An oppressive weight settled on my chest and I sent my eyes to roam the room again. The tables were covered with dirty mugs waiting to be picked up and I could see that the wet floor was in desperate need of a mop. It dawned on me—I hadn’t seen anyone serving customers. “I could work here?” I blurted without thinking. A vivid image of me in my Sketchers and faded jeans, tripping over a chair leg and scalding a customer with a tray of hot drinks, popped into my mind. I quickly amended my suggestion. “I could wash dishes, clear tables, run errands—whatever you need. All day, seven days a week. Whatever you need. It may take a while for me to earn the money …” More like forever.
Those cool, pale eyes studied me silently, revealing nothing.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a stupid idea.” I bit down on my thumbnail.
She ignored that. “Yes, I believe I can find something for you here. Can you start tomorrow night at six?”
“Seriously?” I exclaimed, unable to hide my shock.
She nodded, once.
As I glanced around the place, a thrill stirred in my stomach. What would I be doing? I didn’t care. “Okay. Yes. Thank you.” I made a mental note to call the shelter to let them know I wouldn’t be coming in for the next few … years.
“Wonderful.” Sofie rose and walked over to the counter. She grabbed a pen from behind the counter and scrawled something on a sheet of paper, then returned and handed it to me. “Please fill this out. I’ve marked your starting pay at the top.” I saw the slightest smile touch Sofie’s plump lips—the first one that night. “Some say I pay too well.”
I looked down at the elegant writing at the top of the job application, and gasped.
My watch read ten minutes to six when I pushed through the heavy wooden door of Newt’s Brew the next evening, my nerves performing a full circus production in the pit of my stomach. I’d sat up in bed most of the previous night, replaying the inexplicable evening in my head countless times. Half of me was sick to my stomach knowing I wouldn’t be registering for college before my fiftieth birthday, given the debt I had so clumsily acquired. But the other half wondered how I had managed to go from landing my first job in a trendy cafe to a salary that could only be described as ridiculous.
Newt’s Brew was empty. Not one customer idled with a cup of coffee. No buzz of conversation in the air. Maybe it was still early, I decided. Sofie stood behind the counter, her back to me, intent on something in her hands. “Hi Sofie!” I called in a bubbly voice.
“Good evening, Evangeline,” she responded without turning, with that same reserved air I was coming to recognize as a usual aspect of her personality.
My chest tightened. What if she regrets hiring me? “Tell me what I can do,” I urged, sprinting around the counter to face Sofie. Clad in a provocative, knee–length indigo–blue dress that accentuated her waspish hourglass figure, she was opening a trash bag. I tugged self–consciously on the bottom of my shirt. After spending the entire day in front of my closet, fussing over my mediocre wardrobe, I had finally settled on my nicest pair of dark blue jeans and a gray and black striped shirt, certain that I would still look like a hobo off the street next to the worst–dressed customer in this place.
“These all need to go,” she said, waving a hand dismissively at the display of desserts.
I picked up a silver platter and sniffed a slice of apple pie. It smelled fine.
“Help yourself, if you’re hungry,” she offered, bending to tuck the bag into the trash can.
“Are you getting a new batch in?”
She shook her head. “I have to close Newt’s. I have some unfinished business in New York.”
Close? My smile faltered. “Oh … For how long?”
“A few weeks, at least. Maybe more.”
My smile fell completely. “Well … is there anything I can do to help? I have ten thousand dollars’ worth of hours to put in for you, don’t forget.” A small, uncomfortable giggle escaped me. I’d happily forget that part.
“This place is pretty much ready for closing,” Sofie answered, moving to the sink to rinse her hands.
“Okay. Well, I’ll be here when you get back, I guess.”
We spent the next minutes in awkward silence as I scraped chocolate sauce off a plate, feeling as if an internal bubble had just been popped. Why am I so disappointed? So I’ll have to wait a few weeks to begin paying off my gigantic debt. So what?
