Yet, she'd heard me. As annoyed as she'd been, Vivian stayed by my side virtually the entire evening. Peters chatted with us on three separate occasions and twice asked Vivian if she wanted to get something to drink it was clear he wanted her to join him at the bar and on both occasions, she shook her head, telling him that she'd already ordered from one of the waiters. She was polite and friendly as she said it, and I found myself wondering whether I'd been making too much of the whole Peters situation after all. He could flirt with her all he wanted, but at the end of the night she would head home with me, and that was all that really mattered, right?

The party itself was largely forgettable it was no better or worse or even all that different from any other office Christmas party but after we got home and let our teenage babysitter go, Vivian asked me to pour her a glass of wine and check in on London. By the time I finally made it to the bedroom, there were candles lit and she was wearing lingerie... and...

That was the thing about Vivian; trying to guess what she was going to do next was often pointless; even after seven years, she could still amaze me, sometimes in blissfully tender ways.

Big mistake.

That's pretty much the way I think about that evening now, at least when it came to my career at the agency.

Jesse Peters, it turns out, wasn't pleased that Vivian had avoided him, and by the following week, a distinct cooling breeze began flowing from his office toward mine. It was subtle at first; when I saw him in the hallway on the Monday following the party, he walked past with a curt nod, and during a creative meeting a few days later, he asked everyone questions but me. Those types of minor snubs continued, but because I was buried in yet another complex campaign for a bank that wanted a campaign centered on integrity but that also felt new I thought nothing of it. After that came the holidays and because the office was always a bit crazed at the beginning of a new year, it wasn't until the end of January when I registered the fact that Jesse Peters had barely spoken to me for at least six weeks. At that point, I began swinging by his office, but his assistant would inform me that he was on a call or otherwise busy. What finally made me understand the depth of his peevishness with me came in mid-February, when he finally made time to see me. Actually, through his secretary, and then mine, he requested to see me, which essentially meant I had no choice. The firm had lost a major client, an automotive dealer with eight locations throughout Charlotte, and it had been my account. After I walked him through the reasons I thought the client had chosen another firm, he fixed me with an unblinking stare. More ominously, he neither mentioned Vivian nor asked about her. At the conclusion of our meeting, I walked out the door feeling much like the executives I used to feel superior to, the ones I'd seen teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I had the sinking feeling that my days at the Peters Group were suddenly numbered.

Even harder to bear was the fact that it wasn't because of anything I did or didn't do for the auto dealer a man in his late sixties that made him leave. I've seen the print ads and commercials from the agency that took over the account and I still believe that our ideas were more creative and more effective. But clients can be fickle. A downturn in the economy, change in management, or simply the desire to cut expenses in the short run can lead to changes that affect our industry, but sometimes, it has nothing to do with business at all. In this case, the client was going through a divorce and needed money to pay for the settlement; cutting advertising for the next six months would save him more than six figures, and he needed to hoard every penny, since his wife had hired a notoriously cutthroat lawyer. With court costs rising and a nasty settlement in the making, the guy was trimming every expense he could, and Peters knew it.

A month later, when another client pulled the plug a chain of urgent care clinics Peters's displeasure with me was even more evident. It wasn't a major client frankly, it barely classified as even a medium client and the fact that I'd signed three new clients since the beginning of the year seemed to matter to him not at all. Instead, after again summoning me, he ventured aloud that "you might be losing your touch" and that "clients may have stopped trusting your judgment." As a final exclamation point to the meeting, he called Todd Henley into the office and announced that from that point on, we'd be "working together." Henley was an up-and-comer he'd been at the agency five years and though he was somewhat creative, his real skill was navigating the political waters of the agency. I'd known he was gunning for my job he wasn't the only one, but he was the most sycophantic of the bunch. When he suddenly began spending more time in Peters's office no doubt claiming more credit than he deserved for any ad campaign we were working on and leaving with a self-satisfied smirk I knew I had to start making plans.

My experience, position, and current salary didn't leave many options. Because Peters dominated the advertising industry in the Charlotte area, I had to cast a wider net. In Atlanta, Peters was number two in the market and growing, gobbling up smaller agencies and landing new clients. The current market leader had gone through two recent transitions in leadership and was now in a hiring freeze. After that, I contacted firms in Washington, D.C., Richmond, and Baltimore, thinking that being closer to Vivian's parents would make the move from Charlotte more palatable to Vivian. Again, however, I couldn't land so much as an interview.

