Fourth Down Baby: A May-December Romance

by Lauren Landish

  “Really?”

  He nods and gives me a look that warms my body again as he takes in my own pants and blouse. “My routine has basically been gym, work, and relax at home. I’m kind of looking forward to a casual day at my folks’ house.”

  “Speaking of that,” I say, letting go, “I was hoping, well . . .”

  “Yes,” Cory says, smiling. “But what is it?”

  “Would you mind coming to church with me tomorrow too? Just, you're showing me so much of your life, and I'd like to show you part of mine too.”

  Cory nods and takes my hand. “Of course. Hey, Mom will probably be happy. She thinks I'm living in Sin City down there. It'll be nice to show her that even though I'm living in a suburb of Sodom and Gomorrah, I'm still somewhat respectable.”

  I laugh at Cory's attempt at a joke. “You’ve gotta work on your church humor, but thanks. You sure you don’t mind?”

  Cory shakes his head as we get into my car and gives me a look that makes me weak in the knees. His blue eyes burn with intensity, not just passion, but something so much more that it's scary and wonderful at the same time. “If it’s for you, I’m fine with anything.”

  I start my engine and pull out, unable to form the words that I want to say. It's so easy though, only three little words, but for some reason, I just can't say it.

  It takes us about ten minutes to drive to the Dunhams’. They're in another part of town that is in that gray zone where most of the homeowners are about evenly divided between the working class and the middle class. As we drive, I try to think about what I know of Earl and Brandi Dunham. Earl's a former Marine and has worked at the city’s youth center. Brandi's a little younger than he is, but other than being active in the community charity scene, I don’t know much about her.

  We pull up outside, and I see that the Dunhams’ house is just slightly larger than mine, a three-bedroom ranch-style place. I put my Chevy in park and shut off the engine, taking a deep breath. “Well, here goes nothing.”

  I reach for my door handle, but Cory's hand on my arm stops me. “Wait.”

  I close my door and turn, looking at him. His eyes are warm and concerned, and I can't imagine what I could have ever been scared about. “What's wrong?”

  I shake my head, chuckling. “Nothing. Just . . . I feel like I’ve gone back in time. I haven’t done something like this since before Whitney was born. I'm just a bit nervous, that's all.”

  He leans over, and we kiss quickly before he sits back. I smile. “Just promise that you'll have my back?”

  “Don't sweat it. Just remember that if anything, don't call Dad sir. He's a Marine. He works for a living,” Cory jokes before opening his door.

  Despite the slightly tense beginning, as the afternoon goes on, I find that I’m enjoying myself with Cory and his family. His father, Earl, especially tries to treat me like any other girlfriend.

  “Growing up, Brandi and I called Cory our miracle angel baby. I don't know if you know, Patricia, but I'm sixty-two.”

  “I knew you were older than me, but I didn’t know by how much.”

  Earl nods in appreciation of my honesty and sighs, looking out at Cory, who’s outside messing around with the dog. “Brandi and I tried for a long time to have children.”

  “Earl . . .” Brandi, Cory’s mom, says, but Earl shakes his head, and she sighs, nodding. “I had three miscarriages between the time we got married and Cory’s birth.”

  “That must . . . that must have been hard,” I say, touched. I don't know what else to say, though. I mean, I had a perfect child so young. “Bad luck?”

  “Mostly,” Earl acknowledges, “but some of it, I suspect, was the stuff I was exposed to in the Corps. They say that the shots and the depleted uranium weren't toxic, but who really knows? Anyway, here we were, me thirty-eight, a fifteen-year Marine, and the two of us were getting desperate. Brandi was still young enough, but she was feeling it as well. Miscarriages are hard on the body, you know.”

  “Not personally, but I can imagine,” I say, rubbing my stomach unconsciously. I've only had Whitney, and everything was smooth as silk with her, but to have three miscarriages? Sweet Jesus. “Then Cory?”

  Brandi nods and looks out. “We had our miracle. For the longest, he wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and be a marine, but I’m glad he found his own way.”

