Chapter 4 - The Card in the Purse
The sidewalk was slippery with fallen leaves. Elena stopped two feet away from the concrete ledge, her hands shoved deep into her jacket pockets to keep them from shaking.
"Ma'am?" Elena said softly.
The old woman turned her head slowly. Her gray eyes looked smaller now in the dim light of the streetlamp, but when she recognized Elena, a faint light returned to them.
"Oh... hello, dear," the woman said, her voice raspy from the cold. "You shouldn't be out here without a scarf. It's bitter tonight."
"Are you waiting for a bus?" Elena asked, sitting down beside her on the cold concrete despite her wet jeans. "The 14 line doesn't run past eight on Thursdays."
"I was just... catching my breath," the woman murmured. "My son said he was sending a car for me. But I think I gave him the wrong corner. I don't use these fancy phones very well."
Elena looked down at the old woman's hands. They were stiff from the cold, the blue veins standing out like thick threads beneath her translucent skin.
"Did you hear what happened inside?" Elena asked gently.
The woman was quiet for a long moment. She reached down, her fingers searching the side pocket of her purse.
"I heard," she said quietly. "I heard him yelling at you in the back."
"It wasn't your fault," Elena said instantly. "Marcus has been looking for an excuse to fire me for two months. I don't give away free drinks to his friends, and I don't let him cut my hours on the schedule without complaining."
The old woman pulled a small, thick piece of cream-colored cardstock from her purse. She didn't look at it; she just held it between her thumb and forefinger, feeling the heavy, raised ink across its surface.
"What is your full name, child?" the woman asked softly.
"Elena," she answered. "Elena Ruiz."
"Elena Ruiz," the woman repeated, testing the sound of it in the dark street. "And your brother? The one you mentioned to that terrible man?"
Elena blinked, surprised. "Leo. He's fifteen. He's at home trying to figure out how to study for a geometry test without turning the lights on."
The old woman nodded slowly. She reached over and placed the heavy cream card into Elena's hand, closing Elena's fingers over it with her own cold, frail hand.
"My name is Margaret," the old woman said simply. "Margaret Vance."
Elena looked down at the card in her hand. In the dim yellow glow of the streetlamp, she could see the heavy, raised black lettering across the top:
VANCE INTERNATIONAL HOLDINGS
Office of the Chair Emeritus
Below it was a single direct telephone number and an address on Michigan Avenue that Elena recognized immediately—it was the top three floors of the tallest glass skyscraper in the financial district.
"Margaret..." Elena stammered, looking from the card back to the frail woman sitting beside her in the oversized, faded coat. "This is... who is this?"
"My son is a very stubborn man," Margaret said, her voice taking on a sudden, dry humor that made her sound twenty years younger. "He builds towers because he thinks the world is too small for him down here. He sent me to a clinic down the street today for my quarterly heart checkup, but I got bored waiting for his driver, so I walked off to find a cup of tea."
She looked back toward the lit windows of The Copper Spoon, where Marcus could be seen through the glass, clearing table seven with quick, aggressive movements.
"He was very rude to me," Margaret noted quietly.
"He's rude to everybody who doesn't have a hundred-dollar bill in their mouth," Elena said bitterely.
"Yes," Margaret agreed. "My son used to be like that when he was young. Then I made him work in a laundry room for six months until he learned how to wash his own shirts."
A heavy black sedan—sleek, completely silent, and with tinted windows so dark they reflected the wet street like mirrors—pulled up to the curb in front of them.
The rear door opened immediately. A man in a tailored dark coat and polished black shoes stepped out into the rain, holding a massive black umbrella over his head.
"Mrs. Vance!" the man said, his voice laced with intense, quiet panic. "Thank God. Mr. Vance has had six security units sweeping the four-block radius for forty minutes."
"Tell Arthur to stop hyperventilating, Thomas," Margaret said, letting the driver help her to her feet with tremendous care. "I was having soup."
She turned back to Elena, reaching out to pat her cheek with her warm wool glove.
"Keep the card, Elena," Margaret said gently. "Call that number at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Ask for Arthur."
"Margaret, wait," Elena said, standing up. "I don't... I don't need a charity handout. I just helped you to the door."
May you like
Margaret Vance paused, one foot on the running board of the luxury sedan. She looked back over her shoulder, her cloud-gray eyes sharp as steel behind her thick lashes.
"It isn't charity, child," Margaret said softly. "It's an interview."
