“One more thing, Meredith.” Candace tucks her chair squarely under the table as if she is securing a military vehicle into a base lot.
I stand, sliding my purse strap over my shoulder, and wait for her to continue with some words of wisdom about always keeping the mission in mind while under fire.
“You got a package delivered today.”
I freeze. Why did I think she wouldn’t know about the delivery? I toted the envelope during most of the reception. “Yes. I meant to tell you about it.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“In all the craziness today, I was only able to peek inside. Just a thumb drive.”
Surprise flashes across her face, so fast I wonder if I actually saw it. First time I’ve ever seen Candace with a tell. As interesting as it might be, I know she’s unhappy. I’ve likely lost any goodwill we were beginning to build. I should have casually mentioned it as soon as I saw her. I’ll be handing it over and will have a target on my chest, but at least not my back, as I’m sure she is someone who hits head-on.
“Who was it from?” Terrence bumps out of his seat. He has definitely overindulged.
“I think Betsey. My best guess.”
“You got a drive from the woman we fired, and you filed a restraining order against—and you’re telling me now.” Candace breaks eye contact and nods at Phil as he moves toward the door.
“Figured it could wait. I can’t access the drive from my computer, and I’ll be back in the office tomorrow to turn it in to Compliance. To Terrence.” I glance to my left.
Terrence is absorbed in his phone, seemingly having lost interest in our conversation.
“That’s the procedure, right?” I ask. Better to appear nonchalant than guilt-ridden. My mind is checking in with each of my major body parts to ensure they aren’t fidgeting, flushing, or featuring the unruly emotions swirling inside me.
“Why do you think it’s from Betsey?” Any trace of friendliness has left her face.
Not sure when I decided not to mention the note, but I need more time with it before anyone starts digging. “My name scrawled on the front—I think I recognize the handwriting. Besides, all of her desperate communications... I just assumed.”
“Logical.” Candace walks around the table to stand directly in front of me. “Based on the events of the day, I think we both know it would have been wise to hand it over to me right away.”
I shrug as if I agree but also question if the timing makes any difference.
As Candace marches toward Phil, a bead of sweat trips down my spine.
12
TUESDAY
Gray light filters through the partially shut blinds. I shift restlessly, punching the pillow before curling deeper into the nest I’ve created within the downy comforter and warm bedsheets. Last night’s silence from both Clint and Erika reverberates loudly in my head. By the time I got back to the hotel, it’d been too late to call, and neither of them responded to my good-night texts. For an extended moment, I stood over my rollerboard imagining shoving everything I could into it, calling a car, and going home. I would speak my secrets and then urge Erika to speak hers.
Instead, I eventually curled into the plush wingback chair by the window and idly scrolled through social media while keeping one eye on the envelope lying on the desk. Just after two in the morning, I tossed a navy sweater over the unnerving package and slipped between the cool, crisp sheets.
The weight of the day that has barely dawned presses down onall sides. The envelope needs to be handed over. By me. I need to tell them what I know and then wash my hands of Betsey. As I rehearse the words I will use when I walk into Terrence’s office, disappointment curls its merciless tentacles around me. I really thought I’d assembled my dream team at Garman Straub.
I flop onto my back and press my finger into my right temple to try to relieve the growing tension. Over the past who knows how many weeks, sleep has become so elusive. Same thing happened right before I switched careers. I’d been living my calling, or so I thought. Constructing financial plans and sharing in the dreams of my clients, I was content. And then I literally fell into becoming a portfolio manager. Two of my clients from Kennebunkport were snowbirding in Key Biscayne. I combined a mini vacay with meeting them and, at the last minute, decided to spend a day at a conference about exchange-traded funds. Running late for the keynote session, my heel snagged on the carpet, and I went down. Hard. Always a klutz growing up, my knees have taken a beating over the years, but it was the mortification of tossing my hot coffee down the aisle and sprawling face down among hundreds of seated guests that hurt the most. The guy onstage even stopped speaking. I remember glancing up and feeling his mortification on my behalf. I did the only thing I could do. I shot to my feet, took a bow, and scooped my now-empty paper cup from the floor. A light applause turned enthusiastic as the speaker made a joke about making an entrance. I darted down a row and took an empty seat.
After the keynote, during the break, I discovered I’d become a minor celebrity. A few people even asked if it was staged. My entrance and awkward flight through the air had come just as the speaker was remarking about the power of mistakes and the privilege of your sequel.
The people I met because of my moment of humiliation becamethe people who changed my career trajectory. These new funds called ETFs wiggled their way into my brain and then bore down deep.
After I spent a few nights tossing and turning at the prospect of blowing up the easy rhythms of our lives, Clint didn’t even flinch when I told him five years ago I wanted to make the move from producer to creator and take a job with Garman Straub. It took many late evenings and stolen moments between meetings to come up with solid plans for new investment strategies. Then, three years ago, I presented my idea for a highly innovative family of ETFs.
The reception to my ideas was mixed.
In the end, if your idea has value, the naysayers don’t matter. You only need a ripe market and at least one voice that is willing to shout in the darkness alongside yours. Especially effective is if the voice belongs to the CEO of a successful Wall Street firm.
I press my face back into the pillow. This playback is a distraction, because it’s not my career, the funds, or the dinner that is gnawing at me. It’s not even the file I have yet to fully examine or the note with the veiled threat and no demand. It’s something else. Something weighing on my heart. I stare up at the white ceiling.
