Fourth Down Baby: A May-December Romance (12 page)

“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.”

* * *

T
he 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 takes 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.”

“
H
ey 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?”

“Not that. I'm honored,” I tell her. “Just . . . timing sucks.”

“Oh? Hot date?” she teases, then grows serious again when she sees that her words were closer to the truth than she intended.

“Sort of. A special someone is flying in,” I tell her. “It's her first time coming to San Francisco, and I was hoping to give her a better tour experience than abandoning her to my apartment for four days. She took an extra day off work to come down Friday afternoon instead of at night.”

Jackie hums, tapping her desk. “You want off the team? I can go to Xander and tell him you've got something. I'll be honest, though, I don't think he'll like it. You might just see Dylan jump you on the ladder.”

“Might as well hand Dylan a flamethrower instead. He'd burn the place down faster,” I grumble, and she laughs. “No, I'll do it. Can I at least ask that I take off Friday early enough to pick Patricia up and take her out to dinner?”

Jackie nods, knowing that she can't do much else. “Go ahead. Your office has a couch, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Get used to it. And if I were you, I'd go buy about a case of energy drinks during your lunch hour.”

“And you? What's your family going to say about this?”

Jackie gives me a bitter, sad smile and shakes her head. “My daughter's not going to care. She's doing her gap year in Europe right now and only calls when she needs some more cash. My ex-husband's going to be happy, though. It means he gets an extra thousand a month in alimony that he can spend on his new girlfriend.”

Ouch. I seriously didn't know. I nod and turn to leave when Jackie's voice calls out again. “Cory?”

“Yes?”

“Free advice. If this
special someone
is serious, long-term material . . . get out of this line of work. If you take a look at the people on the ladder above me, you'll find too many divorces, cheating spouses, and miserable bastards to ever convince a family man to want this job.”

“Then why do you do it?” I ask, curious.

Jackie chuckles darkly and turns back to her computer. “I thought the money and power were worth it. Figured out too late that they weren’t, and now I'm where I am. Think about it. And let's talk after lunch, say two o'clock.”

* * *

F
riday afternoon
, I'm bleary-eyed, reeling like I'm half-drunk, and as Patricia comes out of the airport, I can't help but yawn. I'm crashing, going off too much caffeine, sugar, and every other legal stimulant I can find. Still, seeing her helps, and I try my best to smile as she comes up and hugs me. “I'm glad you're here. Welcome to San Francisco.”

She takes a step back, smoothing the hair out of my face. “You look like you've had a hard week. Is everything okay?”

“No . . . but we can talk about it in the cab. I didn't trust my driving to get us back to my place safely right now.”

Patricia’s frown of concern deepens, but she says nothing as we flag down a cab and I give him my address. We finally get to my building and the cabby swipes my card, and I carry Patricia's bag to the elevator and we go up to my tenth-floor place. “Well, here we are.”

I lead her in, and I can tell she’s at least a little impressed. It's not the best neighborhood in San Francisco, but the glass side on the west faces the Bay, and off to the right, you can see the Pyramid. I wheel her bag through my place and set it next to my bed before shrugging off my suit jacket and tossing it on the bed. It looks so inviting, but we've got dinner reservations.

“There's only about an hour until our rez at Momonashi's,” I say, coming out of the bedroom to find her sitting on my couch, her eyes filled with concern. “We should probably get changed. It's one of those formal-only places.”

“Sit down,” she says instead, patting the couch next to her.

“Can't,” I half-mumble, not admitting that if I sit down, I'll probably fall asleep. Maybe I can chug another Red Bull before we head out. That'll help. “We need to get a move on.”

I go into my kitchen and open my fridge, where I see the last Red Bull can. I pull it out and pop the top, but before I can take a sip, Patricia's next to me, her hand on my wrist. “Cory . . . stop. If you need that to stay awake through dinner, I'd rather not go.”

I try to control my frustration, but still, I half-slam the can down on my counter as I turn to look at her. “What do you mean, you'd rather not go? You know what I had to pull to get a reservation there? It's the hottest Asian restaurant in town!”

I realize I'm nearly yelling, and I stop, looking down. “I'm sorry. I just . . . it's been a lot of stress the past few days.”

I'm exhausted, literally teetering on the edge of collapse, but her hand on my cheek still stirs some of the last vestiges of strength inside me. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“My division boss is taking a forced retirement,” I sigh, leaning against the countertop, “and my new boss tagged me to be on her transition team.”