There were other possibilities, of course, depending on how far away from Charlotte I'd be willing to move, and I contacted seven or eight firms throughout the Southeast and Midwest. And yet with every call, I also grew more certain that I didn't want to leave. My parents were here, Marge and Liz were here; Charlotte was home for me. And with that, the idea of starting my own business a boutique advertising agency began to rise from the ashes like the mythical phoenix. Which, I realized, also happened to be a perfect name...

The Phoenix Agency. Where your business will rise to levels of unprecedented success.

All at once, I could see the slogan on business cards; I could imagine chatting with clients, and when visiting my parents, I casually mentioned the idea to my father. He told me straight out that it wasn't a good idea; Vivian wasn't thrilled about it either. I'd been keeping her informed about my job search and when I mentioned my idea for the Phoenix Agency, she'd suggested I try looking into New York and Chicago, two places I considered nonstarters. But still, I couldn't shake off my dream, and the advantages began to tumble through my mind.

As a solo operator, I'd have little in the way of overhead.

I was on a first-name basis with CEOs and other executives throughout Charlotte.

I was excellent at my job.

I'd be a boutique firm, catering to only a few clients.

I could charge the client less and earn more.

Meanwhile, at the office, I began running numbers and making projections. I called clients, asking if they were satisfied with the service and pricing they were getting from the Peters Group, and their answers bolstered my certainty that I couldn't fail. Meanwhile, Henley was verbally slipping me into concrete loafers and tossing me overboard every time he walked into Peters's office, and Peters actually began to scowl at me.

That was when I knew Peters would fire me, which meant I had no choice but to strike out on my own.

All I had left to do was officially tell Vivian.

What could be better than celebrating my future success on date night?

Granted, I could have chosen another night, but I wanted to share my excitement with her. I wanted her support. I wanted to share my plans and have her reach across the table to take my hands while saying I can't tell you how long I've been waiting for you to do something like this. There's no doubt in my mind you'll be a success. I've always believed in you.

About a year later, when I confessed to Marge my hopes for that night, she'd actually laughed aloud. "So let me get this straight," she'd said to me. "You basically ripped away her sense of security and told her you were about to turn your lives upside down... and you honestly believed she'd think it was a good idea? You had a child, for God's sake. And a mortgage. And other bills. Are you out of your mind?"

"But..."

"There are no buts," she said. "You know that Vivian and I don't always agree, but on that night, she was right."

Maybe Marge had a point, but hindsight is twenty-twenty. On the night in question after we'd put London to bed, I grilled steaks about the only thing I could actually cook well while Vivian prepared a salad, steamed some broccoli, and sauteed green beans with shaved almonds. Vivian, I should add, never ate what might be considered unhealthy carbs bread, ice cream, pasta, sugar, or anything that included white flour all of which I considered to be rather tasty and indulged in during my lunches, which probably explained my love handles.

Dinner, however, was tense from the beginning. My intention to keep things light and easy seemed only to put her more on edge, as if she were preparing herself for whatever might be coming next. Vivian had always been able to read me like Moses read the Commandments, and her growing unease made me try even harder to keep things breezy, which only made her sit even straighter in her chair.

I waited until we were nearly finished with the meal. She'd eaten two or three ounces of her steak and I'd refilled her glass of wine when I started to tell her about Henley and Peters and my suspicion about being fired. She merely nodded, so I gathered my courage and launched into my plans, walking through my projections while underscoring every reason for the decision. As I spoke, she may as well have been carved from marble. She sat as still as I'd ever seen her, not even glancing at her glass of wine. Nor did she ask any questions until after I'd finished. Silence filled the room, echoing against the walls.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she finally offered.

It wasn't the ringing endorsement that I'd wanted, but she didn't storm off either, which I took as a good sign. Silly me.

"Actually," I admitted, "it scares the hell out of me, but if I don't do it now, I don't know if I ever will."

"Aren't you kind of young to start your own agency?"

"I'm thirty-five. Peters was only thirty when he started his agency."

She pressed her lips together and I could almost see the words forming in her mind but you aren't Peters. Thankfully, she didn't say that. Instead, she drew her brows together, though not a single wrinkle showed. The woman really was a marvel when it came to aging. "Do you even know how to start your own agency?"

