“You think yes?”
“I think probably, though I’d like to talk details.”
“Come in anytime.”
She hung up and heaved a deep breath. She had been prepared for him to say he hadn’t really meant it, it was all some kind of misunderstanding. Or he might have said he’d thought better of it since. Though, why would he? She was good at her job, she’d just never considered cashing in on it before. Cashing in had come way down the list after children and groceries and the gas bill.
Well. There were still details, like living, moving around, getting from here to there. And getting Sasquatch shipped. She’d paid the kennel for two weeks in advance, cash, and she’d used a phony name in order not to create a trail. She wanted to disappear from New Mexico, leaving no clues. And no doubt Mr. DeGreco could tell her where to look for an apartment. A furnished apartment.
Her ruminations were interrupted by the phone ringing, and she answered, “Yes,” wondering what the hell, no one knew she was there, except, as it turned out, someone who introduced himself as Chad Riley, who was with the FBI and who had been detailed to assist her for the next several days.
“The envoys, that’s what we’re calling them ma’am, tell us they’d very much appreciate meeting with you again. So far, except for you, all the people they’ve met are men, and they feel women may have a viewpoint that … we … ah, males may not have.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m busy this morning, Mr. Riley. How about later today?”
“Actually, we thought this evening. We’re planning a kind of dinner meeting. They assure us they can eat our food.”
“The president?”
“No, he’s making a speech tonight, one he couldn’t get out of, but his wife is coming.”
“And they really want me? Not somebody like . . . oh, Gloria Steinem or Betty Friedan or … ?”
“They want you.”
“. . . Alice Walker?” she suggested desperately. She didn’t want to be part of this. Surely her part of this was over now!
“You.”
“All right.” She sighed. “Will you send somebody for me?”
“We’ll pick you up at your hotel, at seven.”
She was not a feminist. Why would they want her to give the female point of view? God, if she’d been a feminist, she’d have killed Bert long ago. She’d have run off with the children, gone somewhere else, or at least asked Goose for a raise.
Goose. How was she going to tell Goose? If she gave notice now, that would be almost four weeks, and that was enough. Maybe she’d say she received a job offer on the West Coast, and she’d decided to move to be nearer the children.
By nine-thirty, she was at the bookstore door. Five minutes later she was ensconced in Simon’s office, coffee poured, danish provided, discussing where she might live in Washington.
“Actually,” he said, looking at the ceiling and scratching his neck idly, “there’s an empty apartment upstairs. It’s rather rundown, but it’s large. At one time, it was loft space, an artist’s studio. When we bought the building we thought the artist would stay. He, however, decided to pass his declining years in Mexico. Or maybe it was Honduras. Somewhere vivid and warm. At any rate, he left a couple of years ago, and we’ve been unable to find a tenant who is … acceptable to us.”
“Meaning?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Meaning clean, sober, and responsible,” he said, giving her look for look. “We’d like someone to live in it, because it helps building security. If the alarm goes off, you hear it, you call the police. I’m not saying the alarm will go off, it never has yet, but one never knows. People don’t seem to rob bookstores much, more’s the pity for them.”
“Could I see it?” she asked, doubtfully.
“Yes, right now.”
The corridor outside his office ended at an exterior door, and they stepped out into the staff parking lot, with labeled parking slots along two sides.
“The other lot’s for customers,” he said. “It’s closer to the front door.”