’t go into it at length, and I don’t ask her to. It seems out of character. The foundation has a Board of Directors, and it might not be up to her to decide what the money is used for. She might be the public face of a private enterprise with a specific goal not mentioned in its charter.

It turns out that’s where we stop. Where Deborah stops us before the allotted time is up. She’s out of her chair and coming our way.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Wilson has to be going,” she says.

It’s fine. I have what I need to wrap up our conversations, complete the manuscript, and send it to Ms. Wilson to read and respond to before I forward it to the printer. I’m confident there won’t be much of that.

For a moment, we stare at the view ahead, the flowers, the dunes, the wavering beach grass, the pleasure boats on the choppy water.

“This was enjoyable for me,” Ms. Wilson says.

I think she means it. I see in her eyes she’s happy with the prospect of having the book in her hands. A frank recounting of her life in her own words. That will continue beyond her.

“It was as enjoyable for me as it was for you,” I say. “It’s a nice birthday gift from a son to his mother.”

“I can’t wait to read what you took from this,” she says.

“I’m happy with what I have. I need to fold in what we covered today. After that, I’ll send the draft for you to look over.”

Deborah tears a clean page from her notebook and writes on it. She hands it to me, and says, “Please email the copy here. Ms. Wilson will get it and get back to you.”

“I look forward to it,” Ms. Wilson says.

“I look forward to passing it on,” I say.

“Does Patricia have everything she needs from us?” Ms. Wilson says.

“It’s all taken care of,” Deborah says.

What she means is, my final payment will be forthcoming once I send the completed work and invoice.

There’s one last question on my list. “Have you decided on a title?” I ask. “Something that contextualizes your life and work?”

“I have a few in mind,” Ms. Wilson says. “Let me decide on the one I think is best. We’ll send it you.”

Two weeks later I’m done with Fortunate. I send a pdf copy of the two-hundred-forty-seven pages I divided into nine chapters to the email address Deborah wrote for me. There’s no set timeframe I expect to get it back in. Some clients take a week. Others a month. It’s up to them.

This time it’s four days. When I see the reply from Deborah, I’m thinking ahead to the instructions to send to the printer. I click on it.

Dear Patricia Wells,

Thank you for your hard work and dedication to this project. Rest assured Ms. Wilson was pleased to participate in it.

I’m afraid we will not go ahead and produce the final copies. Your job with us is done. You will have the remainder of your payment within the next two days.

Be advised, you will follow to the letter the contract from our legal team that you signed prior to the start of your meetings with Ms. Wilson. No part of this manuscript is to be distributed to anyone.

Again, we appreciate your effort. Our relationship ends here.

                               Best Regards,
                               Deborah Evans
                               Assistant to Elizabeth Wilson, President
                               The Wilson Charitable Foundation