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Being Luke McDowell means I need to look elegant climbing into my custom SUV. The clothes I’m wearing, like the car, cost too much—but that’s how this goes. I’m not a monkey in a cage. I’m the ringmaster—maybe at times a puppeteer. I spend some time behind the curtain, but a lot more in the spotlight.
For tonight’s dinner, my PR team chose a low-key Moroccan restaurant that offers private, curtained booths. And even then, someone will know me. Probably almost everyone I come across.
I snap my seatbelt buckle, and Bernard’s brown eyes meet mine in the rear-view. “Evening, sir.”
I give him the best smile I can muster in the mirror.
“Looking sharp,” he says.
“Likewise, sir.”
There’s a divider window in the Escalade, but I don’t use it. Neither did my dad, when Bernard was driving him around. I’m not sure what the point of privacy would be, in this context. For the first few years after I stepped into my new role, Bernie knew more about Evermore than I did.
“Our destination still the Mason house?”
I nod once, then drop my gaze to my lap. The trek will take about twenty minutes in San Francisco traffic. No reason not to get a few things done while I ride.
I look at the calendar in my phone, then make my next call.
“Ms. Walker. How are you?”
I spend ten minutes going over an upcoming financial transfer from the Evermore Foundation to a charity that’s providing bottled water to Syrian families. Linda Walker, the foundation’s chief operating officer, confirms our dollars are going to be spent on what’s intended, and we talk briefly about the strategy for South Sudan next month. She relays some information from her contact at the State Department, which makes me feel even more sure that steering funds from Sierra Leon to South Sudan will maximize our aid potential.
“I’ve been doing some pre-work for The Empathy Endeavor,” Linda says. “You remember, the organization that produces those commercials?”
“I do.”
“Are you still thinking of them for our domestic agenda in March?”
“I’m down for it if you are.” I have to pull the trigger on big financial transfers, but she’s the one who’s really in charge of the foundation’s giving.
“I like them,” she says.
“Sounds good to me.”
After our call, I lean my head against the seat’s headrest and shut my eyes. I’m tired. Can’t sleep. To keep my eyes open, I call Pearl, letting her know there are two more kittens in the bushes in front of my house.
“I called the Paw Patrol again, but I’d like it if someone could make sure that they arrive.”
“I’ll send David.” He’s a high school boy—Pearl’s gopher. “Then I’ll call the Silk Curtain to double-check your private seating.”
“Thanks.”
“Is there anything else I can do?”
“I don’t think so.” I bite my check. “Mm…there might be one thing. If you could find a way to talk to Michael, mother’s chef. He said she’s been refusing food again. I should have followed up this morning, but…”
“Of course. I’ll talk to Michael. You focus on having fun, chief.”
I can picture the worried notch between her brows—the one she’s always got lately when we talk. “Will do.”
“I’ll leave a voice mail letting you know what he tells me. If you’ll have the phone on silent?”
“I will.”
“Did you wear what I thought you should?” She sounds sly.
I shut my eyes. “I did.”
“Smart guy.”
I roll my eyes. “Goodnight, PNW.”
“Goodnight, PL.”
I hang up the phone and hold it in my lap. I breathe slowly and let my body move with the car. I’m just cargo, being transported to a strategically selected destination. Like the food they’ll drop over Raqa and the other Syrian cities next week. Like that, but so much less essential. Ansley Stevens, Evermore’s associate pastor, could run the church without me. I rub my eyes until I see spots…then look at my phone again, at my reflection. Two years ago, I got my eyebrows shaped up with a laser. Makeup people were always complaining about them, and one of my assistants thought it was a good idea. I enjoy every creature comfort known to man—almost.
The other….doesn’t matter. If life underlines for us anything at all, it’s that. You work within the confines of the boundaries set for you. Round hole, and you’re a square peg? Whittle off the edges, baby.
I smooth one of my jeans-legs, rubbing a fingertip over the dark denim. Bernard turns right at a light. I go into my email inbox, read an update from the head trustee at Evermore Academy, followed by a one-line message from Rufus, the church’s lobbyist.
As Bernard steers us down a street lined with Edwardian homes, my phone buzzes. Email. It’s from the interior design team overseeing our expansion of the church’s west wing. I skim Aiden’s comments and questions; they’re not directed at me, but at the team that’s overseeing the project. I’m just cc’d. My eyes zero in on one of them as Bernard parks along the curb.
