I wonder if that’s the point and make another mental addition to my list of questions for Saint.
I march across the lobby to the large reception desk that sits under the arch of the cascading stairway. Nearby, two upholstered benches form an L, presumably offering respite for those like me who haven’t yet been offered passage into the heart of this operation. Two rectangular tables sit, one in front of each bench, both covered with a colorful array of hardback books and a few flimsier pamphlets.
“May I help you?” A man about my age smiles at me, showing the kind of perfect teeth that any actor would envy.
“Elsa Holmes,” I say, showing him my equally bright and shiny press credentials. “Actually, just Ellie. I have an appointment with Mr. Saint.”
“Of course.” He taps at a hidden keyboard while looking down, presumably at a computer screen embedded in the desk’s glass surface. His brow furrows. “I’m sorry, it looks as if Mr. Saint is unavailable.”
“Oh.” I check my phone, but that’s just out of habit. I know what time it is—four on the nose. And I know what time my appointment is scheduled for—four fifteen. “I’m sorry, I called to confirm the appointment this morning. Did something come up?”
Red starts to creep up his neck, and I have the feeling that things are expected to—and usually do—go much more smoothly at the DSF. “If you’d like to take a seat, someone will be right with you.”
I nod. I’m not sure if they double-booked an appointment or if Saint had a whim and skipped out on his staff, but something is definitely not going on an even keel here.
“I apologize again for the delay. Would you like anything while you wait? Coffee? Water?”
I want coffee, but in light of my white shirt, I opt for water. As I sip the bottled seltzer, I sit on one of the benches and flip through the books. Each is about the foundation and represents a year of work. They’re oversized coffee table books, filled mostly with images of the various projects with just a bit of text describing the goal of the grant and how the project is progressing.
I page slowly through the one for the last year, searching for a picture of Saint himself, but there aren’t many. The man clearly likes his privacy.
Still, I’ve seen enough to recognize the man if I bumped into him at the grocery store. And to know that he’s ridiculously good-looking with a mane of wavy dark hair that’s long enough to brush his jawline, emerald green eyes he hides behind dark-rimmed glasses that accentuate his angular face, and golden brown skin with a thin scar that bisects his eyebrow and mars his cheekbone, then cuts a line through his close-trimmed mustache.
Bottom line, he’s not only hot, he’s totally my type. And there’s something about him that reminds me of Alex, though I can’t put my finger on it. They have the same coloring, but Alex was blond and clean-shaven. His face was rounder, his nose a bit wider, and while he had beautiful eyes, they were a sandy, golden brown, not a vivid green.
Even so, Saint’s picture conjures Alex’s memory, and I can’t decide if that will be a help or a hindrance during our interview.
The truth is, I know very little about Saint. But then again, who does? He’s hardly a shut-in, but when he holds interviews, he keeps the focus on the foundation and its mission, carefully steering any personal questions back to the work, so deftly that most of the time the reporter asking the question doesn’t even notice the shift. I’ve noticed, though. I spent much of the last week watching replays of foundation press conferences, and the man is an expert at manipulating the press.
I smile to myself, certain he’ll try the same tactics on me. Too bad for him that I’ll not only see him coming, but I desperately love a challenge.
At the same time, I’m no fool. It won’t be easy to tease out personal details for my article. My research has turned up next to nothing about Saint’s personal and professional life before he founded the DSF. Or any aspect of his life, actually, other than the most basic of facts. Birthplace. Parents’ names. Education. Military service.
His parents are dead, the few professors I was able to reach over the last few days remembered him as quiet but studious, and the Army’s press liaison confirmed that his military record is bright and shiny. No red flags at all. But there was no meat to the facts. No embellishments. I know that his personal net worth is over a billion dollars, but other than that, Devlin Saint came off impressive, but bland.
Odd description for a man who built a charitable foundation that now boasts an endowment in excess of thirty billion dollars.
I’d told Roger that he seemed like Oz’s wizard. And I can’t wait to get a peek at the real man behind the curtain.
“Ellie!”
I look up at both the sound of my name and the hauntingly familiar voice. A dark-haired woman with a single streak of gray framing one side of her face is striding toward me, her smile so wide it’s almost blinding.
She looks to be in her early fifties, with high cheekbones, and the kind of facial structure that magazines classify as elegant. She’s impeccably dressed, about four inches taller than me, and walks with total confidence on the titanium heels of a pair of pink Stuart Weitzman Nudist sandals that I totally covet.
She looks like the kind of woman I’d want to know, but I’m completely clueless as to who she is.
I’m about to admit defeat, when everything suddenly snaps into place. “Mrs. Danvers?”
Her smile is like sunshine. “I was hoping you’d recognize me.” She holds out her arms, and I hurry to her, allowing myself to be folded into her embrace. “It’s been far too long.”
“It has,” I say truthfully, because she’s one of the people I missed when I left Laguna Cortez.
My father always said to never judge anyone on a first impression—but my first impression of Tamra Danvers had been of a scary stoic lady, thanks to my dad’s love of the movie Rebecca, which featured the crazy Mrs. Danvers. And it had taken me a while to warm to her, but once I had, I was in all the way.
“I remember when you were helping me write community bulletins. And now you’re writing for a magazine like The Spall. Is it too corny for me to say I’m proud of you?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. From you, that means a lot.” Tamra Danvers started working as the community liaison at the police station about the time I started my junior year. I was interning there during my off-period on Tuesdays and Thursdays, already thinking I wanted to be a cop like my father.
When she told me that her husband died in a military operation, I’d felt an unexpected jolt of connection. We’d both lost people we loved unexpectedly.
She quit about a month after Alex bolted. She didn’t leave without a trace, though. She’d moved to Phoenix to take care of an elderly parent. I’d missed her, but by then I had one foot out of town, too.
“It’s so great seeing you, but why are you here?” I wince, belatedly realizing the question is probably too blunt to be polite.
“To apologize to you for the scheduling snafu. I only noticed you on his schedule this morning—my intern booked the original interview. And when Mr. Saint’s schedule changed, I should have called you. But to be honest, I selfishly wanted to see you myself.”
“I’m glad you did,” I say. “But I meant why are you here.”