Discretion

by David Balzarini

  “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.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The 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.

  And Natalie.

  I check messages on my phone. Old friends reaching out, who are visiting Phoenix soon and looking for a place to sleep and things to do. One from Joanna, giving an update on Jamal. She’s clutching hope. It’s a dangerous place to be—to hope for what seems to have such long odds. But hope is what’s keeping Joanna going. And me. I place a few calls, but Natalie nor Joanna pick up, so I wonder where they are. I hate to think that something will happen to either of them.

  Christel is my best friend, yet I hardly understand her. What she does for me, I cannot do for myself and no one else can. And for that, she is my most trusted ally. This walk for a good cause reminds me why I need her by my side.

  I arrive at the office with ten minutes to spare, that I may grab an iced cup of coffee and the iPad before heading out. I take a moment to review the market activity and graze over the headlines from the Wall Street Journal online. Nothing is there that I didn’t know beforehand, but at this moment, I need reassurance. Life seems to be entering a new realm of chaos on a personal side and work is relentless, leaving my nerves nearly shot. The lack of sleep is not helping, but my own fault, I must admit.

  The presentation, like many I give, is about the management strategy on a two hundred seventy million dollar account, the funds belonging to the prominent Norman Foronda Foundation, a former NFL star quarterback, retired three years ago and destined for the Hall of Fame. The foundation helps various charities ranging from medical research to helping inner city kids. A fantastic organization and very efficiently run.

  I was hand-selected to manage the foundation’s investments. I have fond memories of getting to meet Mister Foronda with his wife and three girls, ages ten, eight, and four.

  The brass of the firm, Seaton included, will sit in with several PMs and analysts. It’s similar to the presentation I’ll be giving to the foundation’s board late next week, but this session will be in much greater detail and will include privileged information, designed to give the brass and approved attendees an objective look into how I manage one of the largest accounts at SCG.

  Never mind that it’s among the most prestigious.

  I walk into the conference room and most of the attendees are there, mingling, sipping tea or coffee. Everyone dons a jacket. The misty glass along the wall gives off a strange vibe against the sunlight pouring in through the windows. I hit the switch, mounted on the table, to close the blinds. The motors whirr to life and it’s a ready conference room in a few moments.

  Seaton is not here yet. Everyone says hello in some manner and I simply nod back and start reviewing my notes on the tablet computer.

  I am prepared. I can do this presentation.

  My phone vibrates. Joanna. Another update on Jamal, but it’s a distraction I don’t need. Joanna knows he will want to see me when I’m available today. I press Ignore and slip the device back in my pocket.

  The group banters about the market volatility of the day, related to turbulent news out of Europe and what it all means. The thoughts in the room circle around hearing a good presentation and expect me to make sense of the market gyrations in foreign debt. It’s too much bourbon, not enough water.

  Teddy Plemons walks into the room, William Seaton close behind. They sit side by side at the dark wood conference table.

  Teddy grins at me, a simple gesture that is equal weight pleasantry and mockery. He hates that I have the Foronda account and not him—his tenure and pedigree earn the right.

  I nod to the boss, who nods back and smiles warmly.

  He’s been looking forward to this presentation.

  The lights dim and the projector comes to life on the screen mounted to the wall behind me.

  Showtime.

  THIRTY-SIX

  I stand at the front of the conference room, my superiors facing me, staring with anticipation. A remote control in my hand is used to toggle the slides. The first few slides introduce the investment policy and objectives for the foundation. I run through the technical side first and the analysts are on the edge of their seats, taking notes. They think what I do can be made into an exact science—and their efforts will prove it’s anything but. Seaton is calm, his hands folded in his lap, one leg crossed over the other. He remains patient for the meat of the presentation.

  I get into the investment selection point of the presentation, and everyone perks up. Frantic note-taking begins. I allow time for questions.

  This meeting is a waste of time, but Seaton wants it, as he’s optimistic the other staff will learn from the session. The camaraderie is
good.

  Seaton takes a stroll toward me with a warm smile. He extends his hand to me, in partnership and in friendship.

  He can’t do this without you.

  Standing at five foot eight inches and well-rounded at the midsection, he looks like capitalism itself: a fine Italian-made black suit, custom olive shirt, and tie to match. Handmade leathers grace his feet with no heels, a requirement he holds firm. His smile is genuine. “Fine presentation, Colin,” he says, with an air of pride, as if his own son just achieved greatness.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You earned it. Now, how are those cigars?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Good to hear. And how was the walk this morning?”

  “Went very well, sir. The support is great. Anika says hi and sends her gratitude.”

  “Yes. She does that. Wonderful woman, she is. I’m glad to hear the event was a success. I think you set an example to the firm by doing that.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m going to see to it that the event continues for years to come. In fact, I’d like to have Martina get in contact with Anika about more projects we can be doing.”

  Martina Britton deals with the charity functions of the firm, among other hats. If Seaton is reaching out to her, he must have something in mind. This is good news for the charity.

  “Very encouraging. I am sure Anika will be pleased. She mentioned that the end of today is a beautiful letdown.”

  He nods and keeps grinning. “And speaking of an amazing woman, I believe I’ve neglected to say congratulations on your engagement to that fine young lady from research,” he says, feeling sheepish he missed the news on my engagement.

  I can’t help smiling back. “Thanks.”

  “So, got a date picked out yet? Or a venue?”

  I shrug. “Not as of yet.”

  “Not into those details, I presume. More the bride’s territory, am I right?”