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Marie relaxes back into her recliner and evaluates me with a cool, professional eye. “I should be clear. If I were to agree to this — and I’m not saying I am — Rhett couldn’t be a part of the bank at all. Not even as a low-level account manager. His last name gives him too much access for me to be comfortable with him remaining in even a subordinate position.”
“I can pass along your offer,” I say.
Marie frowns, but she no longer looks angry. “I still think it’s highly unprofessional of Sloane to sic you on me before my divorce is even announced.”
“It’s nothing personal.”
“It never is.” Marie doesn’t sound mad, just tired.
“I’m not promising anything,” she says finally. “But it would be nice to not have to run into Bill at Paul’s fundraisers. Or anywhere, I suppose.”
“I really am sorry things didn’t work out between you two,” I say.
Marie shrugs. “That’s life, as cliche as it sounds. Nobody…” she pauses and chews on the inside of her cheek. “Nobody tells you how much it all changes you.” Then, suddenly, as if she just resurfaced, she glances sharply at me, half annoyed, half embarrassed, aware that she’d gotten personal with a stranger.
“I’d thank you never to repeat any of this,” she says, hawk-like eyes boring into me.
“Repeat what?” I smile. “Believe me, Marie. I’ve been told things in confidence normally reserved for lawyers, therapists, and priests. And I’m tight-lipped. It’s part of my package.”
“Always on the sell,” Marie says, but the small, tight smile has returned.
It seems like the proper time to excuse myself. I stand, fight the sudden dizziness from the nicotine buzz (I never have more than one and am feeling a bit sick) and nod politely to Marie.
“Thanks for hearing me out. I’ll see you tomorrow, at the fundraiser.”
She nods in turn and picks up her Kindle. I take my cue to leave. It isn’t until I’m back inside the hotel that I fully return to breathing normally.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shitballs. It’s not over yet. I sway as the nicotine high smashes against that feeling, that incredible overwhelming euphoria I get whenever I pull victory out of the jaws of impossibility.
God I love my job.
But it’s not over yet. Marie only gave off a whiff of interest. But that’s miles more than she gave before!
I duck into the empty restaurant and dial Sloane. As the phone rings, I glance over at the table where Rhett had cheered me up last night with espresso martinis and his booming laugh. He’d made me feel capable again. Would I have had the drive to even get out of bed this morning if it hadn’t been for him?
A niggling sense of guilt hits me, though I’m not sure why. Rhett doesn’t even like the bank, and he’s about to get cut off anyway. I’m sure he’d rather keep his motorcycles, his apartment, his freedom, even if it means relinquishing the throne.
Sloane picks up sounding like she got a full night’s sleep and not like she was drunk seven hours ago. Her tone is snippy. “I’m very busy, Liz. This better be important.”
Translation: I’m embarrassed about last night and talking to you is reminding me of the fact.
“I just wanted to let you know that Marie is interested.”
A beat of shocked surprise and I have to suppress a childish sound of glee at bringing my notoriously unflappable boss to speechlessness.
“What’s changed?” She gets over it quickly, a note of suspicion in her voice.
“We ran into each other today,” I say, “and talked for a while. She’s still annoyed you sent me, but she’s a businesswoman. She’s aware of what your bank can bring to the table.”
“But…”
“But she’s… concerned.” I grimace and spit it out. “About Rhett.”
“What about him?”
“Uh, about the passage of power.”
Sloane is silent, thinking. “The Westing Bank is a family organization,” she says.