"It's like starting any other business, and people start businesses all the time. Essentially, it comes down to filing the appropriate paperwork with the government, hiring a good lawyer and accountant and setting up the office."

"How long would that take?"

"A month, maybe? And once I'm in an office, I'll start signing clients."

"If they decide to hire you."

"I can get the clients," I said. "I'm not worried about that. Peters is expensive, and I've worked with some of these clients for years. I'm sure they'll jump ship if given the chance."

"But you still won't be earning anything for a while."

"We'll just have to cut back a bit on a few things. Like the cleaning lady, for instance."

"You want me to clean the house?"

"I can help," I assured her.

"Obviously," she said. "Where are you getting the money for all this?"

"I was planning to use some of the money from our investments."

"Our investments?" she repeated.

"We've got more than enough to live on for a year."

"A year?" she asked, echoing me a second time.

"And that's with no income at all," I said. "Which isn't going to happen."

She nodded. "No income."

"I know it seems scary right now, but in the end, it's all going to be worth it. And your life isn't going to change."

"You mean aside from expecting me to be your maid, you mean."

"That's not what I said..."

She cut me off before I could finish. "Peters isn't just going to sit back and applaud your courage," she pointed out. "If he thinks you're trying to poach his clients, he'll do whatever it takes to run you out of business."

"He can try," I said. "But in the end, money talks."

"He's got more of it."

"I'm talking about the clients' money."

"And I'm talking about money for our family," she said, a hard edge coming into her voice. "What about us? What about me? Do you expect me to simply go along with this? We have a child, for God's sake."

"And I'm supposed to just give up my dreams?"

"Don't play the martyr. I hate when you do that."

"I'm not playing the martyr. I'm trying to have a discussion..."

"No you're not!" she said, her voice rising. "You've telling me what you want to do, even if it might not be good for our family!"

I exhaled slowly, concentrating on keeping my voice steady. "I've already told you that I'm sure Peters is going to fire me and there's no other jobs around here."

"Have you tried to talk to him?"

"Of course I've tried to talk to him."

"So you say."

"You don't believe me?"

"Only partly."

"What part?"

She slammed her napkin onto her plate and rose from the table. "The part where you're going to do what you want to do, even if it's detrimental to us and our child."

"Are you saying that I don't care about our family?"

But by then, she'd left the room.

That night, I slept in the guest room. And while remaining somewhat cordial while answering questions with one- or two-word answers, Vivian didn't otherwise speak to me for the next three days.

As good as Marge was at keeping me alive during my youth and offering pearls of wisdom when it came to my flaws, there was a part of her that resented having to babysit me once her teenage years kicked in. She began spending an inordinate amount of time on the phone, and as a result, I watched a lot of television. I can't speak for other kids, but I learned much of what I know about commercials and advertising simply by osmosis. I didn't learn it in college, nor did I learn it from my older, more experienced cohorts at the agency, since half of them were spending their creative energy trying to sabotage the careers of the other half, courtesy of Peters. Not knowing what else to do when I was thrown headfirst into the job, I'd listen as clients described what they wanted to achieve, tap into my well of memories, and come up with new spins on old commercials.

It wasn't quite that simple, of course. Advertising encompasses a lot more than simply television commercials. Over the years, I'd generated catchy slogans for print ads, or billboards; I'd scripted radio commercials and infomercials; I'd helped to redesign websites and created viable social media campaigns; I'd been part of a team that prioritized Internet searches and banner ads targeted to specific zip codes, income, and educational levels, and for one particular client, I conceived and executed the use of advertising on paneled trucks. While virtually all of that work was completed in-house at Peters by various teams, as a solo operator, I'd be responsible for whatever the client needed, and while I was strong in some areas, I was weaker in others, particularly when it came to tech. Fortunately, I'd been in the business long enough to know local vendors who provided the services I'd need, and one by one, I made contact with them.

I hadn't been lying to Vivian when I told her I wasn't worried about landing clients, but unfortunately, I made a mistake, one that was filled with irony. I forgot to plan an advertising campaign for my own business. I should have spent more money putting together a high-quality website and creating promotional materials that reflected the firm I intended to have, not the one I was building from the ground up. I should have put together some quality direct mailings that would inspire clients to reach out to me.

