The Chosen

He seemed suddenly worried. Could he possibly fear that The Inn’s refurbishment did not meet her approval?

“I’m still in shock,” Vera replied. “I couldn’t be more impressed. You’ve done an outstanding job.”

“I’m happy to hear you say that.”

“And we’ll do an outstanding job for you.”

Feldspar unconsciously diddled with his big amethyst pinky ring and the other bright jewelry that adorned his stubby hand. He was a complex man, and Vera could sense that complexity now very clearly. He was a man with a vast mission who, step by step, discharged each of his tasks like machinery. Vera paused to wonder about his direct conception of her. Am I just another gear in his machine, or does he see me as an associate, a real person? Probably the former at this point—this was business. Odd as he was, Feldspar was an extraordinary man, and she admired him. But she knew that she would have to prove her worth quite quickly in order for the admiration to be mutual. You’ll see, buddy, she thought. I’m gonna turn this pretty joint of yours into the best restaurant in the state.

“You’ll probably want to expend some time now on a closer examination of the facility. My office is in the west wing; let me know when you’re done here, and I’ll have someone show you your room.”

Before Vera could reply, Feldspar was moving back toward the atrium—not walking, really, but sort of half-ambling in that peculiar, faltering gait of his. The sudden quiet of his departure focused Vera’s speculations, even her dreams. She felt wistful and exuberant. With a little luck, a little advertising, and more than a little hard work, they would turn The Inn into a money machine.

Something clinked. Almost startled, she turned. A woman was pushing a wheeled cart full of crystal candleholders down the aisle along the planter. Through colorful splays of fresh, potted bluebells and poinsettias, she stopped—as if startled herself—and looked right at Vera.

“Hello,” Vera said. “I’m—”

How rude. The woman trundled away at once, more quickly. She must be one of the housekeeping staff. She better not be one of my staff, Vera thought. Not only was she rude, ignoring Vera’s introduction, but she was…

Gross, Vera determined. Not ugly as much as simply unpleasant-looking. An unattractive bun had been made of her dark, frizzed hair. Though she didn’t appear to be old, she seemed slightly bowed as she walked away, and short, husky. Vera glanced after the odd woman, frowning. I’m upper management, honey. You better start being a lot more cordial than that.

The cart’s casters squealed across the atrium, and the woman briefly gazed back at Vera.

Vera nearly winced.

The woman’s big, jowly face looked pasty as old wax. Large breasts sagged in the pale-blue staff uniform. And her eyes—her close-set and nearly rheumy brown eyes—gave off a very clear message of disdain, or even disgust.

««—»»

“We’re getting down to the wire on that first Kirby piece, boss,” said Brice, the layout director.

Harold Tate glanced up from his desk, which was, appropriately, a mess. Newspaper editors were entitled to have cluttered desks; it was their trademark. Tate was the editor for the City Sun, and his quickened smirk showed the extent of his concern. He’d been in this business long enough to realize the unnecessity of shitting a brick every time a journalist was getting close to a deadline. “Don’t worry about it,” he muttered back to Brice. “Kirby’s a pro, he’ll have his copy in on time.”

“What if he doesn’t?”