  “Well, if you don't mind, I think I'll go start the grill. Maybe Cory will help me. Excuse me, ladies,” Earl says.

  He gets up and goes outside while Brandi and I watch them. “Would you like to help with the potato salad?” Brandi asks, getting up as well. “I figure that was Earl's way of saying it's time for us women folk to talk.”

  The next day, it's Cory's turn to be more nervous than I am as he fidgets with his tie while we walk up the sidewalk toward New Harvest Church.

  We enter the foyer, where I see Trevor Bana, decked out in one of his best suits, smiling and being the general 'big man' that he can be. He's one of the church deacons, and today, he's working the door as the greeter. “Patricia, good to see you this Sunday.”

  “Thank you, Trevor. This is Cory.”

  Trevor's eyes go icy, but he still offers his hand. “Good morning, Mr. Dunham. Enjoy the service.”

  I'm put off, but I try to play it off as we enter the sanctuary. Cory notices and leans over. “That the boss who gave you all the overtime, right? What's his problem?”

  “Jealousy, I think,” I whisper back. “He's . . . well, he's hit on me a few times over the years.”

  “He's married. I saw the ring, and those two kids who were next to him certainly look related.”

  I arch my eyebrow and nod. “That doesn't seem to stop him. It doesn't stop New Harvest from cashing his donations, either.”

  “Yay.” Cory nods, and I realize as I read his expression of distaste that it disgusts me as well. It’s certainly not what I signed up for.

  Because of the greeting, and a few other things, service isn't very enjoyable today, but at least Pastor Moss keeps his sermon short since it's a holiday weekend. After he's done, there are two more hymns, and for me, the best part was hearing Cory attempt to sing along, making me smile the entire time.

  As we leave, I notice more than one person giving Cory and me appraising looks, and I feel worse and worse as we quickly shake hands with people on the way out. Near the door, I see Pastor Moss, who makes a point of always shaking nearly everyone's hand as they leave. His voice is strained, and he sounds patronizing and haughty as we shake hands. “Patricia, glad to see you this morning. I hope you're ready for Sunday school next week?”

  “Of course, Bill. I already have the lesson plan and everything,” I reply, using his first name since that's what he prefers outside the sanctuary. “Bill, this is Cory Dunham, my boyfriend.”

  “I've heard. It's good to meet you, Cory,” Bill says, falsely smiling. He looks more like a used car salesman than my pastor right now, and I'm disturbed. I want to say something, but this isn't the right time for it. “I remember you a few years ago, I think. You played defensive back for the Foxes, right?”

  “A few years ago, yes. Glad someone remembers me and not just Troy,” Cory says with a laugh. “He got all the press.”

  “It's a team out there, if I remember right. Well, I hope you enjoyed the service, and I hope you can come by again.”

  We head out to the car, and as I start up the engine, I'm upset. “I'm sorry you had to sit through that.”

  “What?” Cory asks, and I turn unbelieving eyes on him. “You mean the people staring daggers at us? Especially your boss?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” I admit, shifting into reverse and pulling out quickly. “I was waiting for someone to start throwing stones.”

  “Little Old Testament there, don't you think?” Cory says, smiling. He tugs his tie loose and then reaches over, putting his hand on my leg. It's warm and comforting, and I feel a bit of the tension in me relax, and a different, more welcome tension ta
kes its place. If he just moves his hand a little higher . . .

  “Just . . . Cory, your parents were so accepting of us last night. I was hoping that the church would be as welcoming. It's been so important to me for so long, even as I've relaxed my own feelings about some of the teachings. I think I've done a good job of trying to be a good person. I didn't expect the frostiness.”

  Cory chuckles and leans back, his hand still on my leg. “Patricia, I work in banking. I'm used to people smiling to my face while trying to stab me in the back. Even if I haven’t been at it long, I’ve seen it enough already. I don't care about those people. I care about you.”

  “Mmm, if you care, you'll take that hand off before you distract me enough that we get into a car accident,” I reply, somewhat reassured. “You can put it back later, after I change out of this dress.”

  “Fair enough.”

