The Year of Finallys

By Antonia Josephs

2008 should be the Year of Nina—the perfect wedding, finally making partner after twelve years with her firm, and mastery over the inner demons from the tragic event that still haunts her. But as the world careens toward financial crisis, Nina’s personal and professional lives begin to mirror all that is collapsing around her.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781543906738

Book preview

Heights

Chapter 1

This will be my year, the year of the finallys: I will finally set a wedding date with Bradley, my fiancé of two years; I will finally make partner after twelve long years with the firm; I will finally end my ten-year relationship with Rafa, for good this time; and I will finally find the peace that I lost on 9-11.

Christmas at Bradley’s parents’ home in Cincinnati is the ideal launching pad for attaining my 2008 aspirations. The Goldy’s are the type of family I’ve always dreamed of joining. Bradley’s parents, community leaders and family-values stalwarts, are textbook role models. They raised three gorgeous sons with strong morals and good educations, in a home full of traditions, rich with love. In less than twenty-four hours I will be with them, singing carols by their fireplace, while sipping egg nog and admiring this year’s Christmas tree.

I hope to arrive in Cincinnati less frazzled than when I departed. I missed my flight because my client’s Executive Committee meeting ran long and then my cab got stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway. I scoured every airline for availability and pleaded for a seat to anyone who would listen, before scoring 35B (yes, a middle seat, second row from the bathroom) on the last flight out tonight.

I must admit, sitting unplugged for the two hours of this flight is a welcome break. Work was a relentless horserace all summer and the intensity has amplified since Labor Day. That I am up for partner in the firm’s Banking Division this year compounds my need to perform and deliver. In addition, Bradley’s once bottomless well of understanding for my demanding schedule is scraping ground.

Bradley’s support began to wane around Halloween when he lost his job. His general freezing grew progressively worse, then it multiplied right before Thanksgiving, when I realized that I had to go into work that Friday. This prevented me from attending the Goldy’s celebration and, perhaps more disappointing to Bradley, his high school’s homecoming football game. I can still see his face contorted with anger when I delivered the news and can hear the slam of the front door after he stormed out of our apartment. The clock read 3:17 am when he returned.

I tried indulging him as best as I could but Bradley punished me anyway, extending his Thanksgiving stay in Cincinnati to eleven days. When he returned, we both put on our best faces, and I promised him more balance and a 100% work-free Christmas week. On vacation in Cincinnati we will relax together, renew our commitment, and plan our long-awaited wedding. It has been an exhausting month of walking on eggshells, trying to get everything right to make it to the holidays, while keeping Bradley’s spirits afloat despite his so-far fruitless job search. Aside from missing my flight, I made it.

My anxiety about our relationship rears itself the moment the plane lands. Waiting for the thirty-four rows ahead of me to disembark, however, gives me ample time to consider what a good man Bradley is and how lucky I am to have him. I am determined to bring us to the finish line after two years of waiting. This will be our year, finally.

I exit the plane and dash to the pick-up area. The instant I catch sight of him my heart fills with hope, Bradley! Bradley!

 His eyes catch mine in recognition; they look dull. My fears about him and our relationship pinch my heart. Nevertheless, I hug him with joy and he returns it with a lifeless peck on the cheek.

You made it, he monotones.

I half smile, shrug and step back. I moved heaven and Earth to get on that flight to make it here by Christmas Eve. It was the best I could do and I came up short for him. Again.

The ride from the airport to his parents’ home is long and silent. I consider raising his presumably hurt feelings for discussion, but I just don’t have it in me.

***

Driving down the Goldy’s street, with each home more decorated than the next, I feel somewhat renewed with holiday spirit. The family’s stately colonial then comes into view, looking as grand as ever, in its full Christmas glory.

We enter the dimly lit house through the garage, pass through the kitchen, into the living room and head down the basement stairs to Bradley’s bedroom. While I hunt through my suitcase for my nighttime essentials, Bradley takes a pillow from the bed then leaves the room.

I put on my flannels and take my toothbrush to the bathroom when I see Bradley making up a bed on the couch in the basement’s make-shift den. Confusion ripples through me.   

You’re sleeping out here?

Yep, he replies.

I’m sorry that you’re upset that I’m late, but are you really so mad that you prefer to sleep out here? Without me?

Yep, he repeats as he lies down and pulls a cover over himself.

His anger at me is worse than I could have imagined. Nothing I say will change his mind right now, so there’s no point in continuing. I skip my nighttime routine and get into bed, my heart and head heavy with hurt and exhaustion.

