As I take my seat beside Terrence, I imagine asking him why heused his one favor on Dave. Perhaps Dave was in his office when Alyssa stopped by, and Terrence was forced to extend the invitation? I can see Terrence being diplomatic. Or perhaps Terrence failed to realize the external demand for the last spot on the balcony. On the other end of our long table, Dave pulls out the empty chair beside Phil. A grinding tension in my neck bleeds away. I won’t have to suffer through his smug presence tonight.
The restaurant used to be a bank, and the eight-foot-diameter vault door we walked through to get to our private table is an impressive relic. Chandeliers drip crystals from the ceiling and bottles of wine line the top of the wall.
After dinner orders are taken, Phil shares his enthusiasm for the day and holds up a glass to his senior staff. The wine is excellent, as usual, and I engage my colleagues around me, determined to stay in the present. I won’t allow my thoughts to wander across the dark avenues, back to the trouble awaiting me in my hotel room.
With no clients to impress or vendors to schmooze, everyone appears relaxed, but that is too simple a read on the table. Dave was not wrong. I am only a portfolio manager. The title can come with great notoriety if the funds you oversee are a success, but I don’t run a large division and I’m not a member of the C-suite. My inclusion, as an outsider—but also the source of our evening’s celebration—is causing a rift in the stasis. It’s evident in the stolen glances across the tops of highballs and long-stemmed wineglasses. I report to the CEO, but my place in the pecking order has not been formally established. Having been grafted into the pack, my team has not had to contend for our position in any power play.
With the inclusion of all of Phil’s direct reports, a reevaluation of the hierarchy is in order. Dave, who heads up the entire sales division for Garman Straub, doesn’t look away when I catch him staring at me from four positions down. To his advantage, I am not up for the fighttonight. The delivery of the thumb drive exposed my underbelly—pink and weak.
And the impression of his fingers has grown dark on my arm.
As I scrape the last bits of my delightful key lime cheesecake from my dessert plate, I continue to try to probe Candace, who sits across from me, about her time in Iraq. Since the basic information shared during her introduction about eighteen months ago, little more has circulated. She’s always kept a professional distance. So, I’m torn. With everything going on, I don’t need any more attention, but I’m also fascinated by what I’ve heard about the work she did. Besides a distant cousin on my mom’s side, I’ve not had the chance to talk to anyone who saw active duty in the Middle East.
“Come on, Candace. Throw us a bone. We’re here for it. We love stories.” Terrence knocks my elbow with his.
I can’t help but grin. Our chief compliance officer has partnered with me in my quest to get Candace to talk. He’s legendary for getting people to spill their guts.
“This dinner is not about me. Meredith, how did you come up with the idea of the funds?” Candace asks.
I hesitate.
“Not so fast. She asked you first. Why don’t you tell her about how you got the DFC.” Terrence takes a heavy gulp of his brown liquor.
Tiny lines grow deeper around Candace’s eyes as she shifts her gaze to him.
“What’s a DFC?” I ask.
Terrence slides his dessert plate away. Like me, he could stand to eat a second one. “Only the highest award for extraordinary aerial achievement that the Air Force bestows. The Distinguished Flying Creed... or maybe Code.” Something about his tone leads me to believe he knows exactly what it stands for.
“Cross,” Candace says.
“Of course, Distinguished Flying Cross.” He makes his neat brown eyebrows dance on his face. He got her to talk. “I’m a bit of an air combat groupie. Especially around this one.” Terrence laughs but I can hear the undertone of something much more serious. “So, tell us.”
“I don’t think Meredith is interested in—”
“But I am. Was the award for your overall service or a specific mission?” I ask.
Candace sighs. “The whole crew was awarded.” She glances down the table, perhaps to see if Phil is ready to leave, saving her from talking about herself.
“It’s all right, Candace. I think I’ve pried enough. Thank you for your service.”
Candace nods and then surprisingly does throw us that bone. “It’s what we were trained to do. While on mission to evacuate the US embassy in Baghdad, we came into some trouble and had to scramble, but we got those guys to safety. They made a deal of it, and I got the DFC.”
“Skimming the surface.” The ice tinkles as Terrence deposits his lowball on the pressed white tablecloth.
“What kind of trouble?” I ask softly across the table.
“We were conducting our preflight duties.” Candace relaxes into her words, suddenly willing to talk. “A firefight erupted on a ramp one hundred meters from our Draco—our, uh, U-28A single-engine Pilatus. Iraqi security forces opened fire and attempted to commandeer the aircraft. They wanted to leave country.”
“Incredible. How did you escape?” I ask.
“There was no discussion of escape. We knew what would happen if we aborted our mission. As a crew, being able to help those taking the most risk, getting those Marines out, was the best part of the job.”
“You got them out.”
“Of course she did. They stayed until every one of those grunts made it out.” Terrence beams at Candace across the table.
“Not so cut-and-dry. We took on tracer fire and landed on a nonexistent airfield. The next day—” Candace immediately stops talking and rises, her eyes on the end of the table. Phil has pushed back his chair and is leaning over to grab his reading glasses. Candace is never off duty.
