twenty times a day,” she said. “I never have any peace.”
By the time the check arrived, Sue couldn’t wait to leave. That evening she told Gene, “They’re not even married yet, and she’s saying awful things. It makes me uncomfortable. If Steve asks, tell him I’m not going out with Celeste again.”
When Steve’s children heard about his upcoming wedding, they, too, worried. “Why would a woman of thirty-two marry a seventy-year-old man except for his money?” says Becky. She called Paul and Steven III, and they all talked. Afterward, Paul called Steve’s ex-brother-in-law, Judge Harold Entz, who’d remained a close friend. A state district court judge in Dallas, Entz listened patiently, then said what Paul expected to hear: that their father was a bright man and had to be trusted to know what he was getting into. “The bottom line was we all agreed we had to abide by Dad’s decision,” says Paul.
Steve, too, must have remained at least somewhat unsure of the match. As the time for the ceremony neared, he asked David Kuperman, his attorney, who’d handled his personal and business matters for years, to write a prenuptial agreement, limiting his losses if his marriage to Celeste failed.
On the papers Kuperman drew up, Celeste estimated her net worth—mainly clothes and jewelry—at $20,000. She listed no liabilities, ignoring her credit card bills and the $20,000 she’d been ordered by the Arizona court to pay in restitution for the fraud case.
Meanwhile, Steve estimated his net worth—after paying taxes on the sale of KBVO—at $11 to $12 million. Under the agreement, Steve and Celeste each retained their personal property, including Steve’s separate ownership of the house on Terrace Mountain Drive and the lake house. If they divorced before their third anniversary, Celeste agreed she would receive nothing. If the marriage lasted a minimum of three years, however, she was entitled to a onetime payment of $500,000. If married when he died, he doubled that bequest to $1 million.
Yet, that was only a fraction of his money. It was a conservative document engineered by a conservative man. Steve wanted to share his life with Celeste but didn’t intend to act rashly. As in love with her as he appeared, he’d spent a lifetime building his fortune, and he didn’t intend to lose it.
It must have seemed the ultimate triumph, as Celeste stood beside Steve under an arch in Harvey’s, the main dining room at the Austin Country Club, on February 18, 1995, near windows that overlooked a garden. Little more than a year earlier she’d been a waitress in that same room. Now, surrounded by fifty or so guests, many from Austin’s elite, she was becoming the bride of a very wealthy man.
The ceremony didn’t escape the notice of the staff. “Therewas a lot of talk,” says the maitre d’, Fernando von Hapsburgh. “We’d never had a waitress marry a member before.”
As her matron of honor, Celeste had Ana Presse, a petite and pretty woman with frosted hair. She and her attorney husband, Philip, had been acquaintances of Steve’s and Elise’s, meeting in the early nineties on a radio station trip to Hong Kong. Some would wonder why Celeste asked Ana, whom she’d only recently met through Steve, when such honors are often reserved for old, dear friends.
Meanwhile, Steve’s best man was someone he’d known since boyhood, his first cousin, C.W. Beard. A tall, dour-looking Dallas banker with large ears and horn-rimmed glasses, C. W. had handled Steve’s financial affairs since the eighties.
Paul was on a ship and couldn’t attend the ceremony, but Becky was in the audience, watching apprehensively as her father recited his vows. In her heart she knew it was a terrible mistake. Celeste was a full fourteen years younger than Steve III, and Becky was acutely aware that her father was nearly old enough to be Celeste’s grandfather. But that wasn’t what bothered her. There was something about Celeste
By the time the check arrived, Sue couldn’t wait to leave. That evening she told Gene, “They’re not even married yet, and she’s saying awful things. It makes me uncomfortable. If Steve asks, tell him I’m not going out with Celeste again.”
When Steve’s children heard about his upcoming wedding, they, too, worried. “Why would a woman of thirty-two marry a seventy-year-old man except for his money?” says Becky. She called Paul and Steven III, and they all talked. Afterward, Paul called Steve’s ex-brother-in-law, Judge Harold Entz, who’d remained a close friend. A state district court judge in Dallas, Entz listened patiently, then said what Paul expected to hear: that their father was a bright man and had to be trusted to know what he was getting into. “The bottom line was we all agreed we had to abide by Dad’s decision,” says Paul.
Steve, too, must have remained at least somewhat unsure of the match. As the time for the ceremony neared, he asked David Kuperman, his attorney, who’d handled his personal and business matters for years, to write a prenuptial agreement, limiting his losses if his marriage to Celeste failed.
On the papers Kuperman drew up, Celeste estimated her net worth—mainly clothes and jewelry—at $20,000. She listed no liabilities, ignoring her credit card bills and the $20,000 she’d been ordered by the Arizona court to pay in restitution for the fraud case.
Meanwhile, Steve estimated his net worth—after paying taxes on the sale of KBVO—at $11 to $12 million. Under the agreement, Steve and Celeste each retained their personal property, including Steve’s separate ownership of the house on Terrace Mountain Drive and the lake house. If they divorced before their third anniversary, Celeste agreed she would receive nothing. If the marriage lasted a minimum of three years, however, she was entitled to a onetime payment of $500,000. If married when he died, he doubled that bequest to $1 million.
Yet, that was only a fraction of his money. It was a conservative document engineered by a conservative man. Steve wanted to share his life with Celeste but didn’t intend to act rashly. As in love with her as he appeared, he’d spent a lifetime building his fortune, and he didn’t intend to lose it.
It must have seemed the ultimate triumph, as Celeste stood beside Steve under an arch in Harvey’s, the main dining room at the Austin Country Club, on February 18, 1995, near windows that overlooked a garden. Little more than a year earlier she’d been a waitress in that same room. Now, surrounded by fifty or so guests, many from Austin’s elite, she was becoming the bride of a very wealthy man.
The ceremony didn’t escape the notice of the staff. “Therewas a lot of talk,” says the maitre d’, Fernando von Hapsburgh. “We’d never had a waitress marry a member before.”
As her matron of honor, Celeste had Ana Presse, a petite and pretty woman with frosted hair. She and her attorney husband, Philip, had been acquaintances of Steve’s and Elise’s, meeting in the early nineties on a radio station trip to Hong Kong. Some would wonder why Celeste asked Ana, whom she’d only recently met through Steve, when such honors are often reserved for old, dear friends.
Meanwhile, Steve’s best man was someone he’d known since boyhood, his first cousin, C.W. Beard. A tall, dour-looking Dallas banker with large ears and horn-rimmed glasses, C. W. had handled Steve’s financial affairs since the eighties.
Paul was on a ship and couldn’t attend the ceremony, but Becky was in the audience, watching apprehensively as her father recited his vows. In her heart she knew it was a terrible mistake. Celeste was a full fourteen years younger than Steve III, and Becky was acutely aware that her father was nearly old enough to be Celeste’s grandfather. But that wasn’t what bothered her. There was something about Celeste
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