***

By the time Bradley awakens me from the basement bedroom, the day is nearly half over (by Goldy standards, that is) - breakfast long completed, lunch well underway, last minute dinner details hammered out. I don’t mind, I need the sleep and relish being free of decision-making. Besides, I had learned during our nearly five years together that they had their schedules and customs from which there was no wavering.

I get ready quickly, eager to turn things around and launch my week with Bradley. Here, together, enjoying Goldy traditions while planning our future, we will reverse our rut and resume our trajectory.

Mrs. Goldy greets me warmly and offers me the lunch plate she saved. She informs me that Mr. Goldy and Bradley went to the hardware store to buy replacement holiday lights and garbage bags. After devouring my sandwich, she assigns me present wrapping duty while she continues preparing the family’s annual Christmas Eve dinner of duck with apple and sausage stuffing.

The afternoon flashes by with its constant stream of visits from relatives and guests bearing presents, treats and familiar stories. There seems to be no end to the cookies, coffee, conversation, and exchange of impeccably wrapped gifts. I cherish this abundance of holiday spirit, which I never knew growing up. For my sisters and me, Christmas Eve was a day of joyless passing, when we would trek from Mom’s to Dad’s or vice versa.

Bradley and his father return with just enough time for them to shower before dinner. Mrs. Goldy asks me to set the table, which for twenty-five guests leaves me no time to slip downstairs to chat with Bradley and assess his emotional distance from me.

Mrs. Goldy’s seating instructions place spouses and fiancés at opposite ends of the table, thus further prolonging Bradley’s and my separation. I get sandwiched between Bradley’s brothers who discretely ask me about Bradley’s job search. I offer very little because Bradley told me to stop inquiring – when there was news, he would inform me.

His brothers shift gears and talk nonstop about college football. I start to think about all that I am missing at home: eating Mom’s delicious Christmas Eve dinner of the seven fishes, indulging in too much of my sister Josephine’s strawberry cheesecake, and laughing at absentminded Maria, who is no doubt one present short and one glass of wine too many again this year.

The divine German feast and dessert of fruitcake and gingerbread clean up quickly. Then, right on schedule, we shuttle to church to catch the choir’s annual Christmas concert, before midnight mass. While the season’s songs always strike a melancholy chord, especially since 2001, tonight sadness consumes me and I am on the verge of tears as we sing Joy to the World.

To prevent my tears from popping, I tune out the song and focus my thoughts on our wedding plans and upcoming appointments. We agreed long ago to have the wedding here in Cincinnati since the Goldys are so well established and will want all their friends to attend. Come what may, we will not return to New York until we set our wedding date, juggling the availabilities of the reception hall, caterer, and band.

Our two years of savings and sacrifices, no birthday or Christmas presents for each other or loved ones, our tiny apartment and no-frills vacations, will finally be spent on this celebration. I confess that Bradley’s austerity mandate was hard at first, but I have grown accustomed to the financial discipline and view it as a path to the future. There should even be some money left, I hope, for a down payment to buy an apartment or at least the freedom to lease a bigger space in the City.

At the sign of peace exchange, I get a small kiss from Bradley. I am relieved and renewed. I notice how adorable he looks in his green turtleneck and red vest. I wonder when he last got his hair cut, it had grown way too long. My goodness, he looks so handsome tonight, as fine as the night he proposed to me.

Back at the house, we all enjoy a night cap of spiced egg nog. While the Goldys relax, gossiping about people I don’t know, I fight my fatigue for as long as possible before politely retreating to the basement. I get into bed and hope that Bradley will sleep join me.

Later I awaken as he comes in and lies down next to me. It feels good. I turn over to touch him but the site of his back stops me. His presence in bed is progress though, and I am confident that tomorrow we will get back on track.

***

Christmas morning I awaken to Bradley’s nieces’ and nephews’ footsteps pattering above me. I shower and after a fair amount of primping, hoist on my tights and dress and head upstairs. In the kitchen, I pour myself some coffee and glance out the window spying Bradley chasing the kids in the backyard. They cling to his legs, arms, back, and shoulders until he playfully collapses under their weight. They roll over each other and then they pile on top of him. He’s beaming, the happiest I have seen him in ages. That is the man I will marry this year.