  We drive home, and as Cory changes, I think. He’s right, of course. Our families accept our relationship. They accept us. Really, Troy and Whitney love Cory. He's a friend and brother to them. And I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him too, even if I can't work up the guts to say it in so many words. Still, the way the people at New Harvest looked at us is something I don't want to repeat.

  Cory comes out in shorts and a t-shirt and pulls me into his arms. “Relax. We have everything we need.” I feel safe and warm again in his arms, and I know that I love him.

  “I was thinking . . . how about we go ahead and book my flight to San Fran for Labor Day?”

  Cory thinks, then shakes his head. “On the to do list, but not right now.”

  “Why not?” I ask, purring when he runs his hand down my back to squeeze my butt. “Oh . . .”

  “There are more important things to do right now.”

  I smile, humming happily. “It's good to have priorities.”

  Chapter 13

  Cory

  “Hey D-man!”

  I hate that nickname, but there's little I can do about it. Dylan Roberts is still senior to me in the PacFran seniority structure, and since his father is one of the divisional presidents, he pretty much can do whatever the hell he wants, including calling me a nickname that's just a little too close to d-bag for my taste.

  “What's up, Dylan?” I ask instead of ignoring him, turning around in the lobby.

  “You hear about Bremmington?” he asks, and I shake my head. I've been keeping my head down, making sure that I'm getting the paperwork done on all the football stars and a few of the other people who have started to come my way. I've got to get my momentum rolling.

  It's the way investment advisors work, really. A lot of the early work is trying to ice skate uphill into a headwind, just trying to gain some momentum. You have no reputation, no portfolio, and no client list, so you're scraping and fighting. Then, once you get enough momentum going, it snowballs to the point where I'm at now, where I have to start being picky about which clients I take on and give advice to. You have to work pretty much the same amount for a guy investing a thousand bucks a month as someone investing fifty thousand a month. In some ways, it's harder to do the research for the small fry because you have to sift through so much more sand to find the gold nuggets. And of course, there are the toxic clients, the ones who are just idiotic and insist on some bullshit they read on their favorite website and screw themselves.

  None of that has anything to do with Dan Bremmington, however. “No, I haven't. I've been buried under a real estate deal in Minnesota since last Thursday. Why, what's up?”

  “He's taking early retirement,” Dylan says, leaning in and whispering like a conspirator. “Seems the SEC was investigating him for having his fingers in a few pies he shouldn't have been fucking around in.”

  I whistle softly, shaking my head. I never would have thought that Bremmington—who came from the old school of investing when Glass-Steagall was strong and you had to jump through three times the number of hoops to cross national borders with your investment money than you have to nowadays—would ever get greedy and do something dirty. “Really?”

  Dylan nods, and we get into one of the executive elevators. We're not supposed to, but Dylan's got one of the keycards, most likely from his Dad, and he likes to flaunt his family connection. I think it lets him feel like maybe he's better than the rest of us. Maybe I'm not supposed to use it, but it's better than taking an elevator up with six other people, smelling their aftershave, perfume, and morning toothpaste filling the too-small space. “Yeah, he's jumping with his parachute pretty much immediately,” Dylan says once the doors close. “That's going to make a hole pretty high on the ladder.”

  “Too high up in the clouds for us to worry about,” I reply, still intrigued despite the person I'm learning this from. PacFran is a bank with over fifty thousand employees worldwide, not in the same league size-wise as Barclays or Goldman Sachs, but still swinging major weight. With that much money and size together, politics is a big part of the life. “But what are you hearing, anyway? They going to go outside to find someone to fill the slot?”

  “No. From what I hear, the board wants to bring this one up internally,” Dylan says, as if his knowledge of 'the board' is nothing more than rumor. Xander Roberts is a third-generation board member of the bank, after all. “And they're looking at your division.”

  “No shit?” I ask, genuinely surprised this time. Bremmington was in investments, and usually, when someone gets investigated by the Feds and jumps, if a promotion comes internally, it's done from another division of the bank. Retail, small business, real estate, somewhere else where the new division president won't have either the taint of investigation nor the problems of divisional politics to worry about. “Why's that?”

