He rode up to the main floor in silence, closing his eyes to the past and its memories, sealing himself in a momentary blackness.
When the elevator stopped and he stepped out, Stefanie Winslow was passing by carrying two Starbucks containers, napkins, straws, and plastic spoons nestled in a small cardboard tray.
“Coffee. tea, or me?” she asked brightly, tossing back her shoulder-length, curly black hair, looking curiously girlish with the gesture.
“Guess’ He pursed his lips to keep from smiling. “Whacha got there?”
“Two double-tall, low-fat, vanilla lattes, fella.”
“One of those for me?”
She smirked. “You wish. How’s the speech coming?”
“Done, except for a final polish. The Wiz will amaze this Halloween.” He gestured at the tray. “So who gets those?”
“Simon is in his office giving an interview to Andrew Wren of The New York Times. That’s Andrew Wren, the investigative reporter.”
“Oh? What’s he investigating?”
“Well, sweetie, that.” the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” She motioned with her head. “Out of my way, I have places to go.”
He stepped obediently aside, letting her pass. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “I booked dinner at Umberto’s for six. Meet you in your office at five-thirty sharp.” She gave him a wink.
He watched her walk down the hall toward Simon’s office. He was no longer thinking about the homeless and abused, about Ray and Carole, about his past and its memories, about anything but her. It was like that with Stef. It had been like that from the moment they met. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He loved her so much it hurt. But the hurt was pleasurable. The hurt was sweet. The way she made him feel was a mystery he did not ever want to solve.
“I’ll be there,” he said softly.
He had to admit, his new life was pretty good. He went back to his office smiling.
CHAPTER 7
Andrew Wren stood looking out the window of the Wiz’s corner office at the derelicts occupying space in Occidental Park across the way. They slouched on benches, slept curled up in old blankets in tree wells, and huddled on the low steps and curbing that differentiated the various concrete and flagstone levels of the open space. They drank from bottles concealed in paper sacks, exchanged tokens and pennies, and stared into space. Tourists and shoppers gave them a wide berth. Almost no one looked at them. A pair of cops on bicycles surveyed the scene with wary eyes, then moved over to speak to a man staggering out of a doorway leading to a card shop. Pale afternoon sunlight peeked through masses of cumulous clouds an their way to distant places.
Wren turned away. Simon Lawrence was seated at his desk, talking on the phone to the mayor about Wednesday evening’s festivities apt die Seattle Art Museum, The mayor was making the official announcement of the dedication an behalf of the city. An abandoned apartment building just across the. street had been purchased by the city and was being donated to Fresh Start to provide additional housing for homeless women and children. Donations had been pledged that would cover needed renovations to the interior. The mane,, would bring the building up to code and provide sleeping rooms, a kitchen, dining roam, and administrative offices for staff and volunteers, Persuading the city to dedicate the building and land had taken the better part of two years. Raising the money necessary to make the dedication meaningful had taken almost as long. It was, all in all, a terrific coup.
Andrew Wren looked down at his shoes. The Wizard of Oz had done it again. But at what cost to himself and the organizations he had founded? That was the truth Wren had come all the way from New York to discover.
He was a burly, slow-moving man with a thatch of unruly, grizzled brown hair that refused to be tamed and stuck out every which way no matter what was done to it. The clothes he wore were rumpled and well used, the kind that let him be comfortable while he worked, that gave him an unintimidating, slightly shabby look. He carried a worn leather briefcase in which he kept his notepads, source logs, and whatever book he was currently reading, together with a secret stash of bagged nuts and candy that he used to sustain himself when meals were missed or forgotten in the heat of his work. He had a round, kindly face with bushy eyebrows, heavy cheeks, and he wore glasses that tended to slide down his nose when he bent forward to listen to compensate for his failing hearing. He was almost fifty, but he looked as if he could just as easily be sixty. He could have been a college professor or a favourite uncle or a writer of charming anecdotes and pithy sayings that stayed with you and made you smile when you thought back on them.