Instead, however, I spent the month of May making sure that the infrastructure was in place to accommodate my success. Using vacation days, I hired a lawyer and accountant, and had the appropriate paperwork filed. I leased an office with a shared receptionist. I purchased office equipment, signed leases for other equipment, and stocked my office with the supplies I knew I'd need. I read books on starting a business, and all of them stressed the importance of being adequately capitalized, and in mid-May, I submitted my two-week notice. If there was any dimming of my excitement, it had to do with the fact that I'd underestimated my start-up costs, while the regular bills still kept coming. The year of no income I'd mentioned to Vivian had shrunk to nine months.

But no matter. June first rolled around, and it was time to officially launch the Phoenix Agency. I sent letters to clients I'd worked with in the past, explaining the services I could offer while promising significant savings, and I let them know that I hoped to hear from them. I started making calls, lining up appointments, and after that, I leaned back in my chair, waiting for the phone to ring.

CHAPTER 4.

The Summer of My Discontent

Lately, I've come to believe that having a child jumbles our sense of time, stirring together past and present as if in an electric mixer. Whenever I looked at London, the past was often propelled to the front of my thoughts as memories took hold.

"Why are you smiling, Daddy?" London would ask me.

"Because I'm thinking about you," I'd answer, and in my mind's eye, I would see her as an infant asleep in my arms, or her revelatory first smile, or even the first time she rolled over. She was a little more than five months old and I'd put her down for a nap on her tummy while Vivian went to a yoga class. When London woke, I did a double take while I realized she was lying on her back and smiling up at me.

Other times, I would remember her as a toddler and the cautious way she crawled or held the table as ballast while she was learning how to stand; I remember holding her hands as we paraded up and down the hallway before she could walk on her own.

There is much, however, that I missed, especially when it came to firsts. I missed her first word, for instance, and was out of town when London lost her first baby tooth. I missed the first time she ate baby food from a jar, and yet, it didn't much change my excitement when I eventually witnessed those things. For me, after all, it was still a first.

Sadly, though, there is much that I don't remember. Not everything can be reduced to a single event. When exactly did she move from toddling to walking? Or how did she move from that first word to speaking in short sentences? Those periods of incremental and inevitable improvement now seem to blur together and it sometimes feels as though I turned my back for an instant, only to discover a new version of London had taken the place of the old one.

Nor am I sure when her room and toys and games changed. I can visualize the nursery in amazing detail, right down to the wallpaper border that featured images of baby ducks. But when were the blocks and stuffed animals in the shape of caterpillars put back into a box that now sits in the corner? When did the first Barbie make her appearance, and how did London begin to imagine Barbie's fantasy life, one that included the color of clothing Barbie must wear when she's in the kitchen? When did London begin to change from being a daughter named London, to London, my daughter?

I occasionally find myself aching for the infant and toddler I'd once known and loved. She's been replaced now with a little girl who had opinions about her hair, asked her mom to paint her nails, and would soon be spending most of her day at school, under the care of a teacher I had yet to meet. These days, I find myself wishing I could turn back the clock so I could more fully experience London's first five years: I'd work fewer hours, spend more time playing on the floor with her, and share her wonder as she focused on the flight path of butterflies. I wanted London to know how much joy she added to my life and to tell her that I did the best I could. I wanted her to understand that even though her mother was always with her, I loved her as much as any father could possibly love a daughter.

Why then, I sometimes wonder, do I feel as if that's not enough?

The phone didn't ring.

Not in the first week, nor the second, nor even the third. While I'd met with more than a dozen different potential clients and all had expressed initial interest, my office phone remained mute. Even worse, as the month neared its end, none of them would make additional time to speak with me when I reached out to them, and their secretaries eventually reached the point where they asked me to stop calling.

Peters.

His fingerprints were all over this, and I thought again about Vivian's warning to me. "If he thinks you're trying to poach his clients, he'll do whatever it takes to run you out of business."

By the beginning of July, I was both depressed and worried, a situation made worse by the most recent credit card bill. Vivian had obviously taken my words to heart about her life not changing; she'd been running errands like crazy, and since I'd let the cleaning lady go, the house had become a regular disaster. After work, I'd have to spend an hour picking up around the house, doing laundry, vacuuming, and cleaning the kitchen. I had the sense that Vivian seemed to view my taking over of the domestic duties and the credit card bill as some kind of worthwhile penance.