"Meg? You invested in Meg?" She gasps.
"Yeah. You know it?” I ask, genuinely surprised.
"Of course I know it! I’m in the fashion industry. They're top of the line. They have none of that fast fashion crap that just pollutes all of the landfills in the world. They're actually able to give people a good price and make a hefty profit."
“That's what I thought, too.” I smile. “That’s why we invested. I mean, who doesn't want Target or TJ Maxx prices with designer quality?"
28
Dante
After my conversation with Mom, she's on cloud nine: excited, jubilant, confident in her designs. Obviously, decisions have to be made about the direction of this fledgling company, but she appreciates my approval, not just because I'm her son, but because I'm a man.
Despite all of her experiences and confidence as a woman, I know that she's seeking out, and perhaps will always be seeking out the approval of men that have no business approving anything that she does or doesn't do with her life.
Lincoln and Marguerite have arrived while we were upstairs, and Mom made no rush to greet them.
"Lina will show them in," Mom says when I mention this fact.
At first I’m concerned but, after talking to her about her purses, I'm glad that I could lift her spirits up a little bit prior to seeing Lincoln and Marguerite.
When we get downstairs, Lincoln is getting a beer out of the fridge. Mom immediately makes a face when she sees Marguerite. It’s rather subtle, but I notice it. The thing about her is that once she writes you off as someone who is a less than an acceptable choice for one of her sons, there's little that anyone can do.
Marguerite had the unfortunate experience of meeting Mom in college, dressed in sweats. Mom had dropped by and Marguerite just happened to be there studying in his room, hair unwashed, face without makeup. It was just a typical Tuesday night study session at Yale. And yet, for some reason, Mom couldn't grasp that concept.
I give them both hugs. Marguerite holds a glass of water, takes a sip, and cuts herself a lemon wedge.
"How are you feeling?” I ask and her eyes immediately flash up to me.
"Fine. Fine. Everything's great,” she says a little too quickly.
I was asking about the pregnancy, of course, but trying not to be too obvious.
"How's work?" I ask.
"Busy, tiring, but very rewarding," Marguerite says.
"So what kind of things do you usually do at the ER?" Mom asks after a cool hello.
She pours herself a glass of lemonade and offers us some as well, but we all decline.
She ushers us to the sitting room that's rarely used except for occasions like these and sits down in her grand white linen chair with a big oil painting of herself in a ravishing red gown. There’s a little black dog by her feet who belonged to a neighbor, but whom Mom loved.
She loved him so much that she included him in the painting instead of us, who were just kids then.
You can read into that as much as you like, but I choose not to.
Marguerite sits right next to Lincoln, placing her hands on the edge of her knees. She actually watched a number of YouTube videos about how to be a lady in order to make a better impression on our mom.
She learned not to cross her legs at the knees, but rather at the ankles, sit up straight, wear nude nail polish. In my opinion, she basically learned how to get rid of every part of her personality just to appease some person that honestly could never be appeased.
Lincoln exchanges looks with his wife, and I take a sip of my beer knowing that it's about to begin.
After a little bit of chitchat, he launches into it.
“Mom, we wanted to tell you that we have some great news."
She sits up a little straighter and raises one eyebrow.
"Oh, yes?"
"Yes, Marguerite and I are expecting a baby,” he says and her face falls. With her lips tensing up, forming a slim straight line across her face, she looks like she's about to say something incredibly mean.
Glancing over at me, I give her a smile of encouragement, but when I realize that she's a little bit slow on the reaction time, I stand up and embrace both of them with a big bear hug.
"Oh my God! I’m so happy for you guys. When are you due?” I ask, pretending that I don’t already know.
“October,” they say, beaming.
I hug and congratulate them again and again, trying to fill the room with my own happiness to make up for my mom's lack thereof.
It takes Mom a few moments to recover her composure. She quickly paints a smile on her face and gives both of them a hug.
I hope that they can't tell, but I sense some hesitation. Still, there's only so much they can do and so much that they can expect from her.
For now, it seems to be enough.
Right before dinner is served, my phone rings and I have to take it.
"We're going to be sitting down," Mom scolds me like a child.
"Listen, this is work. I'll make it quick. I promise."
"Hey, how's it going, Cedar?" I ask.
"How's it going?” he roars into the phone. “I talked to Vasko again and he said that you never called him back.”
My jaw tightens up.
"Listen, I went over the financials, taking out what I thought about Vasko personally, and that company just doesn't make sense. There's so much money going out and then a bunch coming in from unusual sources.”
"So what are you trying to say?" Cedar asks.
His voice sounds gruff on the phone and I can practically hear him sucking down a cigarette and smell the bourbon on his lips.
"I don't want the investors to put their money with Vasko. I'm not going to make that recommendation,” I say, standing firm. "I wasn't lying when I said that I went over the financials again and there were a lot of red flags. It's almost as if the entire company is some sort of shell organization."
"Listen, you don't have a choice on this one,” Cedar says, moving in his chair as I hear that loud creaking sound of oak and leather underneath his substantial mass. "This is going to happen. We're going to invest with Vasko.”
I pause for a moment. I've walked into another room, the library with old leather bound editions, many of them quite rare and signed by authors.
Cedar has never talked to me this way. I was always the one in charge of the investors that I brought in and the ones that were assigned to me. My entire job is to use what I know and my own intuition to decide whether or not to trust a certain company with our money.
This is very subjective work, but I've become quite good at it over the years. Often investing in businesses that are fledgling, but had the type of CEOs who would go to the ends of the earth to grow their sales and to become successful.
I saw none of that in Vasko. He is lazy and bored.
It's almost as if he was handed the company by someone else and told to run it and he has no idea what he's doing.
I go over all of this with Cedar.
He listens as I pace around the lacquered, hardwood floors, feeling the material of the twelve-foot French imported curtains sewn with silk thread.
This is part of the house that retained its original charm. There's a large oak desk in the corner, looking out onto the pond outside. This is the place where I would sit as a kid and read every Isaac Asimov book I could find, imagining worlds filled with spaceships, aliens, and large intergalactic battle scenes.