I hear the garage door open and the family car pull in. It’s Mr. and Mrs. Goldy and Bradley’s brothers and their wives returning from distributing holiday gifts to underprivileged children at an annual VFW-sponsored breakfast with Santa. Their arrival signals that the family gift-exchange will soon begin and Bradley and the kids excitedly scamper inside.

Assembling around the fireplace in the great room, the children unwrap their presents with sheer delight, uncovering Lego sets, Lincoln Logs, sleds, and games. Now, while the kids are preoccupied with their new treasures, the adult gift exchange begins. Mrs. Goldy presents me with this year’s cashmere cardigan, a black one to add to my Goldy Christmas collection. I received a tan one last year, brown the year before, and a pink one the year before that.

After I thank her, Bradley stands with two small boxes. He gives one to his mother and one to his father, producing surprised eyes and dropped jaws among the family. Since he has not given gifts for two years because we have been saving for our wedding and given his unemployed status, these presents are completely unexpected, most of all to me.

Mrs. Goldy unwraps her box and there is a collective sigh when a gorgeous Movado watch is revealed. I join the oohs and aahs, not dignifying the painful strains in my stomach and heart. When Mr. Goldy unwraps Bradley’s present, a matching Movado watch, I think I am going to be sick. I discretely inhale and fix a smile on my face. I am utterly astonished as Bradley then produces presents for his brothers (even pre-cohabitation budget he never bought them gifts!). Each box contains a Thomas Pink shirt with a matching tie. Then gifts to their wives materialize - Brooks Brothers twin sets! As they shower him with gratitude, I pray that my seething doesn’t explode beneath my crumbling facade.

The ringing doorbell announces the arrival of aunts, uncles and cousins with young children. Kisses, hugs, and well-wishes are exchanged. The doorbell rings again and the loving excitement multiplies. Unable to feign holiday cheer a moment longer, I pick up dirty dishes and bring them to the kitchen to remove myself from the merry making. I squelch my impulse to load the dishwasher because I was politely forbidden from doing so two years ago by Mrs. Goldy. Seems she could no longer tolerate my apparent insufficient rinsing and comingling of knives, forks, and spoons, (faces down!) in the silverware basket.

Bradley glides in then halts, the sight of him chokes me. Our savings! We agreed! The extravagance for God’s sake! One for each of them! No present for me.

As he buries himself in the refrigerator, I pronounce in a strained whisper, I would have never done that to you.

After a pause, he closes the refrigerator door and turns to face me, before sniping, You’re right. You would have done it over the phone or while reading your BlackBerry.

Before I can put together a response, he tramps back into the living room.

It’s all I can do to keep myself together. Why is he doing this? Why? I am here, celebrating Christmas with his family for the fourth straight year! I practically ran here from New York City and this is what I get? A punch in the gut from my fiancé and a shapeless sweater bought at some countdown to Christmas super sale from my future mother-in-law!

I find the strength to re-join the crowded living room. I am relieved when Aunt Grace politely engages me, Bradley says you’re up for partner this year.

I smile and nod, Yes, but it’s a long process, lots of room for failure. I laugh, I don’t know why. For my next round I have an interview with a partner outside my line of service.

Aunt Grace’s eyes glaze over and there’s a slight pause before she belatedly offers, Well that’s terrific, best of luck, dear. As she steps away awkwardly, my tears of sadness, anger, and confusion well up.

To avoid the humiliation of a total meltdown in front of four generations of Goldys, I discretely slip down to the basement. I lie down in the dark, windowless room and listen to the kids’ scuttling and adult laughter above me. As my tears begin to stream, I pull a blanket over me hoping to keep the room’s cool dampness at bay.

***

I must have dozed off for an hour because the clock reads two-thirty, almost dinner time. I wonder if anyone has noticed my absence. I wonder if Bradley has noticed.

I check my BlackBerry and am a little surprised to still not see any messages from Burke, my partner sponsor and lead partner on my audit at Bramhass Brothers.

I debate whether to spend the rest of my 33rd Christmas in this dank, dark room or to simply call a car and depart now.

Nina, are you down there? Dinner’s about to be served! Nina? Mrs. Goldy calls.

I hesitate before responding, Be right up.

I climb out of bed and stick my BlackBerry in the backside of my control top tights and head upstairs, one tentative step at a time.

In the crowded living room, I join the buffet queue that has formed and scoop out food that I will not eat: string bean casserole, pot roast, cheesed potatoes, and of course, white bread dinner rolls.

