Discretion (21 page)

I grimace at the thought of last night’s closure. All for a kiss? “I’m sorry. Really. It was impulsive…with Jamal being in the hospital…”

She cuts me off. “I know, I know. And I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. I could have hurt you. And it’s not like…ah, fuck. I don’t know.” She throws the shower puff against the wall. She faces the wall, away from me, and says, “I know you and Natalie are tight—and you’ll always be.”

“I know it’s going to be hard—”

“Hard doesn’t describe it. You’ve always drawn attention. Women at work haven’t ceased to talk about you, like you’re some cougar’s boy toy to gossip about…and I’m standing right there to hear it!” She picks up the puff and holds it a moment, facing away from me. “And I’m…damn positive that getting married will not change a thing.”

She can only admit that facing away from me.

“It ought to,” I say.

She cackles. “Yeah. Right. I know. The way things ought to be, right?” We finish the shower and I check my phone again. No messages about Jamal. No note from Natalie and it bothers me that I’m concerned she didn’t send a text or email. She doesn’t have anyone to report the kiss to, but still.

My gaze returns to my phone and the lock screen image is of Marisa and me, a pic from two weeks ago. She is wearing an airy maxi dress, a stiff breeze away from a wardrobe malfunction. I remember the dress and eventful evening quite well.

“Did you just now put that on there?” she says, peering over my shoulder.

“I can’t remember when I changed it, but that was one heck of a night.”

She gives me a kiss, one that begs for a quickie. I should be thankful she has a short-term memory. She drops her towel and yanks at mine; her leg finds my side and begins to move like a river’s current—slow yet forceful.

“Am I imagining this?” I ask.

“If I am then I want it for real when I wake up.”

Marisa gets her fill of makeup sex. We hurry through the morning routine.

“Any update from the hospital?” Marisa asks from her closet.

I check messages on my phone, yet again, just to be sure. “Yeah. Joanna sent a text message that Jamal is recovering and that I can see him possibly today. She seems reassured that he’s through the worst of it.”

He’s not.

Oh, the timing. That’s what I’m afraid of. Christel is hitting my fear that Jamal’s condition is not what the doctors are presenting—they are overly optimistic.

Marisa says, “Great news. You must be relieved. What time is your first meeting?”

“Seven thirty. I have the walk this morning, too, which is short but should be a real treat, then the presentation at nine thirty
A.M.
”

“Uh huh. I’m glad my day is not so full.”

Marisa fails to understand why I enjoy the charity work. The idea of giving back simply does not jibe with her. She sees the need and appreciates those who do the work, but she refuses to volunteer. This is a hard pill of reality to swallow with my fiancée.

“What time is it?” Marisa says.

“Ten after seven.”

I don a dark Armani custom-made pinstripe suit and a white dress shirt with a blue, black, and white collegiate tie. Marisa is dressing with fury in her dressing room, across the hall, swearing profusely as she fumbles with her jewelry. Once ready, she charges out in a soft gray suit and pink blouse underneath, with a matching bag in hand—ready to leave for work or a
Cosmopolitan
cover shoot.

We march out the door without so much as a word, other than she reminds me to grab my thermos of coffee, yet again. Max sits at the door, his tail moving slowly on the carpet for his final plea, his eyes wide and his ears in the upright position. I rub him on my way out to acknowledge his effort.

The sun shines bright, rising over the mountains in the distance. Not a cloud in the sky, a brisk sixty-two this morning.

On the drive down Scottsdale Road, Marisa and I talk about the pleasures of the day ahead and avoid the stressful subjects. I try not to think about Natalie and the next time I’ll hear from her.

Damn that kiss.

I can’t help feeling a weight lifted that Marisa got over the parting kiss with Natalie. She accepts me as I am, human and imperfect. Part of the reason Marisa knows me so well is because our history is so closely intertwined. We are, as Marisa said on more than one occasion, “damaged people” and on that basis we understand each other. We are both a product of overbearing parents who expected the world from us at an early age. She maintains my parents ought to be thrilled with my flight to success; hers are still wearing sackcloth and ashes.

“Are you still awake?” Marisa says, as I merge with traffic on the Loop 101.

