“Then I’ll fit right in,” I say.
She chokes on her drink, then laughs as she puts it away. “Jessica had your uniform brought up. I hope it fits—”
“Myra!” shouts a man from the kitchen—Pierre, I think. “Where are you? There’s no one greeting!”
Myra winces and rushes to a locker at the end, where she pulls out a black dress wrapped in plastic on a hanger. I wasn’t aware there was a uniform involved—Moore better have gotten my size right when he submitted my application.
“You’re supposed to get a full orientation and training, but we’re kind of in a crunch today…”
I take the dress off her hands. “I’ll be out in five.”
She nods gratefully as Pierre shouts her name again, then races back toward the kitchen.
The bathroom is opposite the lockers, and I quickly change out of my outfit and squeeze into the black wrap dress that falls just above my knees. It clings to curves I didn’t know I had, and when I shimmy into the black tights and slide my feet into the heels, I feel my new alias slide into place.
Jaime Hernandez is ready to work.
I stride out of the bathroom, chin high, stash my clothes into the locker, and hurry back through the kitchen. This time no one snaps at me to get out of their way. I look like I belong, act like I belong, and in a con, that’s all that matters.
Myra’s at the hostess station when I arrive, and she gives me a thirty-second rundown of the menu, the layout of the pavilion, and the guest list, organized by photo on the electronic screen out of view and cued by the member’s card. Everyone is to be greeted by name and given their choice of table when possible, and if anything goes wrong, I’m to apologize immediately and profusely, and grab one of the senior serving staff to make it right.
Sounds easy enough.
I’ve seated Mrs. Morris, a woman with a rat-like dog named Belvedere in her handbag, and am returning from escorting two men in designer suits to a table by the indoor fountain when I see three guys waiting at the front. One is engrossed in his phone. The other two are arguing, and I hope that doesn’t have anything to do with my brief absence.
I set my smile as I approach, and feel the kick of adrenaline when the guy with the phone glances up and meets my gaze.
Mark Stitz.
The pictures online don’t exactly do his sour expression justice. He looks like he’s been waiting two hours, not two minutes.
“Mr. Stitz,” I say, reaching for the menus. “I’m Jaime. How are you today?”
“We have a room in the back,” he says bluntly. The two behind him barely look up, still engaged in a heated discussion.
“Of course.” I grab the menus, just appetizers, or tapas, according to Myra, and lead them through the pavilion, beneath the glass roof I’m told opens in the summer. The meeting room is blocked from view by a wall, and the heavy oak table isn’t set like the others.
“Let me get some plates,” I say as Mark sits down. He doesn’t look up from his phone.
“Hello boys.” Myra glides into the room, pushing a silver tray of tapas—fancy flatbreads with fresh herbs and meatballs in a delicious-smelling sauce. The plates and utensils are on the shelf beneath it. “I see you’ve met Jaime.”
She’s not talking to Mark, but to the two guys still arguing just inside the entrance. The taller one, wearing a snug University of Illinois shirt and a cardigan, waves in my direction.
“That’s Ben,” Myra says as I help her unload the plates on a table in the corner. Her chin tips to the other guy, who has a patchy beard and a beret. “He’s Emmett. They’re interns at UI. They’ve been fighting over flower arrangements since lunch.”
Ben sets his laptop on the table. I can practically see the steam coming out of his ears.
“Emmett says they should be white. White tulips. For a parks benefit, outdoor, on the lake.” Ben scoffs like this is unheard of.
“Who doesn’t like white tulips?” argues Emmett. “They’re classy. Matt’s classy. It fits his image.”
I stiffen at the casual use of Sterling’s name.
“It would if his image were smug and pretentious,” mutters Ben.
Myra gives me a look that says told you so.
I stifle a small laugh, and Ben wheels on us.
“What do you think? What does Senator Sterling stand for? White tulips or stupid pink Easter tulips?”
I glance between them, not wanting to say the wrong thing five minutes into my first contact. From the back of my mind, I dredge up my weekend’s research about the bills Sterling supports and what his campaign is about.
“I thought he stood for family first values and revitalizing the city,” I say.
Emmett nods, impressed. Ben cheers and gives me a high five.
Mark looks up from his phone.
Bingo.
“We’ve got a new intern,” Emmett tells him.
“I hope she does a better job than you two,” he says. He returns to his phone, but as I head toward the door, I catch him watching me out of the corner of his eye, his gaze settling a bit too low for comfort.
“For what it’s worth,” I say quietly to Emmett as I pass, “I’m not sure dead flowers are a great way to promote parks. What about something you can plant?”
Emmett points at me. “Sustainability. I like her. I like her more than you, Ben.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials a number.
“Same,” says Ben.
Step one, establish rapport. Check.
“Well you certainly made a good first impression,” Myra tells me outside the room. “You even got Mark Stitz’s attention. I’ve been working here since the beginning of summer and the most he’s done is checked out my legs.”
I cringe. This explains her tension when she’d told me some people were good tippers, and some weren’t.
“How many interns work for Sterling?” I ask.
She stops at the bar and grabs a dewy carafe of water. “Six or seven. They rotate in from different colleges. I helped out on the Greener Tomorrow initiative last summer for one of my classes. That’s how I met Emmett and Ben.”
Her enthusiasm is clear, and it makes me think of Jimmy Balder. Was he this passionate before he disappeared?
“I’m sure they needed your help with all the staff coming and going.”
She glances at me over her shoulder, one brow quirked, and I kick myself for not having a smoother transition. I just met Myra; I need to build rapport before she tells me anything.
But I don’t want to be here longer than I have to be.
“The interns, I mean,” I add. “You said they rotate through a lot. It’s got to be hard to count on people knowing they don’t stick around.”
She’s heading to one of her tables, but slows at this, and I swear, there are shadows beneath her eyes that weren’t there before.
“They leave when their internships end. I’m sure they all don’t quit or something.”
She’s defensive. That’s a good sign there’s something there, but I can’t push until I know her better.
“Sorry,” I say. “Just wondering if I actually have a shot as one of Sterling’s interns.”
She nods slowly, then her eyes brighten. “I’m sure you do. And if not, there’s a ton of volunteer positions.”