Where is the wine? On a tiny table, tucked in a corner on the opposite side of the room, I notice the three bottles meant to satisfy the twenty-five adults. Why must Mrs. Goldy do this? She does this every year! Who in their right mind thinks this is enough wine?! Am I the only person that is sick of her burdening everyone at every celebration with her alcohol issues?

Just as I pour an inappropriately full glass, a vibration pulsates against my lower back. I must admit, the sensation is terrific. I duck into the kitchen, place my plate and glass on a counter, then head straight into the garage while pulling the BlackBerry out of my tights. I see that it’s Burke before answering.

Merry stinking Christmas. Jesus Christ, Nina, I’m so sorry to disturb you. Classic Burke.

What’s up, Burke? I say as if it were any old Tuesday in December.

Gideon Gurden broke his leg in three places and something about a punctured lung. Translation: the lead partner on the Bramhass account in London is incapacitated.

That’s terrible. So what does that mean for us? I know exactly what it means.

They brought Lee Ann’s father home from the hospital yesterday; he’s touch and go at best. Hospice is here… I really need you to fly out tomorrow morning from wherever the hell you are, Columbus? Indianapolis? Middle Earth?

Cincinnati.

Yeah, yeah. The team is delivering a preliminary 2007 look back and 2008 forecast to the EMEA CFO and COO on January 3rd. You know that team, Nina, they need adult supervision. I wouldn’t ask this if I didn’t have to. He wouldn’t. He knows how badly I need a break because he needs one just as desperately.

I’ll be on the first flight out tomorrow morning. It was too easy to say.

As I step out of the frigid garage into the warm kitchen, Bradley walks in from the great room with an empty ice bowl. He glances at me then glares at my BlackBerry. He turns to the freezer and empties an ice tray into the steel bowl, the clatter rumbles through me. He replaces the tray and closes the freezer. He pauses before taking the full bowl back into the great room without facing me.

Merry Christmas to you too! I screech at the swinging kitchen door.

Chapter 2

They want you gone, Nina. Burke barks at me. He’s referring to the smack our Bramhass London team is talking about me. Sick of those spineless idiots, I left London two days early. I knew there would be Hell to pay, so despite being miserably jet-lagged, I came straight to the office from JFK just to get Burke’s berating over with.

I dig in my bag and find the Mass card that I picked up at a Catholic church in London for Burke’s father-in-law and place it on his desk.

He pauses and picks up the card. Thanks.

I’m sorry.

He smiles graciously then changes gears. Hey, don’t sidetrack me! Not now, OK? Please? How about you cut the bullshit and work together with those assholes over there?! This is a stale conversation that started out fair enough over a year ago. But with each visit I make to London, my opinion of and respect for my English counterparts reach new lows.

I retort, You know as well as I do that their accounting is fiction! We are attesting to the public that Bramhass is a Mercedes when it’s a go-cart! No engine, no brakes, and bald tires! Burke, it’s getting worse, the bank is in way over its head. And so is our firm. The public is being misled. You ask me to think like a partner and act like a partner. Well, I am. We need to disclose their illegal accounting of their derivatives!

Trying desperately to keep his cool, Burke replies through clenched teeth, Don’t say illegal. One of the best legal firms in London approves of it.

And not one law firm in the Unites States would! Burke, Bramhass is taking more than itself down, it’s destroying the financial markets!

He shakes his head, not in disagreement but in recognition of how tough a situation this is. I know he is with me on this; he is smart and has a conscience. But he is no maverick; he won’t stand alone. It’s not his style. As much as Burke loves to bicker, he despises real confrontation.

Perhaps most important, Bramhass is a huge cash cow for our firm. Pressing for them to disclose their wildly liberal accounting interpretation would risk the millions in phantom revenue they currently show as real. This would rob them of their credibility to their customers, who would cease trading with them. No credit, no trading, no revenue. And as a direct consequence, it would risk the tens of millions Bramhass pays our firm annually.

Burke’s phone rings and he sighs before answering. I glance over to his credenza and study the photographs commemorating our sixth (his twenty-sixth) Annual former-Fed Friends Labor Day golf outings with Roger Kubarych and Lloyd Svoboda. Burke claims I was selected to replace Miller Freidman (who moved to Australia) because I am his only other friend not in the foursome. Roger insists they were trying to lower the median age of the group. Lloyd contends they were looking to increase the quad’s attractiveness quotient. Whatever the reason, my selection was not based on my golf game. Nevertheless, it is an honor to be part of this former Federal Reserve foursome, and every year it gets more deliciously irreverent and downright fun.

