Not mine.
Lastly and perhaps selfishly, I want to see her again—and then there’s only one way to do so the right way—and that’s to give her a real shot at the job. Interview her with the same open mind I interview everyone else. Being in prison shouldn’t preclude her from a chance if she’s served her time, right?
I’ll worry about the fact that I’m not allowed to have romantic relationships with employees without filing documents with human resources another time.
Finally, I allow myself to scroll down.
Stella Schmidt. Based on her birthdate, she’s twenty-five. Sheesh, that’s young. I’m one and a half presidencies older than her, but okay. Moving on. Three years’ worth of online courses in fashion merchandising and product marketing. All right. That’s definitely something, even if she didn’t graduate.
I stop when I reach the box asking if she’s been convicted of a felony.
The answer is yes.
Under “more information,” it simply says Bedford Hills Correctional from 2017-2021.
No further explanation. And I can almost see her stubbornly tight-lipped expression.
I spear my fingers through my hair. Jesus, she just got out. What the hell could she have done to get herself four years behind bars? The girl barely reached my shoulder. Not that height has anything to do with committing crimes. Unless she’s one of those spies who has to carefully climb over a complicated series of green lasers protecting a giant diamond. Being small in stature might give someone an advantage in a situation like that.
I keep scrolling.
She didn’t even put down a single reference.
Work with me, Stella.
Based on the application alone, it’s a real stretch to call her in for an interview, but if I don’t, it’s going to be a pinwheel under my skin for a long time. Balance. Find the balance.
If Stella gets a second shot, so does everyone else.
“All right, Leland, here’s what we’re going to do. Call everyone in the no pile and set them up for interviews, too.”
His jaw dangles down in the vicinity of his knees. “What? Even the musicians?”
“Even them.”
It’s much later when I start to regret this decision.
Past five o’clock. Everyone, including Leland, has gone home for the day. I’m on my thirty-first interview and I haven’t had lunch, so my groaning stomach is drowning out the answers of the woman sitting across from me. Kimberly. She’s one of the overqualified applicants. NYU graduate. Top of her class. Impeccably dressed, a gold cuff wrapped around her deep brown bicep. She answers everything correctly, but I don’t get the same kick in my gut when we’re discussing concepts for the window. Nor do I get it with the next hopeful—Jonathan from Minnesota, who is only in town for two weeks with his death metal band and thought maybe they could perform in one of the windows, like, “a conceptual thing or whatever.” Or Lonnie, a former contestant on Project Runway who got voted off in one of the early rounds and insisted on me watching his highlight reel.
None of them make me see what they’re describing. Especially Minnesota Jonathan.
And that’s a problem.
Because Lonnie is my last meeting, besides Stella, and she’s nowhere to be found. The row of chairs outside of my office is empty for the first time since I started interviewing at noon and I’m beginning to lose hope that she’ll show.
I finish the interview with Lonnie, letting him know we’ll be in touch, either way. Now I sit, drumming my fingers on the solid pine of my desk. Restlessly, I pull her application back up and look for hidden messages, of which there are obviously none. It would be ethical to call her and ask if she’s coming, but it’s not something I would do for any of the other applicants, so I force my hand away from the phone.
With a sigh loud enough to wake the dead, I roll away from my desk and stand, taking about ten times longer than usual to pack everything into my leather briefcase, just in case she’s running late. I drop my phone and stoop down to get it—and that’s when I see a flash of something in the gap between my desk and the floor.
Am I crazy or did something just move outside of my office?
Quickly, I straighten to my full height, but find my doorway empty.
“Stella?” I call, grateful Leland isn’t here to make an A Streetcar Named Desire joke, because he’s definitely the type.
Getting no response, I come around my desk and walk out onto the empty main floor just in time to hear the stairwell door open and close. Who is taking the stairs down from the tenth floor when there’s a perfectly good elevator?
The universe sends me another one of those here-comes-a-challenge skin prickles and I start to jog in the direction that the person (or possible ghost) just disappeared. I yank open the door to the stairwell and listen for footsteps, hearing a quick pattern of them below.
“Stella,” I say again, my voice echoing off the concrete.
The footsteps stop abruptly. Several seconds pass.
“I changed my mind,” she finally answers. “About doing the interview.”
Oh boy. I forgot how much I like her voice. It’s got a sweet, smooth tone to it and she probably hates it like hell. “You’re allowed to change your mind,” I say, weighing my options. I don’t want her to leave. But I can’t exactly barrel toward her in a stairwell that looks straight out of an M. Night Shyamalan film. “Wow. My office looks like the North Pole. It’s lit up within an inch of its life. You’d have no idea we were sitting right on top of a portal to hell.”
I hear an intake of breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, but I’m not getting my hopes up.
Damn. Too late. They’re up.
“You might have mentioned you were the general manager when we met outside,” she says with a hint of bite in her tone.
“If I’d done that, you would have been more diplomatic and less refreshingly honest.”
“What a nice way of saying judgmental.” She releases a slow huff. “No, I would have been exactly the same.”
“You’re right. You would have,” I say to the girl I can’t even see. “Can we go somewhere less soul-crushing to talk? I’ve got peppermint bark in my office with your name on it.”
She groans. “I can practically hear the bow tie in your voice.”
“It’s a Mrs. Claus theme today. That woman doesn’t get enough credit for holding down the fort.” I know it’s a risk, but I start to descend the staircase, slowly, like a serial killer. “Maybe we could spitball about a window dedicated to Santa’s better half. What do you say?”
“I say you really can’t be serious about interviewing me. Hiring me.” There’s a shuffling sound, like those black boots of hers on the concrete landing. Hell, she wore combat boots to a job interview. There’s no way not to smile about that. “Look. Is this…some kind of window dresser casting couch situation? If so, I’m going to knee you in the jewels as hard as possible, even if I have to get on a stepping stool to do it.”
“And I would deserve that ambulance ride.” I continue down another five steps, watching her shadow move on the stairwell below me. “That’s not what this is.”
“So what is it? You don’t seem the type to play a joke this elaborate on someone, but then again, I’ve been away a while.” A beat passes. “Which you now know. Obviously.”