Page 41 of The False Flat

“Doesn’t matter. They’re meeting you for dinner, right?”

I nodded. “They haven’t rescheduled . . . yet.”

“Go to the meeting. Win them over. You’ll need to change, of course.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “What have you picked out for me to wear?”

“Right this way.”

“Just coffee and dessert for us. We ate before we came.” Mrs. Fletcher pointed to the tres leches cake and handed her menu back to the waiter.

I wasn’t all that hungry, either, but I was suddenly craving that table-side bike I’d fantasized about at Deanna’s. Perhaps a portable unicycle, something I could unfold out of my purse and ride around the restaurant because my dinner companions weren’t planning to eat—

Dinner.

I racked my brain for words, but I was too late. Mr. Fletcher was already speaking.

“I’m afraid we can’t put our trust in you.”

“Fiduciary!”

Oh crap. Oh flying, I-can’t-believe-I-just-shouted-that CRAP.

“Excuse me?”

I thought about looking over at the other table and pretending someone else had yelled out a random financial term. I needed this. I needed them. “Please. Please give me a chance. You know what I can do.” I was extremely close to getting on my knees and grabbing their hands.

I opened my satchel in search of the paperwork where I’d laid out investment strategies, retirement income securities, potential risks, potential goals, where they were now, where I could take them. There were even pie charts, colorful ones I’d had printed on glossy paper with a professional logo on it. I’d even calculated all their assets in pairs of shoes, which Mrs. Fletcher loved!

Mrs. Fletcher put her hand on mine to stop me from opening the folder, the one that had taken three attempts to get out of my bag because my hands were shaking.

Shoes! Didn’t she want to see how many shoes she’d be able to buy with me managing her money? Thousands, millions of shoes.

“We do know.” Mrs. Fletcher’s voice was soft. “Which is why this has been such a hard decision for us. However, given your . . . background, we simply can’t.”

“My background? You know I managed . . .” I stopped, trying to think of a single large company whose finances I’d handled. I couldn’t think, and I couldn’t say, You know that mattress place with all the mattresses, or that electronics distributor that makes the tiny little gadgets that go in the bigger machines? Finally, vaguely, I said, “I’ve managed large companies.”

“We have no doubts regarding your financial expertise,” Mr. Fletcher said. “It’s your values that fall short.”

Values?

This had nothing to do with my professional reputation and everything to do with my personal one.

“I didn’t know he was married,” I whispered. It shouldn’t be about this. This was personal, none of their business, and I hated that I felt compelled to say it.

Mrs. Fletcher’s pitying gaze cut deep. “But your father. And now, we hear that you’re with the man who . . . it . . . well, I think you can understand the position we’re in.”

No, I couldn’t understand. Reversing our stations, I’d want my money in the most capable hands without considering the person’s personal life. I’d want my money in my hands.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Mrs. Fletcher said into my stunned silence, “we aren’t staying with TCF. Houston’s behavior was inexcusable, and we won’t reward it.”

I didn’t care about Houston. I cared about my business and how much easier life would be if I had the Fletchers in my book. I opened my mouth to tell them why Chad and I were together. How he and his wife had both been miserable. How it wasn’t black and white, how—but none of it mattered. They’d made their mind up about me. And the Fletchers and the Gwinns, Chad’s family, knew each other, which probably meant they knew his wife’s family. Who knew what had been said, how this narrative had been spun. I only had Chad’s perspective, and he’d likely only tell me what was favorable, which made me wonder what he wasn’t saying, like how his parents had taken the news about his divorce. And why he was staying with my mother and not his own family. It didn’t add up, but I couldn’t process those things right now.

“Is there anything I can say to change your mind?” I asked, defeat inching up my spine.

Mrs. Fletcher shook her head. “I’m afraid the decision has been made. I’m sorry. We wish you the best.”

They both stood. They weren’t even going to eat the cake. I watched Mrs. Fletcher tuck her arm into Mr. Fletcher’s, and the handsomely dressed pair—her in her bright-blue shift and him in a black suit with a tie that matched her dress—left the restaurant without a backward glance.