Happily Ever Ninja(2)

I blinked at the vision of my husband, the stubborn set of his jaw. Confused, I sputtered for a full minute before spitting out an incredulous, “You approved it last month.”

“But then I researched the global fund further. Over eleven percent of the principal is invested in a Monsanto subsidiary.”

My headache throbbed; I nearly growled, “Then pick a different global fund.”

“That’s not the point. I don’t like that he suggested that fund to begin with. I want to go with a different financial advisor.”

My brain was going to explode all over my bedroom, which would be inconvenient since I’d just vacuumed.

I meticulously modulated my voice so I wouldn’t shout my response. “Are you kidding? I’ve been through every investment house in Chicago and there is no one left, as according to you, everyone is either incompetent or corrupt. This has been going on for eighteen months, and meanwhile our retirement has been sitting in a low return savings account.”

“Better it return nothing than we invest it in malicious corporations.” He shrugged. “You know my thoughts on Monsanto.”

I . . .

I just . . .

I just couldn’t . . .

I took a deep breath, pushing the rage down. Greg had no way of knowing, but today was one of the worst possible days for him to deliver this news.

In addition to the unexplained headaches, I was extremely low on sleep because our daughter, Grace, had been having nightmares all week. The garbage disposal stopped working two days ago, as had the dishwasher. Both kids had science projects due and every store in Chicago was out of poster board. Plus our son, Jack, had forgotten to give his teacher the money and slip for his field trip later in the week—he’d lost both—and I hadn’t yet found five minutes to contact the woman about sorting it out.

Added to all this, I’d started contract work for my old engineering firm two months ago and was already behind in my latest project. Everything I touched was breaking, or broken, or a failure.

Therefore, I endeavored to be reasonable . . . or at least sound reasonable. “Pick a different fund.”

His eyelids lowered and he shook his head slowly. “No. I’m not investing my money with a corrupt wanker.”

“He’s not a corrupt wanker. Mr. Jackson is a grandfather who volunteers his free time with the Boys and Girls Club and organizes the South Street Soup Kitchen. Alex checked him out—like checked him out—and he’s completely clean.” Alex was my good friend Sandra’s husband, and also a world-class computer hacker. When I said Alex had checked out Mr. Jackson, I truly meant it. The man was a saint.

“Then why would he suggest a fund with an eleven percent stake in Monsanto?”

“Probably because he’s trying to do his job, which is invest our money where it’ll have the best return. We can pick a different fund.”

He said nothing, just continued to shake his head slowly. Meanwhile, I was holding on to my composure by sheer force of will. But when we ended the call I was likely going to dismember Greg’s favorite boxer briefs and hide his cell phone charger. He always did this. He always found a reason not to sign.

Desperate and beyond aggravated, I scoffed, “If I show you my breasts will you sign the papers?”

Greg’s eyes narrowed until he was squinting. He turned his head to the side, glaring at me as though he were both trying to discern whether or not I was being serious and whether seeing my boobs was worth compromising his morals.

“Add an emailed photo of your ass and you have a deal.”

I did growl then, and this time my face fell into my hands. If he didn’t sign those transfer papers, then I would send him a picture of an ass. Maybe lots of asses. Only they wouldn’t be mine. And they wouldn’t be human. They would be equine.

“Fiona, darling, I’m not trying to aggravate you. You know where and how we invest is important to me.” His voice was soft, beseeching, and he knew exactly what he was doing. I loved his voice; I loved his posh British accent; I loved it when he called me darling, which—after fourteen years of marriage—he rarely did anymore.

Usually I could laugh off his churlishness and bring him around to my perspective using well-reasoned arguments and my wifely wiles. But I didn’t have the time or the mental energy at present to entertain my forty-one-year-old husband’s plethora of opinions—opinions I usually considered endearing and charming.

For some reason, in this instance, his opinion didn’t feel at all charming. It struck me as burdensome and self-indulgent. Like he was being dismissive of the work I’d done, the massive amount of time and effort I’d spent on resolving this vitally important issue.