“Hey, Callie, what’s up?”
“Hey, Harriet,” I said. “Now don’t get the phone all sticky.”
“You just hush,” she said. “It was sticky buns yesterday. Today it’s a cheese Danish.”
“Yum. I bet your arteries are so thrilled.”
“My arteries are healthier than a horse on megavitamins. What can I do for you today?”
I told her briefly what was going on, and instantly I could hear her voice switch over to business mode. Harriet may have been a real character, but she knew her stuff. As the financial director of our little foundation, she was the one to make the decision in this matter.
We chatted for a while, Harriet putting me on hold occasionally to speak with the bank. Eventually, I pulled my laptop out of my briefcase and set it up in a clear area on the desk in front of me. While Harriet worked out the finances, I fiddled around with our standard loan contract, inserting the name of the company and the principals and amending a few clauses. Together, it took us about 20 minutes to work everything out, but in the end Harriet and I were both satisfied that we had managed to set up a simple low-interest loan from the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation to Feed the Need.
After that, I headed down to my car to get my little printer from the trunk. Back upstairs, I returned to the empty office I had been using, connected the cable from computer to printer, and set it to work. As the loan contract slowly printed, I sat back in the chair and looked around the office, wondering what exactly a Vice President of Production for an international clothing company did. Posted on a giant bulletin board that lined one wall were sketches of clothes, swatches of fabrics, and a world map covered with marks and scribbles. The stacks on the desk were mostly contracts and faxes. The only personal item in the entire room was a framed 5x7 photo of a man who looked handsome but fake, like the photo that comes with the frame when you buy it.
Then, like a mirage, the fake man suddenly appeared in real life, swinging open the office door and stepping inside. He was tall and immaculately dressed, with fine blond hair and chiseled features.
He didn’t see me behind the desk at first, but as he turned, he drew up short, catching his breath.
“Hi,” I said. “Sorry to startle you. I was just borrowing this office for a minute.”
He seemed out of breath and disheveled, with something like anger or irritation on his face. I didn’t blame him. He didn’t know who I was, and I felt sure he wasn’t happy coming in to find a total stranger at someone else’s desk.
“I’m Callie Webber,” I said, coming around the desk and extending my hand. “From the J.O.S.H.U.A. Foundation.”
He hesitated, obviously taking in my Ferragamo shoes, my ostrich-skin briefcase, my Donna Karan suit. He, too, was well dressed in an Italian suit and what looked like a Hermes tie.