“I’m fine. Just…bothered.”

“You can talk to me.” She rubs my leg.

I sigh. “It’s just hard,” I say and pat her hand. “That’s all. I’ll get through it.”

“You’re not in this alone. You know that, right?”

“Yeah. I do. Thanks, babe.”

I keep wondering what Natalie would be like, riding next to me right now. What would Natalie and I look like today—anything like we did in high school? Doubt it. But it’s a vision I’m having a hard time getting out of my head.

“You really have a lot on your mind, don’t you?” Marisa says, breaking my train of thought.

I nod and try to calm my nerves by breathing slow and deep.

“Are you sure this job isn’t going to kill you?” She snickers at the joke.

“It just may.”

“Should we take a vacation?”

“I would love to…if I can get some time off.”

“Arrange it then.”

“It’s not that easy. Portfolio managers have a hard time getting away completely because the accounts can’t go unmanaged. It’s not allowed. I’d have to have at least two other PMs cover my accounts, maybe three because each has a full load to handle already. It’s why we haven’t gotten away in a while.” I ponder how I might be able to swing some needed R&R and how Jennifer will react. “Where do you want to go?”

She shrugs. “Europe? Australia? Maybe the Islands? I don’t know. Anywhere out of the country for a couple weeks. The idea of lying on a beach for a while with you…no limits on how much I drink…mmm.” I let the dream settle and try to keep focused on driving at the same time. “I can wear a thong and soak in the sun.” She closes her eyes and smiles to herself.

“Okay, you’re going to have to stop,” I say.

“Why?”

“Because I’m starting to visualize us laying on a white sandy beach and clear turquoise water with little waves against the shore and no one else is around…thinking Bora, Bora.” Natalie comes to mind, too, in the same scenario.

“Perfect.”

“Yes, but it’s distracting and I need to focus.”

“Don’t work yourself to death. I want you to be around.” She pats my thigh.

We arrive at work and walk briskly from a less than stellar parking spot. Marisa asks why I keep giving up my reserved parking space and I tell her that the extra walk is part of my exercise routine—like pro golfers walk the course when they play in a tournament; this is my walk, rather than an easy ride. She finds it mildly entertaining, but her thoughts scamper in all directions as we get to the doors of the building.

Our daily parting kiss happens at the top of the stairs and she walks down the hall to her department. The thought crosses my mind of her leaving me for good, a painful gift my mind brings to attention. The problem, I’m finding, is not the confession, but forgetting about the past flame, which feels inconveniently rekindled.

My office with the door closed is nearly silent, which, for the moment, helps my focus. If I could keep from worrying about Jamal and thinking about Natalie and the wedding, couple that with the email I never should have read, I’d be making progress.

A woman is going to be the death of me, I know it.

I log in to the system and pace in short, quick steps while waiting to log in. The greater my anxiety, the longer this takes.

At this moment, the Standard and Poor’s index is positive a paltry eight points. It will end the day down close to twenty. Today is lame, with small price swings, the equivalent to a gentle sprinkle when an Amazon rain is desired.

Determined to push distractions aside and get to work, I turn on the radio for some background noise, to drown out my internal rambling concerns. I order breakfast—surprise me, I tell Karla. The fine cigars Seaton buys are close to my computer and the thought of lighting up crosses my mind.

Nice thought, bad idea.

I send a text to Natalie, as I can’t bear the thought of waiting for her to say something any longer. Then I send Joanna a message, asking for an update on Jamal.

I finish what I have to and leave for the seven thirty meeting with two analysts and three people from marketing, whoever they send. I cut the meeting short, keeping my time commitment to twenty minutes, long enough to fill the staff in on what they need to know.

On my return to my office, my phone vibrates, reminding me it’s time to leave to make it to the walk on time and it brings a smile to my face, as I’d forgotten about it in the hecticness of the morning.

I get to make dreams come true this morning. Maybe.

T
he drive out to DC Ranch for the third annual walk in support of the Leukemia Lymphoma Society, sponsored by SCG, brings the normal thoughts I have about Chelsie, my twin that died at ten years old. Why did she die while I continue to live? What makes me worthy of life while she endured a painful death?

