I try Natalie’s cell number—straight to voicemail and I neglect to leave a message—but I set a reminder to call her later. I wipe my sweaty palms on a napkin in the console from last week’s road lunch.
The kidnapping was a mess that everyone, especially my father, wanted to end. The interrogation drew out over weeks, and then months to get what the prosecution needed to put away Arocha. He was only twenty-three when they put him in a federal penitentiary, but on reduced charges. Dasher, who was killed at the age of twenty-one, had never fired a gun in his life, a fact investigators seemed to glaze over. But I didn’t. It didn’t make sense. I asked myself a million times a simple question: what was the plan?
Natalie remained mum on the topic at first, but as time waned, the doctors emphasized that she didn’t remember much.
Her deposition, which was done in a private location away from the public trial of Arocha, gave no answers on when or why she left our boat. She couldn’t recall whether I was asleep or awake. Whether she’d said anything or not when leaving. Her sense of time was distorted, an effect of the drugs she was given. She had no recollection of how she got onto the boat she was found captive on. The two men who held her hostage were unknown to her. Bits and pieces, is how she described it. Like seeing photographs of somewhere you never were. A vacation someone else went on, or in her case, a horror movie that she only saw a preview for. Those days were like minutes to her.
The substances found in her bloodstream were not readily identified. After a year, one brilliant researcher at Georgetown figured out the formula when analyzing her lab reports. What she received was a mixture of sleep and seizure medications and anti-depressants, which led to her being unconscious over several days. They were lucky, as her father explained to me, considering what they gave her could have been lethal or put her in a coma. The researcher said the abductors were advanced—or had help to understand the interaction between these drugs, on par with a skilled anesthesiologist. The investigators asked about alcohol consumption, but concluded it was pointless.
My father was rather pissed at the handling of the case. Because Natalie could not remember and there were no witnesses or signs of a struggle, the suspicion was that my father or I had something to do with her abduction and it was not until the surviving kidnapper, under the advice of the public defender, changed his plea to guilty that we ceased to be persons of interest. The conclusion police came to from the beginning was more than the two men on the boat were involved. But with all the holes in the story from the surviving kidnapper, no one wanted to dig deeper.
Natalie threw away her lovely pink bikini she wore that day, which her mother dug out of the trash and framed. I thought it was extremely odd that she framed the bikini and put it up in an inconspicuous place, in the hallway between the bathroom and the closet in the master, so she would see it every day.
I had a hard time grasping why she did this, until I looked into her eyes and heard her very heart; she wanted to forever remember the day she lost her daughter and how fragile life was—how close she came to losing her forever and that every day she got with Natalie was precious. Natalie was bitter toward her mother for saving the swimsuit, until enough time and maturity had set in and she understood, not simply accepted, that her mother wanted to remember for her own reasons—that the memory brought a new perspective on living. Natalie forbids the color pink in her wardrobe and it was close to five years before she could bring herself to buy another swimsuit.
Her parents were very gracious toward my father and me after she recovered. We were invited over for supper about a month after the ordeal ended. My father asked me whether I thought he should pack a firearm, just in case this was a plan for the two of us to be fertilizer. I reassured him that the Merians were not that kind of religion. He still finds that comment comical to this day.
I don’t talk to Natalie about her abduction. But I cannot let it go. The mystery surrounding her disappearance is a pleasurable torment, a sadistic ritual.
After a grueling eighteen minutes in slow-moving traffic, I arrive at the office, and review my never ending task list, which only gets longer with the passing moments of the day. More compliance questions. Nothing dramatic or out of the ordinary, but busy work that takes up precious time.
My phone rings, startling me from the mental holiday. My father is calling. How much more shit can I take today? The desk surface takes the vibration and I contemplate turning the phone off for a while—or throwing it. Surely that would make the ten o’clock news and somehow it would turn into a story suggesting an iPhone defect and the stock will tank.
I set my phone gently on the desk, as if handling a fragile antique. I must be losing my mind.
TWENTY-SEVEN
When my father calls, my nerves tingle like wires hanging near a bathtub, not touching so to create havoc, but close enough to experience the palpable energy of two opposing forces near one another.
On the second day, during the three days that Natalie was missing, my father ranted and raved about Natalie and every conversation with Jackson or Viktor, the attorney, centered on the removal of liability—as if his status were the only thing that mattered; not Natalie’s life that hung in the balance. And I’ve resented him since.
I answer his call, not because I want to, but because if I don’t, he’ll call until he reaches me and it’s better to take the poison now than wait.
His greeting is cheerful; my response tries hard to be neutral, but it errs on the side of hostile.
“I know you’re busy, but I wanted to stay in touch. How’ve you been?” my father says. He sounds oddly cheerful.
When I left for college, he got nostalgic. He began telling stories of my childhood as if it was some magical time. Little League World Series. Baseball and academic scholarship. A late round pick by the Florida Marlins. The dream coming true for him, to see his son achieve greatness in pro sports.
Christel made other plans. Once the pro sports career went south, he lost interest just as fast.