Because it wasn’t just about the money, I realized. I wanted to work here—to meet new people, to talk to them, to have them actually respond to me. To befriend Sofie … I stole a glance toward her back. She’s so interesting. So cool.
“Unless you want to come with me to New York?” Sofie asked suddenly, turning to meet my gaze.
The plate slipped from my hands and clattered noisily against the tile floor. I felt my eyes bulging. Go to New York City with her?
“You don’t have to. I could use your help, though,” she added.
“I … I don’t—” I stammered, my heart beginning to race. Me in New York? I had never been beyond Portland’s suburbs.
“You wouldn’t have to worry about accommodations or meals.” Sofie leaned down to pick the plate up off the floor.
“It’s a wonderful offer, Sofie,” I began, picturing myself surrounded by skyscrapers and the bustling city life. My stomach spasmed with excitement. This is crazy—isn’t it? Would a sane person say yes to this? I barely know the woman! Granted, I had smashed her property and she in turn had graciously invited me in for cocoa and a high–paying job—hardly the signs of a serial killer. And this was a job, after all. People traveled all the time for jobs, I rationalized.
“Consider your debt to me squared away after this trip,” she added. “You’ll have earned it.”
My jaw dropped, and my shoulders lifted as if relieved of an oppressive weight—and they had been. I won’t owe her anything? But … that means she won’t be obligated to have me work here. I bit my lip, glancing around the empty café with a twinge of regret.
“Of course, if you want to continue working at Newt’s, you’re welcome to,” Sofie added as if reading my mind.
The offer was turning richer with every second that I dithered. I didn’t know what to do. I wished I could ask my mother for advice. “Wow. You’re hard to refuse,” I began, smiling nervously.
“What’s there to refuse?” Sofie reached out, a cordless phone in her hand. “Tell you what: if your parents are okay with it, then you know it’s a good idea, right?”
I hesitated for a few seconds but eventually accepted the phone and dialed home.
My foster mom picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Uh, hi, Shelley?”
“Yes, Evangeline. What would you like?” she asked in her typical polite but detached tone. She was never unkind, nor was she overly friendly. She was just there. All of my foster families had been the same. I was used to it. Sometimes I wondered if they were government–designed robots disguised as foster parents—programmed to conform to the law but incapable of exhibiting emotion.
“Um, well, I got a job yesterday, down at a café in the Art District,” I began. This was the most I had spoken to her in days.
“That’s nice.” Silence.
“And my new boss just asked me to go to New York to help her with some business. Would that be okay with you?” I held my breath.
“You turn eighteen tomorrow. You can legally do what you want.”
I was amazed that she’d remembered my birthday. Clearly she had no plans to celebrate it. Not a shocker. I normally went full–fledged hermit on my birthday anyway, burrowing under a blanket with a bag of popcorn and a mittful of Disney classics. “Okay, well, I may go then. I’m not sure when I’ll be back, though.”
“Have fun.” I heard the phone click before I could say another word.
“Well?” Sofie asked.
I stared at the dead receiver in my hand. How representative of my life. In the five years since my mother
’s death, my existence had become like a one–way conversation with the world—a solitary life spent drifting through homes and schools, all but invisible to those around me.
Until now. Sofie had noticed me.
“I think I’d like to come to New York with you, if that’s alright.” Am I really doing this?
“Wonderful!” Sofie said, revealing a rare spike of excitement.
“Yes, great.” I smiled nervously, half expecting men in white coats to storm through the door. “So, when are we leaving?”
Sofie reached under the counter, retrieving a purse and coat. She walked toward the door, her stilettos clicking sharply against the wood floor. “Now,” she called to me, flicking off the light switch. I stared, waiting for her to elaborate. “Don’t doddle!” she added, suddenly urgent.
I joined her at the front door and we stepped out just as a black sedan pulled up to the curb. “You’re kidding,” I exclaimed, my nerves stirring my bladder.
“Hop in!” she instructed, opening the door for me.
