She pinched the bridge of her nose, briefly closing her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was clipped and precise.

“But if you can’t meet with him today, it’ll be at least three or four weeks before he’s available again. Hold on, please.”

She pressed a button on the phone and then turned her attention toward me.

“Can I help you?”

“I have an appointment with Mr. Smythe,” I replied. “Callie Webber? From the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, smiling politely and gesturing toward the door behind her. “Go right in. He’s expecting you.”

I knocked lightly on Mr. Smythe’s door, then opened it to reveal a large and sunny office, the entire back wall lined floor to ceiling with windows. The view was a lovely cityscape of Philadelphia, that familiar skyline that I had grown to love during the three months that I had lived and worked in this city. At the center of the room was a huge gray marble desk, and the man behind it stood as I entered.

“Come in,” he said warmly, extending a hand as he walked around the desk. “I’m Wendell Smythe. I know without you even telling me that you must be Mrs. Webber. Call me Wendell.”

“And you call me Callie, please,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Wendell quietly shut the door behind me, then he took my arm and led me to a comfortable leather chair, offering me coffee, which I declined.

“That’s an interesting name. Callie. What’s that short for? Caledonia? Callista?”

“It’s just Callie,” I replied. “Not short for anything.”

He returned to his chair and sat down, entwining his fingers and resting his hands on the ample bulk of his stomach. He was a stout man, perhaps 50 pounds overweight, attired in navy slacks, a blue-and-beige-striped tie, and a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He had a friendly face and smile. His head was about half-bald, his skin tinted a reddish-white. I could tell that at one time he must’ve been a handsome man, though the years and the pounds had blurred his features. Absurdly, I realized that he reminded me a bit of Santa Claus. Without much imagination, I could picture him in a red suit with white fur trim, giving away toys and belting out some hearty “Ho ho ho’s.”

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you driving all the way up here to Philadelphia today,” he said. “Tom tells me he had to twist your arm a bit to get you to do it.”

I felt my face flush, but before I could respond, he continued.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Tom and I go way back. I was giving him grief about not delivering the money himself, but he said he was sending his favorite emissary instead. Now that we’ve met, I can see why he talks about you so much.”

“Oh,” I laughed, “you flatter me.”