The Chosen

Vera picked it up. Stared at it. Gulped. pay to the order of Vera Abbot the amount of Ten Thousand Dollars—$10,000.00.

This was not a personal check; it was a precleared certified bank check. Unbouncable. Start-up compensation and moving remittance, it read on the for line. It was dated today.

“You’re offering me all this?” Her breath felt short. “You don’t even know me.”

“Personally, no,” he said. He poured more Chimay very steadily, careful to run the murky ale down the side of the glass to forestall a rise of head. “But as a manager myself, I know what I need to know about you with regard to my company’s business interests. I’ve dined in every restaurant in the city. Yours is by far the finest. I’ve made extensive inquiries as to the most efficient restaurant manager in town. Your name came up more than any other. That is all the knowledge of you I need. You, Ms. Abbot, are the person we want to run our restaurant.”

But Vera was still gaping at the check.

“And there’s another consideration, isn’t there?” Feldspar removed a black-and-gold cigarette case, then lit a Sobraine with a diamond-studded Cartier lighter. “I’ve been all over. I’ve been doing this for years. And I know that everyone has their dreams. What are your dreams, Ms. Abbot? I have yet to meet a restaurant manager whose ultimate long-term aspiration was not to one day own a restaurant of his or her own. With the money that we’re paying you, if you’re sensible financially, you would have sufficient funds to purchase your own establishment, most anywhere you like, in four or five years. Many of our R.M.s have gone on to do just that. Am I correct in my surmise?”

Vera could not dispute this; Feldspar was right. This was Vera’s dream, to some day own a place of her own…

And I could, she realized. At that salary, with all her major expenses paid by the company, she’d be able to save enough to buy her own place in cash. No assumed loans, no mortgages. If she invested the majority of her net, in four or five years she’d have more than enough.

But—

The image crumbled, a house of cards exposed to a sudden draft.

What are you thinking, you idiot? she asked herself.

“I’m engaged,” she said.

“I foresee no problem in that regard,” Feldspar promptly replied. “Your fiance can move with you. The suites are not only well restored but quite large—”

“I’m engaged to a metropolitan journalist,” she explained. “He writes about cities, not farm towns. There’d be nothing for him to write about in Waynesville. His career would fall apart.”

“Then he can commute.”

“Waynesville is a two and a half hour drive at least.”

“Then he can remain here during his assignments, and be with you on weekends or some such. This is not an uncommon occurrence. Many upwardly mobile professionals maintain relationships around their separate careers.”

Upwardly mobile professional. She stared glumly at her drink. Is that what I am?

It’s your call, Vera, another voice seemed to trace across her mind. She could talk to Paul, but…it would never work. Driving nearly three hours each way every day? Or a