“But … I should pack some things …”
She waved away my concerns. “Don’t worry about any of that.”
I stood there, baffled. Don’t worry about clean underwear and a toothbrush?
A sharp edge in Sofie’s voice brooked no argument. “Get in the car, Evangeline! The plane is waiting.”
2. The Gift
My hands fidgeted in my lap as I surveyed the bright and airy cabin of Sofie’s friend’s private jet for the umpteenth time. We were about two–thirds of the way to New York and I was on my third glass of red wine. I had politely declined when the flight attendant first offered, admitting I was underage. But Sofie rolled her eyes dramatically and ordered the woman to disregard my silliness and keep my glass half full at all times.
I had protested then. Now, feeling the alcohol–induced relaxation seeping through my body, I silently thanked them for ignoring me. Easing back into my chair, I pressed a button on the side of my armrest and watched with fascination as a footstool magically rose from the floor.
“Finally … you’d think we were escorting you to an enema,” Sofie muttered, glancing up from her magazine.
“Sorry.” I offered a sheepish smile. “I’m a little nervous of flying.” I was lying, of course. Flying didn’t bother me—that part was exciting. The fact that twenty–four hours ago this woman was a complete stranger and now I was flying to New York with her—without so much as an extra pair of underwear and for God knows how long—had me frazzled.
Sofie, on the other hand, was totally relaxed, stretched out in one of the ivory leather lounge chairs across from me, her long, slender legs crossed at the ankles; she could easily be posing for the cover of a Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous magazine.
“So this friend of yours who owns this plane … what does he do?” I asked.
“Oh, Viggo has his hands in everyone’s pocket,” Sofie answered cryptically, setting down her magazine to root through her purse. “Here. “ She handed me a long, narrow wooden box. “As a thank you for coming. Also, I noticed on your application that your birthday is tomorrow, so … happy birthday.”
I gaped at her, speechless.
“It’s nothing extravagant,” she added.
“I …” I stared down at the box. After a long moment, I opened it. A heart–shaped, black glass pendant the size of a quarter nestled inside. I lifted it gingerly, running a thumb over its smooth surface; it felt much like a highly polished stone. “You really didn’t need to—” I stopped to swallow the lump in my throat.
“Here, let me put it on you,” she offered, moving to sit next to me and lifting the silver chain to affix it around my neck. The pendant settled against my chest. “Shoot,” she murmured.
I glanced over my shoulder to see her frowning. “What?”
“Oh, something’s wrong with the clasp,” she replied. I could feel her examining it. “It won’t open without breaking. Do me a favor and leave it on for now.”
“Of course!” I answered, my hand cupping the smooth stone to admire it. I’d gladly wear it forever.
Sofie shifted back to her chair, watching me with a curious expression. “It looks nice,” she finally offered with a strained smile that never reached her eyes.
“Thank you. It’s beautiful,” I said, looking down at it. There was a precious quality to its simplicity. I wondered when she’d had the chance to get it, since we’d gone directly from Newt’s to the airport. I opened my mouth to ask, but Sofie had already turned her attention back to her magazine.
I turned to gaze out the small window beside me. We were descending through the clouds. I expected to see a billion lights below soon, welcoming us to our destination, escorting me into a new and unknown chapter in my life. But for now, the flashing lights on the plane’s wings were alone in the sky, beacons serving as both protection and guidance.
A hollow feeling blossomed in my chest as I realized that warning lights like those could have saved my mother’s life. It had been five years since the night she’d been run down by a car. An eternity for me. The police investigation had been short and inconclusive, suggesting that the driver hadn’t seen her. There were no tire marks to imply otherwise. Scared, drunk, oblivious—whatever the reason, the driver never stayed, leaving my mother’s shattered body on the pavement and me a broken–hearted orphan.