These questions haunted me during her treatment and I saw countless families suffer, going through the same experience. Up until that point in my life, I’d never been an especially compassionate person; cancer has a way of fixing that. It cures nothing but maybe a hard heart.

Shortly after Chelsie’s death, I took it upon myself to contribute to the Leukemia Lymphoma Society in any way I could: time, money, ideas. I’d visit kids at the hospital to keep them company. Many of the patients would just need someone to talk to, or someone to be there. Maybe to listen. Hold a hand. The work got harder as the years went by, as I got busier with studies and could go less often. When high school came, school drained most of my time, and then Natalie got what time was left, so those years were largely a hiatus. College was no improvement.

When I joined SCG, I was determined to change. After a few years and becoming a portfolio manager, Seaton was persuaded to sponsor an event, because evidently so few were in the valley to support leukemia.

Seaton foots a substantial contribution to the cause each year and I get to attend the event with a few familiar faces from the marketing and sales force, always a lively bunch. I look forward to this event each year, as it brings people together for a good cause.

A wonderful spirited woman named Anika Feig runs the event from top to bottom every year. We get along quite well and she provides the time to the function that I don’t have. I kick in the money needed without asking too many questions and the result is a grand event with three thousand walkers, mostly from Phoenix, but some drive from as far as Palm Springs to join us for the leisurely stroll down Market Street.

I park with some difficulty, as my arrival is minutes away from the event kickoff. The band plays to entertain the crowd and vendors are here in droves to give away promotional balloons, hats, T-shirts, and the like. I make my way through tightly grouped people and it seems a few recognize me, as if it’s because I host the event or they’ve seen me on TV. I’m happy to be here and forget about work, though today is sad, because Chelsie died today, eighteen years ago, and the bitter feelings are rekindled. An unfortunate coincidence.

Anika does my introduction and I take the stage to a mixture of applause and hoots from the crowd. The group is easily half kids, maybe more. I give the opening speech, and though I’ve had years to heal, it’s hard to talk about my sister’s short battle with the disease and my motivation for hosting the event. The screen behind me displays pictures of Chelsie before and during her battle while I talk. Then it shows pictures of me with the different people I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know while they endure the same trial. I end the pep talk on a high note, and the group migrates to the open road to begin the walk. Dozens of volunteers hand out bottles of water, Gatorade, and iced tea.

I step down from center stage and sigh. My hands find my knees as I haunch over, looking at the dirt—one of the toughest speeches I’ve had to give is over.

“Colin!” Anika yells, jogging toward me from behind the stage. I turn around and accept the bear hug that follows. At five foot three, Anika is hardly intimidating, but she does kickboxing for sport to keep in shape and vent frustration. It also happens to make her a formidable opponent should the occasion arise. Dressed comfortably as if she’s heading to the gym with her bright pink sneakers on, she releases her hold of me.

“So how stressed are you today?” she says, full of energy as always.

“Very. I’ve got a presentation to get to in forty minutes. And then I’m on TV this afternoon.”

“Fun.” She grins.

“I’ve a lot on my plate right now, personally, so it’s all coming to a crossroads.”

“I know how you feel. Today’s that day for me. Tomorrow is the big letdown, like the day after Christmas.”

I smile back and nod in agreement.

She hits me on the shoulder, like a coach. “Nice speech. Fantastic job, really. Gotta run.” Anika scurries off in the other direction.

I wish I could participate with everyone else, but seeing that the event conflicts with work, it simply isn’t possible. Because of my commitment, I’m able to get away for a little while to give a short speech; it’s hard to justify the time away from the office when the market is open.

I walk into the crowd of gathering people and Christel guides me to a group, to give them a few words of encouragement and receive some myself. Precious minutes pass; the experience is worth the cost. Connecting with people at the walk is the highlight of the event for me. Sadly, I part company long before I’m satisfied.

Traffic is busy. I drive with the windows down and the radio off, trying to enjoy what I can of the outdoors. The sun is intense, a glimmer of what’s coming in a few months with the summer heat. I’m distracted—thinking about Jamal, worrying about how he’s doing and if Joanna could sleep.