“Hello, Mr. Wilson. We haven’t talked in a while. How y’all doing up there?”
“We’re fine, thank you. What can I do for you?”
“You may have heard that BNA has completed a few acquisitions up your way, and we’ve expanded a good bit. We’d appreciate your paying us a visit here in Charlotte to go over things, and then we’re going to move your file to our Manhattan office where it’ll be handled by Arthur Goldberg, vice president, commercial finance.”
“Okay, when do you want to meet?”
“Hard to believe we’re soon to start the third quarter. We’d like to review your financials, operating statements to date, go over the transition. Sometime in September that’s convenient for you and Casey if you can work that out.”
“Of course. Austin Disley has taken Casey’s position as CFO. I’ll bring him along.”
“That’s fine, Preston. Just let me know the date as soon as you can so I can have Mr. Goldberg come down and join us for the meeting. Floyd Ritter, our general counsel, may want to stop in, too. And please give my best to Casey. He’s a good man.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Gallagher,” Preston said. When the line was clear, he buzzed Austin.
“Can you come in, please?”
“You bet.”
In a couple of minutes, Austin glided into Preston’s office, adjusted his bow tie, poured himself a cup of coffee, and took a seat. Without Casey as a foil, Austin was positively cocky.
“What’s up?”
“BNA is expanding, and our account is being moved to its Manhattan office.”
“We’ve been dealing with the Manhattan office all along.”
“New York has been handling our banking transactions, and that office is our landlord, but the floor plans have always been out of Charlotte’s distressed asset division. See what you can find out about Arthur Goldberg, a vice president with BNA here—particularly whether he’s in risk management or underwriting.”
“Who’s he?”
“Let’s slow this down. I just got off the phone with Tom Gallagher, president of BNA in Charlotte. To ensure an orderly transition, he’d like to meet with me next month, review our company, and introduce me to Mr. Goldberg, the vice president here who will be handling our account.”
“And you want me to check out Artie Goldberg?”
“Do you know him?”
“No. Just guessing they call him Artie.”
“Austin, get serious.”
“Come on, buddy. I was just going to suggest that you lighten up. Ever since Casey left, you’ve been acting like the world’s coming to an end. Wilson Holdings is doing great, if that’s what you are worried about.”
“I’d like to schedule the BNA meeting the third week in September . . . ” Preston stopped talking and checked his calendar “ . . . the eighteenth. I’m taking you with me. They are going to want to see everything in detail. Gallagher talked about financials and operating statements, but he means everything.”
“Great. Are we taking the Gulfstream?”
“Yes. But, Austin, I need you to focus. I want to go into that meeting fully prepared. I want a summary report well before the meeting showing exactly where we are. And I want to know all I can about Mr. Goldberg. I know you were glad to see Casey go, but I wasn’t.”
“Okay, buddy. I’ll handle it. I won’t let you down,” Austin said, for the first time that morning without a smirk on his face, and walked out the door.
Not too long ago, Preston couldn’t wait to get to the office and couldn’t wait to come home. He was happy, and he’d felt a sense of harmony in both places. Over the last few months and too many times, he’d asked himself where that sense of happiness had gone. He knew the drivers, of course. They were obvious. Marcia’s frostiness. Discontentment. Disappointment in him to the point of anger, really. The whole P.J. issue. He wished she realized how much he loved his son. And now Casey. The one bright spot was Katherine, and while he knew Marcia liked Katherine, she somehow saw his strong feelings for his daughter as a threat. He couldn’t understand how that could be.
Missy had helped before, but this time her advice didn’t work. It was like taking pain pills that didn’t make your headache go away. Preston knew that he could not lose Marcia or P.J. No matter what. He had to solve this on his own. He arranged for a car to take him home.
Preston walked in the door and immediately sensed the quiet. He felt dizzy, recalling a time not that long ago when he found a note on the credenza from Marcia telling him she had left. He searched the credenza and was relieved to find no note. Just then the door opened, and in came P.J. in his stroller, being pushed by Marcia.
“Marcia!” he exclaimed. “I am so happy to see you and P.J.”
Marcia stood in place, staring at him for a moment. “You thought I’d left, didn’t you? Just packed up P.J. and left.”
“Yes, I did. To be honest, it scared me.”
“Get used to it. You’ll be okay,” Marcia said, lifting P.J. out of the stroller, taking him into his room, placing him gently on the changing table. Preston followed her. She changed P.J.’s diaper and repositioned his hearing aids while talking to him in a happy, buoyant manner. It dawned on Preston that he had yet to touch P.J.’s hearing aids. He silently cursed himself for the oversight.
Marcia took P.J. to the kitchen, put him in his high chair, prepared his dinner, and fed him.
Preston sat in an adjoining chair at the table, looking on and feeling stupid. “This probably isn’t a good time to talk.”
“Correct.”
“I really need to talk to you. When can we talk?”
“After he has dinner, I give him a bath.”
Preston cursed himself again. He’d watched the bath routine, but he hadn’t really given P.J. one himself.
“Then, I put him in his cuddly sleeper, and we sit on a blanket in the living room while he stacks the cups and then puts the rings on the plastic post. Then he crawls over every inch of our condo floor, explores all the outlets to see if they still have the plastic safety covers, pulls himself up on the TV, hits the bottom of the screen with his hand, and gives me a look that means he wants to see cartoons again. But I don’t fall for that because it will keep him awake. Instead, I read him a story, put him to bed, sing to him, and, if I’m lucky, he goes to sleep.”
Preston had a routine of his own. He retreated from the table, went to his den, grabbed the cut-crystal decanter, poured himself a four-finger scotch, and collapsed in his leather chair, talking to himself.