I closed my eyes and imagined forcing that terrible hollowness into a bottle and corking it tightly. That’s how I had learned to deal with the loss of my mother. It usually worked. This time, though, the empty void expanded, pushing against my rib cage, constricting my lungs, becoming a stabbing ache in my heart. Deep breaths, Evangeline. I inhaled and exhaled slowly, waiting for the pain to dissipate. It didn’t. It only intensified with each new breath, as each beat of my heart came harder and faster. Blood rushed to my head, the sound in my ears overpowering the roar of the jet engines.
What’s happening to me? My eyes darted wildly around the plane’s interior. The walls and floor wavered. I knew it had nothing to do with the pilot’s flying skills.
And then my heart stopped beating altogether. Just like that. I couldn’t even manage a gasp. My right hand flew to my chest while my left groped through the air for help, for Sofie. It only lasted for a second or two, then my heart thumped once, twice. Three times. And then it was beating again.
A cool hand rested against mine. “Feeling okay?” Sofie asked, leaning in to peer at my face, her brow furrowed with worry.
“Yes. Just felt a little funny for a sec. Must be my nerves,” I assured her, adding with a nervous grin, “or the wine.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded, smiling reassuringly.
The copilot poked his head out from the cockpit to announce that we would be landing shortly. My body jerked in response as the seat reverted to a stiff, upright position. Exactly how it should be for a safe landing. Sofie’s gentle laughter filled the cabin.
Everything else was forgotten.
“We’re staying here,” Sofie announced as our sleek black town car turned into a driveway off Fifth Avenue. I looked out at a luxurious five–storey building illuminated theatrically by exterior lights shining upward, highlighting the grooves and ridges and other rich details of its architecture. The car idled quietly, waiting for a heavy iron garage door to glide open before pulling into the dimly lit tunnel beyond. It ended at a second garage door that didn’t open until the first was firmly shut.
“I guess we’ll be safe here,” I murmured.
Sofie offered only a small smile before turning her minty eyes forward, her jaw tense. She seemed nervous.
The second door opened and the car pulled forward. My eyes widened in amazement. “Wow. This is …”
We were in an enclosed courtyard filled with lush gardens bisected by winding walkways. Giant coach lanterns illuminated five storeys of balconies climbing the four walls—there had to be a hundred of them, each adorned with a wrought–iron windowbox overflowi
ng with flowers in vibrant sunset hues.
A throat cleared. I turned to find the car door wide open and a white–haired man in a three–piece suit patiently waiting, his hand outstretched.
“Sorry!” I scurried across the seat to accept his hand. My feet landed on cobblestones as I slid out.
“Good evening, Miss Evangeline,” the man said in a rich British accent as he executed a formal bow. “I am Leonardo, the butler. Please inform me if you require anything at all during your stay.”
I nodded dumbly, awed as much by him as I was by my surroundings. It was warm in here—balmy, compared to the frigid temperature outside. I took a few steps forward and knelt to touch a velvety rose petal. “I didn’t think roses could bloom this late.”
“They don’t, normally. Look up,” Sofie said. “See the dome?”
I tipped my head back and squinted at the dark night sky above us, finally noticing the web of black lines holding the glass panes between them in an intricate pattern. The giant courtyard was an atrium.
“Feel free to tour the gardens,” Leonardo offered, smiling encouragement.
I hesitated only a second before returning the smile and taking off down one of the paths like a child investigating a secret garden. Until tonight, a place like this had only existed in fairytales filled with royal palaces and princesses. Now, as I strolled along the cobblestone path, inhaling the heady scents of lavender and mint, it was real. And I was living in it.
Something white in the center of the atrium caught my eye. Drawn to it, I stopped before a large statue—a sculpture of a woman in a flowing gown, arms reaching toward the sky, hands awkwardly clasped together as if offering up a gift to the heavens.
“Spectacular, isn’t she? Truly one of a kind,” a male voice called in an unusual accent. I jumped, startled, as an attractive blonde man of about thirty in a pinstriped suit approached along the path. “The smoothest white marble imaginable. Go on, touch it!” he said in a commanding tone.