My BlackBerry hums with its urgent buzz. A bang email from the Partner Candidate Program is the culprit. What the hell does the PCP want?

Please note change to your Partner Candidacy interview:

From January 14th, with Michaela Velleca, Partner, Healthcare, Chicago, 2- 3, office 35.125

To: January 8th, with Marjorie Adams, Partner, Industrials, Philadelphia, 11 – 12, office 10.208

Holy shit! That’s tomorrow!

I mouth to Burke, I have to go.

He holds up a finger. Locating then pressing the mute button, he barks, What, what, what?! We’re not done here!

They moved my partner interview to tomorrow with Marjorie Adams.

Never heard of her.

Industrials, Philadelphia.

Burke scoffs, That explains it… A no margin, bullshit line of service in an armpit metro area. Are you ready?

I’m totally, one hundred percent ready for this.

Go, go, go. Knock ‘em dead. Call me when you’re out.

I will.

He stands and points his index finger at me, Don’t fuck up.

I roll my eyes at him, Have I ever let you down?

I grab my bags and hustle out of his office then treat myself to a cab home. I run through my outfit in my head: new navy suit, shoes bought to match, and my mom’s pearls for good luck. I have my notes, questions, and business case profile in my bag to study. If I am where I want to be by seven, I’ll hit the seven-thirty vinyasa class at Ishti Yoga, which will center me, calm my nerves, and help me sleep tonight.

Partnership is one interview away. It’s so close I can almost taste it.

Entering my building I notice the inner entry door is held open with a large plastic container filled with clothes and our Cuisinart toaster oven rests on top of it. I hustle up the three flights to our apartment to find our door wide open and our living room barren.

As I spot Bradley’s jacket on a chair, confusion ripples through me. We agreed to temporarily separate, for him to just pick up a few things on Saturday, when we could talk.

My heart sinks as I take a few steps inside. Bradley shuffles out of the bedroom, clinically surveying the living room, before he sees me and halts.

You’re two days early, the only words I could find.

Had to expedite, I start my new job on Monday.

You got a job! That’s great! With who?

Ohio Energy. I interviewed over Thanksgiving break and just finalized the details yesterday.

What?! You never mentioned you were interviewing in Cincinnati?

That’s the only city I was looking in. Another revelation.

OK. Well then … there has to be a regional bank in Cincinnati that the firm audits … I will look into transferring there.

Anger crosses his face. No!

You know that work is the most demanding it’s ever been. I’m up for partner for God sakes! Our separation is temporary. We agreed. You agreed.

I never agreed.

Liar. You said you understood…This phase it will end.

End? What about your afternoon meetings with Rafa at the Palace Hotel?! When will they end?!

FUCK!

JK Clivio was on my flight home at Christmas. He thought he saw you kissing a ‘tall, funky looking dude with thick glasses’ in the Palace Hotel Courtyard this summer.

The captain of Bradley’s winter hockey league and fellow Ohioan, JK was always a fair-weather friend to Bradley. I couldn’t stand his smug, Midwestern nonchalance. That he spotted me on July 28th at my semiannual interlude with my first love and ex-boyfriend, and had the bloody audacity to report it Bradley five months after the fact, makes me sick.

RAFA! He scorches.

With all the calm that I can muster, Bradley, it’s you I want. I want us.

Bradley scoffs, I keep wishing for the return of the woman I proposed to, but she is gone, gone for good. And you… you are a stranger to me.

He walks out of the apartment and I listen to his heavy-footed steps down the stairs. I hear the scrape of the plastic container across the foyer floor and then the slam of the inner entry door.

He’s gone.

RRRRRR…

What was that noise?! It sounded like a steam roller stormed the floor above?

BOOM! FLASH!

AH! Was that a fireball?!

Dear God, was that an explosion?!

FIRE! THAT’S FIRE! Fire is roaring from just across the way?!

I’ve never seen fire like that.

I smell gas?!

Gas? Up here?

Stop! I can’t get overwhelmed now… I have too much to do. I hustle to the medicine cabinet and I am relieved to see there’s one and half tablets of Xanax left. Before taking the half, I consider that it often gives me the bitchies the next day. But I have no choice, no alternatives to getting through the next twenty-four hours. I take it then study myself in the mirror. Put the pain away, Nina. Go there tomorrow after the interview. Just get through the interview.

I head to the bedroom. He took the comforter but left the covers and sheets and made the bed. Come to think of it, he always made the bed. I put on sweats