Chapter 34
I FLIP THE LIGHT SWITCH in my home office and immediately shudder when I notice the lily wilting in the corner.
I hate plants. Correction: I hate plants in my home.
I love them in other people’s homes. Rubbing their silky leaves, I find myself agreeing to cuttings and listening to watering and fertilizing schedules as if I’ll intuitively comply.
A big part of me knows, even from the first conversation, that I will regret accepting the new pot.
But a small part of me is unreasonably optimistic.
It’s not all my fault. Seems my friends ought to have discovered my murderous bent.
They should’ve banned me from ever accepting another green baby.
Now, I live with the knowledge that at any moment I could be asked, Meredith, where’s the gorgeous Boston fern that used to be in your front window?
Or Meredith, where are you hiding the parlor palm Cathy gave you?
As opposed to my previous green office dwellers, who seemed to thrive for weeks and then inexplicably shrivel up into a brown tangle, I appreciate how the peace lily wilts after only a few days, as if calling out to me, Hey, lady, I’m as dry as one of your mother’s store-bought biscotti.
I empty the half-full glass of water from my desk into its white-speckled soil. Promising us both future hydration, I open my inbox. As I scan and reply to a few congratulatory and follow-up emails, I see it. Phil has responded.
From: Phil Langford (Phil.Langford@)
To: Meredith Hansel (Meredith.Hansel@ )
Your slides look excellent for Monday. Expect some good conversation following your pitch. Joanne will have ideas. Probably a few of the others as well. Run the task force by Hardwin.
Phil
I read the five sentences twice to tease out the true meaning.
His first sentence translates to—after a cursory glance at my pitch document, he skimmed the slides and will likely send me last-minute notes on Sunday.
Good conversation means the trustees are ruffled.
Joanne Ketter’s addition to the board has likely disrupted the testosterone status quo.
She has new ideas around governance, which means the men, who talk of accountability but shrug off the yoke themselves, are raising bureaucratic concerns.
I need to be prepared for difficult feedback that will look like pushback but is actually posturing.
His last sentence, six words on the task force, is where I focus all my hard-fought political acumen.
My effort to put together a task force seems like overkill, but he doesn’t want to be priced out of the market we created.
Yellow light. I will need Hardwin’s go-ahead, which is, of course, a nonstarter.
The questions of what Phil knows about there being a separate securities lending agreement and if he knows the data is likely legitimate, remain unanswered.
And I won’t speculate. Not today.
Instead, I hit reply and type.
From: Meredith Hansel (Meredith.Hansel@ )
To: Phil Langford (Phil.Langford@)
Phil,
Thanks for the heads-up. I’m out of the office until Monday, but let me know if there’s anything else I can do to prepare for the board meeting.
I recently realized I don’t have the fully executed custodial agreement including securities lending.
Can you have one of your admins send it over or let me know where I can track it down?
Thanks again,
Meredith
Each word was hard to type. I press send before I rethink how I’m exposing my own flank. If he knows about possible lending issues, this is a clear shot across his bow. I scrub my cheeks with my stiff fingers.
Distracting myself, I read a message from Alyssa.
She’s looked into the new funds and wants to know if she should set up meetings for me next week.
I tell her yes, not for me but for her and Temor.
Why don’t they take the lead on exploring the right index partner?
As soon as I press send, an email from Phil hits my inbox.
I’ve never heard back from him this quickly.
From: Phil Langford (Phil.Langford@)
To: Meredith Hansel (Meredith.Hansel@ )
Will have contract and board notes sent. Hope they’re helpful.
Phil
He’s letting them be sent without hesitation.
This should relieve me, but his speed makes my stomach clench.
He’s also sending me notes, likely the minutes, from a past board meeting.
I dig the base of my cross necklace into my chest. The pain exposes my frustration.
I should have been the one to ask for the minutes when I asked for the contract.
I can’t forget these details if I’m going to figure this all out.
The notes will likely tell me what was said about the custodial agreement including the securities lending policy for the ETFs.
I’ve only been to a few board meetings, when particular milestones have been reached, like the ETFs’ launch and getting on the Meymack platform.
I was so proud. I guess I still am; it’s hard to tell.
There must have been something discussed about the contract in a board meeting that he thinks I will find helpful.
Maybe the board agreed to the stand-alone contract, although I can’t see how.
The word helpful keeps drawing my gaze. It’s often batted about with sarcasm, like when someone lectures in a meeting when a single sentence would’ve sufficed.
Well, that was helpful. Or when someone needs a time-consuming task or goes off topic, the other might respond, I’d like to be helpful but . . .
I push back in my seat still staring at the email. “Helpful.”
“What?” Erika stands on one foot in my open doorway, her pretty head cocked to one side.
“Oh, hey.” I smile up at her.
“I’m going to make a smoothie. Want one?” she asks.
What time is it? I check my computer clock. Almost two o’clock. How is that possible? Didn’t we just finish breakfast? We were on our way to the Poconos.
“Lost track of time again?” Erika smirks.
“Yeah. I thought I just sat down.”
“My European history teacher says that’s a sign you’re doing what you love, when the time flies by.” She glances around the room. “Hey, your plant is green.”
“So surprised?”
“A living houseplant hits different inside this house.” Erika pinches one of the petals.
I partially rise from my desk chair. “Are you making sure it’s real?”
“Legitimate question.” She turns around toward me with a small smile, and I’m hit by the maturity etching her features.
Her shapely eyebrows frame her large eyes, which look almost violet in the lower light of the room.
Her mouth, not as prominent as mine, has full lips that are naturally a warm shade of pink.
“I can still picture you as a baby grabbing at my necklace.”
“That was a long time ago, Mom. Smoothie?” She turns.
“Sure.” Spell broken, I stretch and feel for the thin gold chain at my neck.
Not the same gold chain as sixteen years ago but bearing the same petite cross from my grandmother.
She gave it to me when we arrived home from the hospital with Erika.
The first gift I opened. With her hand covering mine, Oma spoke of resting in the truth of God’s love.
I so easily agreed. Growing up, I paid only passing attention to her devout Catholicism—more of a quirky personality trait than an invitation to any real faith.
Her daughter, my mother, believes only in what she can see and what she can affect, which made sense to my logical mind.
I’ve worn the religious symbol off and on during my parenting years, but it’s become a habit over the last few months.
Holding on to it now makes me yearn for something lost, or maybe something I’ve never truly found.