“I’m managing. Been busy.” I start pacing around my office.
“Yeah, I’m not buying it. What’s going on?”
He never wants to know when it’s about Natalie.
“So…what’s news?” I say after the long silence.
“I sold three of the businesses and plan to whittle away the rest over the next year or so.”
“Really?” He must be going postal. Or Brooke has him by the balls to travel more and attend to her every need.
“Yeah. I can’t believe it either, but I’m moving on from them. Retirement doesn’t suit me, I think. But what the hell, I’ll give it a try.”
“Call the network back, then. They’ll have you in a New York minute.” Then I will go back to never hearing from you. How I like it.
My father laughs at the thought. “I like the idea, actually. I’ve never been one to lay on the beach, watching the sunset…ah, I don’t know. I’m not ready to be done working.”
“I must agree. You’ll go crazy before long.”
“Brooke wants to spend six months in Europe.”
“And there is the motivation.”
“Son, you knew that was the reason before I said so.”
“True.” I pause a moment. “Seriously, though. Call the network back. Kenny and Chuck could use your company. Teach them how to play golf while you’re at it.”
“You know she’d throw a fit, so why entertain it?”
It would be fun to watch. I’d drive to his place so I could watch the video footage. “Because it would be fun for you. Pay wouldn’t hurt either.”
He sniffs and remains silent. He’s stewing over the idea. He’s got to be trying to figure out how to slip this past Brooke. The man lives for action. He and I exchange a few pleasantries and hang up, parting on the notion we’ll connect again soon but we know it’ll be months before we talk again.
I get back to my workstation and protest three new accounts being assigned to me, as I am past the a
ccount limit, while two other PMs have space. Management must have overridden the system to assign those accounts to me.
Marisa texts me to meet at Restaurant Napoli, near the corner of Tatum and Shea in Scottsdale. Marisa loves to try new things, new places and adventures. I like familiarity.
I put my computer to sleep and leave with my black leather bag. The remaining email will have to wait until tomorrow. As it stands, I’ll have a dozen reports to review before the opening bell.
I sigh, walking out the electronic sliding double doors, into the parking garage below the building. The garage has domed lights recessed into the roof, like a museum rather than a space for cars. The surface is a dark gray epoxy and sparkles in the light. Cars are sparse this late in the afternoon—many clear out after one o’clock during the summer months.
I walk past my reserved space, the little blue two door Civic still there, conveniently ten yards from the door, next to the executive’s, including Seaton’s. Teresa Diserens, the twenty-two-year-old mommy-to-be, is still at work. She’s an assistant to one of the higher-ups, who tends to work late.
I hope he doesn’t keep her too late, because she needs her sleep.
I pull out on Scottsdale Road and stop at a traffic light. A series of ambulances, a fire truck, and three police cars fly past while I sit, the light now green, amid a sea of cars longing to be moving.
My patience grows thin, and I arrive at Restaurant Napoli at quarter to six. Marisa is nibbling on lightly buttered bread and takes notice of me on entry, but she doesn’t move a muscle. Sometimes it’s like a role-play for her; Marisa as the eating alone damsel. But at this moment, she is annoyed that I’m running behind schedule.
The quaint restaurant is nearly full, with only three rustic tables empty; white linens, old-world style lighting, and slate floors complete the look and feel for authentic Italian. The candles they burn are imported, to keep the fragrance true to the region.
Marisa likes to eat well. And she’s not one to count the calories—she works out relentlessly to help out what her metabolism can’t handle.
She turns her face away from me when I lean over for our normal greeting. I give her a kiss on the cheek and feel a little rejected. She has a built-in force field when she’s angered about something and it depends on the movement of everything else in the universe to determine the time it takes to return to normalcy. At times it’s only minutes, but it can be hours and on occasion, days until she shakes it off.
This should be fun. She’s thinking about eight different things at last count and not one of them is connected to another, at least not that I can tell. My head gets dizzy, so I divert my attention to the menu.
The starter courses are shared and up for discussion, but for the main dish, the gnocchi with a white sauce stands out. I peruse the wine list for the right bottle.
Marisa wants white wine.
“Shall I order white?” I say without looking up.
“Yummy.”
“So, how was the day?” I say, hoping for a different answer than what occupies her mind. There are many good reasons that men shouldn’t hear the private thoughts of women, especially the ones they date.
“Slightly productive. Short on time as always and stressful and people aggravated me a little.” She manages a smile and tears off another piece of bread from the small rustic loaf, nestled in a white cloth on a woven basket.
She slides the plate with olive oil and basil to me. I can’t help notice the ramekin of roasted garlic resting on the table beside our candle. Marisa attacks it with the bread, which is hot and a little salty, soft. Delectable.
“Glad you like your carbs. I’m famished,” I say.
Her attention returns to the menu, her mood substantially improved in a short time span.
“Did you starve yourself today?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I had a salad. But it was lean on meat.”
“Real women need meat.”
