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A sharp exclamation follows the sound of breath whooshing out. “I take it you’re interested?” I wonder if strings are being pulled to find me a job. Is this some kind of pity interview? Or a favor for JL?
“I’d certainly like to discuss the possibility.”
We meet at her rooftop garden in the building where JL’s condo is. Sean pulls into the garage where there is a row of spaces for GSU cars. We take the elevator to the foyer and the desk guy opens the elevator.
“I’ll hang here with my pal Jonesy.”
After another rocket ride to the top floor, I see a door that leads to the roof. Kath Brandon is a tall, blond woman in her late thirties. When my footsteps clatter onto the slate floor, she gets up from her gardening bench, puts down a trowel, and strips off heavy gloves. I admire her trim, wiry figure and neat bob. My stick straight hair is no match for the shining sheet that curves perfectly at chin length. My fingers twitch with the desire to “fix” my hairdo, so I fold them in my lap to avoid temptation. Her jeans, GSU T-shirt, and short rubber boots are perfect for the activity and she’s as elegant as if she dressed in designer clothing.
She touches my hand briefly instead of the usual air kisses that even almost strangers favor. “ I’m so glad you could come. And the weather is decent enough for us to sit outside.” She motions me to a café table with two wrought-iron chairs fitted with woven willow seats. “Your bodyguard stayed down in the lobby?”
“Yes. I think he’s friends with the concierge.” The mention of Sean reminds me of Case and my escape to freedom. Max, JL, and Cress really ganged up on me. Case has his job, but JL reamed him out. Not surprised he wasn’t my driver today.
“I’m so glad I am finally getting the chance to meet you, Ms. Press.”
“You can call me Micki.” I hope I’m not starting on too informal a note for this meeting. Jitters strike. Haven’t interviewed in years, and not sure if this is an interview or more something else. My leg bounces but I try to hide the movement.
“I’m Kath.” I can hear the warmth in her voice.
She notices I’m staring at her. “Something wrong? Is my blouse inside out?”
“Of course not. You look perfect. But Cress mentioned you’re pregnant.”
“It’s early and I’m hardly showing yet.” She grins and smooths her palms down her almost flat belly. “Pretty soon, though, I’ll be as big as a house.”
“I doubt that.”
“Believe me, I have plenty of experience. Clay calls me Moby Dick.”
I look around at raised beds and lots of unplanted space.
“Not much to see yet,” she says cheerily. “The potted dwarf trees will come up from storage this weekend, and I’m preparing the beds for this year’s plantings.” She points to one bank. “That will be a cutting garden so we can have flowers in the house. The next grouping is an herb garden. Our chef likes to use a lot of fresh herbs. He likes fresh vegetables too, but we just grow heirloom tomatoes and salad vegetables up here.”
She takes me by the shoulders and turns me around. A large sandbox sits in a corner with a pail, miniature wheelbarrow, and implements nearby. “That’s the children’s garden. I give them mixed seeds to plant, and we see what comes up.”
“Amazing. Mom only let me weed after I pulled up all of her zinnia seedlings.” I make a sad face.
“I love to garden, and this is the best I can get in the city. We have a house up in Wisconsin too—with a much bigger garden—and a gardener to do the hard work. The kids and I spend a lot of time there in the summer with my parents. Clay comes up when he can.”
A squeaking noise, like a rusty chain, comes from a dumb waiter and signals lunch. From its interior, Kath produces artichoke salad with shrimp and sip Prosecco. Crusty bread sits in a basket conveniently to hand, with a bottle of extra virgin olive oil. I pour some on my bread plate, dip a corner of the bread, and sigh. “This tastes so fresh.”
“From the newly released bottling.”
Knowing the new harvest won’t be available in the U.S. for a few months, I wonder how she gets access. Kath must be able to read something in my face, when she smiles and says, “We have friends with an olive grove. They always ship some oil to us after they finish the first pressing.”
Following the salad, we have chicken Milanese with risotto. When the empty plates have gone back down, a woman comes through the door with a tray holding a carafe of coffee, a pot of tea, biscotti, and a plate of truffles and jellied fruit candies.
Kath hands me a demitasse of espresso, then pours a reddish liquid from the tea pot into a bigger cup. “Rooiboos,” she says, taking a sip. “Let’s get down to business.”
My brief bag is under my chair. I pull out a folder and hand to Kath. “My résumé.”
Her slender fingers take it from my grip. “By the way, this is not a formal interview. I’ve done enough research to make up my mind. This is more of a getting to know each other meeting.”
She glances at the sheet I handed her. “That covers school and work history. I should tell you, GSU did a thorough vetting and, besides JL, Cress Taylor and a few other people sang your praises. I had a conversation with Rebecca Manners. Even Fred Lanscombe had nice things to say about your ability. But as a great believer in making sure we have a great fit, I want to see whether we’re compatible. Tell me why, after a career with a major, conservative law firm, you want to go into nonprofits. And why social issues are important to you.” She puts down the folder and, head tilted slightly to one side, gives me the bright-eyed stare of a bird assessing the worm opportunities.
A lot to unpack, but a sip of Prosecco and a bite of a biscotto give me a few seconds to think about my response. I take a deep breath.
“That could be a twelve-part miniseries. But I’m guessing you don’t want the eighteen-hour version.”