  “Diversity,” Dylan says like it's a dirty word. Sadly enough, in some parts of the banking world, women and minorities are still treated with general suspicion. Any woman who gets high enough on the office ladder is either a bitch, sucked dick to get her job, or both. Any minority is there simply to get the EEOC or something similar off the firm's back. At least, that's what people like Dylan think, never mind that the man was born with a silver spoon jammed up his ass along with all the benefits that gives him. Level playing field, my ass. “They're saying it's going to be Jackie Ibrahim.”

  Jaqueline Ibrahim, I think. I know Jackie. In fact, when I first started as an intern, she was one of the people who actually took the time to treat me like a human being and not just another office monkey. Driven and smart, she fought her way up the ladder from where I started, and she's someone I respect immensely. Honestly, PacFran could do worse. A lot worse. For example, a total idiot like Dylan Roberts.

  “Good for her,” I say honestly, but Dylan takes it as sarcasm and snorts. “What?”

  “Well, at least the firm gets to check off three boxes on the diversity scale with her,” he says, sneering. “Ah well, she'll burn out in two or three years, then I'll be ready for the slot.”

  “You’ve gotta make VP first,” I remind him, trying not to burn him. I don't need Xander looking at me. Still, I feel like I should stick up for Jackie somehow. “Firm rules, you know.”

  “Oh, it'll happen,” Dylan says without concern. “It's gonna be hard passing you up on the ladder once we both hit VP though. Still, you're going to be making bank, right?”

  “Right,” I say, holding my tongue. It's three days before the long Labor Day holiday, and I don't need any drama.

  He thinks he's gotten one in on me though, and smiles his conceited, predatory smile as he slaps my shoulder. “Don’t worry, good buddy. I won't forget those guys I started out with when I'm in the ivory tower. Good luck today.”

  The doors open, and Dylan and I walk out, splitting up at the end of the hallway. I wish I would’ve taken the regular elevator instead. I’d feel cleaner. I make a quick stop by Jackie’s office, giving her my congratulations before going to my own.

  I’m just in time to get the first few trades in, then back out to go into researching a company for
one of the guys on the Wildcats who has a big thing going for precious metals. I drive through until lunch, when a knock comes on my door. “Mr. Dunham?”

  I look up and see Xander Roberts at my door, and I nearly fall out of my chair. He’s up in the board room, and if he wants to see you, you go to him. He doesn't come to you. “Mr. Roberts . . . what can I do for you, sir?”

  “I'm going to lunch, and I just wanted to stop by. I assume you've heard about Dan Bremmington?”

  I nod, wondering just what the fuck this is all about. “Yes, sir. It'll be hard to lose him. He helped me a lot when I was interning.”

  Xander nods, his five-hundred-dollar haircut barely moving as his head moves. Just how do you keep it that way, man? Superglue and Just for Men? “Dan's been a good soldier, that's true. In any case, I just got done talking with Jackie Ibrahim. The rumors are right. We've tabbed her to take his position. As you can expect, this will be . . . a very busy time for PacFran, with the end of the fiscal year coming up and clients wanting lots of information.”

  “I'm sure. What do you need?”

  “Jackie's tagged you to be on her transition team. Unfortunately, while that comes with perks, as you can assume, it also means that you'll be expected to have everything in place for her so that she can take over Tuesday after Labor Day and be able to guide the division smoothly through the end of the fiscal year. Last thing PacFran needs is a load of twitchy clients come October second.”

  “Of course, sir. I . . . I'll do my best,” I reply, inwardly cursing. Why, Jackie, why? Of all the weekends to tab me for a special project, why this one? “Thanks for the heads up.”

  “Do your best in this, and you might find yourself taking Jackie's slot as a VP,” he reminds me before heading down the hallway.

  I sigh and get up, grabbing my jacket. It's time for lunch anyway. I head to Jackie's office instead of the elevators, and I see that she's still at her desk. I knock, and she looks up, her smile disappearing when she sees my face. “I take it you didn't like the rub?”