“Please. Do not patronize me.”
Javier laughs. “What patronize? Life is beautiful! Let yourself enjoy a little. It’s only top, top, top players in on this one. We’ll have the deal in the bag and the money spent practically before morning.”
“What about you? You going in on this glorious deal?”
“Yeah, just a little, little strapped right now.” He runs his tie between two fingers. “Hey, I make a couple of the commissions on your excellent investment, I’ll be right in line myself.” Javier’s voice lowers, smug and cagey. “You’ve got to have faith.”
Brian gazes at Javier. His mouth feels papery, even the tips of his fingers seem desiccated. “This would be funny if it weren’t so…” There’s that tremor again in his hands. He holds them in loose fists, and sits back. “If I didn’t want to buy one of those townhouses in the Grove for two hundred sixty K, why on earth would I go for this spaceship?”
Javier spreads out his fingers on the desk top so they seem to float on its green glass surface. “These guys are young and lean and hungry. They want to make their mark and they’re being smart—” Javier ducks, lowering his voice to a hiss. “This is the kind of discount you’d never see from Parkhurst. Or any of the other viejos around here. Not in a billion years.” He gives Brian a narrow look. “This is the jackpot, buddy. I’m not talking to you as your realtor here, I’m talking as your compay, your compañero. I haven’t seen a deal like this in forever.”
Brian locks his arms across his chest: he can envision his son’s face so clearly, eyes downturned in disapproval. “Then it’s too good to be true. Or it shouldn’t be true.”
Javier nods slowly; moving closer; his hand is on Brian’s arm and Brian straightens, terrified Javier might try to embrace him. “Man, I am worried about you, you know? You’re being weird at work, you’re being weird about your kid…”
“Kids—I have two children.”
Javier closes his eyes. “Hombre. I know that.”
“What do you want me to say, buddy?” Brian’s hands come together then separate on his desk. “I don’t even know…” He looks as if he’s holding something broken open — a nut or a shell. “Your kids — it’s okay between you and them, right?” He squeezes his hands back together. “After Felice — you know… I think I did it wrong. I mean, should’ve come home more. Something.” He tries to speak conversationally, but his voice is humiliating, jagged and bouncing. “And Stan…” He shakes his head. How does it work, this process of rethinking things?
“Stanley’s a great, great kid,” Javier says softly. “He grew up to be fantastic. He knows you love him, brother.”
When Brian smiles this time, it really does feel as if something on his face must be cracking. “Why does he know it?”
Javier shrugs again, but cheerfully. “I don’t know, man. Seems like kids just kind of love their parents, right? One way or another. No matter how crappy we are. Crazy system, huh?”
Brian’s face has gone numb. “Really crazy.”
“Fuck, man.” Javier stands, scooping up his files. “What do I know? I’m a realtor. Forget the stupid deal — I get carried away. Just. Don’t worry so much, right? You can’t be a lawyer every second, you know? You can take it easier than that.”
As Javier scrapes together his papers, Brian’s hands and face relax. He clears his throat and says, “Tell me again — about those condos?”
IN THE STILLNESS following Javier’s visit, Brian paces his office, circles the computer stretching his arms and neck, checking on the cityscape below. There’s a stinging hum through his body: if he still had a bottle of single malt in the filing cabinet, now would be the moment for a belt. Instead he leans forward, allows himself a glance down the corridor to Fernanda’s office: through the glass wall, he catches the gleam of her hair as she bends toward her screen. He feels, in some way, off-kilter. All these years of working for a developer, yet simultaneously holding himself aloof from participating in development: as if, he thinks with a great inward roll of the eyes, he could remain unsullied, untouched by the flow of money beneath his feet. Just as he’d once believed that Avis carried within herself some proof of Brian’s own innate decency. Because Avis had married Brian — because she loved him—ipso facto, he must be a good man.
He holds a contract folder and gazes mournfully at his immense blue-gray view until he realizes that he’s staring at a reflected face. He turns and Fernanda is there, standing over his visitor’s chair. Had she seen him spying? Her eyes cut toward his, an amused, slippery glance. “Can I steal you for a second? I’d really like to get away from this place.”
“Away — out of here, you mean?” He puts down the folder.
“I don’t care where — just anywhere. You pick.”
As soon as they leave the parking garage, she turns to him. “First of all, I’m so sorry.” He glances up from the traffic. She is gazing at the dashboard as if she were fond of it. “I acted like an idiot the other day. That’s just — that’s not how I am. All the tears. It’d been a long day and I haven’t been getting enough sleep.”
“My dear,” he starts, but Fernanda cuts in. “Wait, please. I’m so embarrassed about the things I told you. About me and Jack.”
“But you shouldn’t!” He tries again. “I’m glad you told me. I’ve been thinking about what you said.”
“Oh, please don’t,” she says with a laugh. She glances at him from the corners of her eyes. “It’s all fine. I’m learning a lot from Jack — we’re having a great time together. We get each other. It’s a very simple relationship.”
He frowns at the road. “I don’t see how you can say that.”
“Why not?”
“Why not!” He lifts his hands from the wheel. “The power dynamics. He’s too old and rich and you’re too smart for this kind of thing.”
He turns into the South Miami shopping district: UM students jaywalk in front of the SUV, apparently convinced of their immortality. Brian turns down a side street and pulls into one of the diagonal parking spaces in front of the Whip ’n Dip. This was the place his children had wanted to go when they tired of pastries.
Fernanda’s eyes darken with laughter. “Ice cream?”
He feels the back of his neck grow hot and wonders if he should pretend to be making a joke. But she’s already pushing open the passenger door.
Fernanda orders a small cup of vanilla and Brian asks for a black coffee. They walk down the block to the small park and settle on a wooden bench She smiles and faces him. “I’m flattered that you’ve been worried for me. Really. But things are good. I don’t want to change any of it. And I don’t want to leave my job.”
“Oh, I don’t think that you—”
Fernanda sighs, a subtle lilt, instantly raising apprehension in Brian. “Do you remember Vicky Asafi? She used to work in H.R.? Really cute blonde, late twenties?”
Brian watches her a moment, nods slowly. “Her husband got transferred someplace. To Atlanta?”
“Did you ever meet Vicky’s husband?”
Brian doesn’t answer. He studies Fernanda’s eyes.
“Because, you know what, she didn’t have a husband,” Fernanda continues. “That was just a story they cooked up. She was having an affair with Jack and when she decided to break things off, she was ‘let go.’ ”
He lowers his eyes. Of course. “She could’ve brought charges against him.”
Fernanda shifts back on the bench and gazes into her ice cream. “Yes, gone through an ugly, protracted sexual harassment trial, the full legal weight of PI&B, leading to uncertain results: no job references, that’s for sure. Or she could just start her life over somewhere.” She tucks the spoon in her cup. “Be done with it.” Her voice, in trying to sound untroubled, seems to trip. “Thanks but no thanks, Brian. I need my job. More than that, I like my job.”