“Damn right. I was still hungry. Had to have a cookie and I so couldn’t resist. The trouble was they had chocolate cheesecake.”
“That spells doom. And you didn’t have a slice?”
She shakes her head and closes the menu. “I was tempted, but I need to fit into my wedding dress.”
“Chocolate goes straight to your chest. You know that, right?”
She cackles as if she’s had a few to drink. “If that were true, no one would need a boob job. There’d be big tits everywhere. I’d be a triple D.”
“With back problems.”
“Yeah. Ain’t that a bitch?”
And there is Marisa. She’s back. Between my future wife and me is only an old-world style vase with a candle. I admire the sparkling two and a half karat Asscher cut diamond, nearly flawless in both color and clarity. Quite radiant, like the woman who wears it. She starts talking about the menu and the difficulty she has in making a final decision. The wine, she leaves up to me. I order a bottle of Kistler chardonnay and a cheese course and she approves.
We chat about the day and topics of interest. Good food, wine, and conversation are among Marisa’s favorite comforts and can turn her sour mood to downright jovial. She vents about her annoyances and shares the little victories as well, including getting the glitchy scanner to work. We readily agree it needs to be replaced and soon; it was new when I was in the department and IT said some bean counter ordered it, not them.
She laughs at a silly joke my assistant Karla told me today. Holding her glass of wine close to her lips, she says, “I forgot to ask you how the meeting was this morning. You said Seaton wouldn’t be there.”
“The meeting was fine…” I say, my voice trailing off as I recall some of the pessimist thoughts after the presentation.
“Colin?” Marisa says.
I return to the real world and notice her hand is resting on mine. She squeezes a little. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, I think.” I try to smile. “I…was bothered a bit during the meeting by…someone…but…” I look up from the table at her, staring at me and attentive, and feel a little renewed by her loving gaze. “But the meeting went well, overall. Everyone asked questions. Some doubts, as expected.”
“Doubts?”
She finishes off her glass of wine, which I take the liberty to refill. Our server appears with a new basket of bread and we order the rest of the meal.
“There’s always doubts. That comes with the territory. Anytime someone makes a bold prediction, there are cheerleaders and naysayers. Doesn’t matter if it’s based on fundamentals or a chart or a hunch. All camps show up for a fight either way.”
Her face contorts a little. “Did someone argue with you?”
I finish my glass of wine, refill, and then take the heel of the bread loaf from the basket. “Not exactly.”
“Well, how do you know everyone didn’t support you?”
Don’t draw suspicion.
“By their actions. It’s body language, but the real telltale is when the trades go through. Followed closely by what they say.”
“You can see everyone’s trades? I didn’t think you had access to anyone’s accounts but yours.”
“I have the ability to trade on any account in the system, so that when managers take a vacation, the other PMs can pick up the slack.”
She sits back and seems surprised. I thought she would know how the system works given she’s been at SCG as long as I have. She probably doesn’t dwell much on how other departments run, since she spends all her time in research.
“Hmm. I didn’t know you could access any account in the firm, though. How much is there? Under management, I mean.”
“If you’re thinking about embezzling money from the company, you can forget about me helping you,” I say with a struggle to keep a straight face. My body temp is rising a little as the wine is working magic. Her hand is holding onto mine, resting on the table. Every Monday night should be like this.
“No seriously, how much is there?” She covers her mo
uth while trying not to laugh.
“A touch over fifty.”
“Fifty billion? Fuck, that’s a lot.”
Her surprise is amusing to me. “You had no idea, did you?”
She shakes her head, still laughing, but now more at herself and takes a long drink of wine.
“How many years have you been working for the firm?”
Her head tilts while facing me and her expression contorts. “Fuck you,” she says quietly enough to not carry far past my ears.
“I think we should have another bottle of this before we do, but I like where your mind is going.”
She laughs and starts rubbing my hand and tickling my forearm. She entertains, for a few moments, the idea of putting the top down on the Mercedes and climbing into my lap for a different kind of ride. I sit in silence and savor her dirty mind, while taking in her natural beauty.
“So…back to something serious…you can place trades on any account in the firm?” She asks.
“Yeah, any account. But if I were to place a trade on someone else’s account, I would have to have a well-documented and approved reason for doing so. If I placed a trade on another PM’s account without cause or reason, it had better be by human error. Which, really, with the system design, couldn’t happen.”
“You’re not drunk enough,” she says, laughing again.
I take a sip from my glass, which remains a quarter full. “I’ll catch up, don’t worry. But I have to drive home, so I shouldn’t push it.”
“Good. More for me, then.” She gets a little excited at the prospect of drinking more expensive wine than her quota.
“You know that I love you.”
“Especially when I’ve had too much to drink,” she says.
“Can’t hurt, I suppose.”
“So how was Flagstaff?” she asks as the main courses arrive at our table. Each of us digs in and I leave her question to linger awhile. My dish will get cold quickly. The pasta is from fresh dough and the cream sauce is a perfect compliment. Her filet of grouper looks moist and flaky.
“Flagstaff was as delectable as this meal.”
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