Contracts of Heart

An army of unopened mail spread out in front of Marie Dubois like a merciless deck of cards as she crouched over her kitchen table in the gloomy morning light. Long shadows were formed on her Vermont farmhouse's crumbling walls by the flickering overhead lightbulb. The metallic flavor of fear was in her lips as she touched her temple. Her growing debt seemed less like numbers on paper and more like a real weight bearing down on her chest with every bill she opened. The power company's past-due notice flitted to the ground. Beside it was a credit card statement, the amount of which was skyrocketing despite her best attempts to make minimal payments. In addition, she received a last and gloomy eviction notice requiring that she leave her leased room by the end of the month. The creaky chair complained, so she leaned back and closed her eyes, wincing. Her father's soft chuckle reverberated through the aisles of their cherished bookshop, and her mother's warm smile as she prepared bread in the ancient stone oven lingered behind her eyelids. They passed away unexpectedly last winter, and she had missed more than just their companionship while they were gone. Death taxes and medical expenses quickly ate up their little estate. She was brought back to the present by a harsh ping from her laptop. Wincing as her loose pants tightened around her waist, she hauled herself upright and blinked. A single email with the following subject line appeared on the screen: "URGENT EXECUTIVE PERSONAL ASSISTANT". no logo for the business. No sender information. "Looking for a resourceful professional for a private, high- pressure position in NYC." competitive pay. It is important to use discretion. Send a cover letter and resume in response.  She scowled. In addition to the almost comical list of requirements, which included "travel availability at a moment's notice," "managing high-level executive personal and professional affairs," "willing to work seven days a week," and, most concerning of all, "no questions asked," the pay was enormous—far more than she had dared to imagine. Marie tapped her chin with her fingertips. She had a strong feeling that it was a trap, a con to entice the needy. However, she recognized desperation as an old acquaintance as she looked at her crumpled financial statement. A jolt of longing was triggered by the distant sound of tractors from the fields. Mornings in Vermont were often quiet; her parents would be out caring for the greenhouse, steam rising from their mugs as they sighed contentedly and looked about them. The home now reverberated with loneliness, each moan and creak serving as a reminder that she was completely alone. Standing, she walked over to the window. Rain was promised by the gray clouds that hung low over the hills. One robin pecked at a clump of obstinate grass as it skipped over the overgrown yard. How long had she been feeling optimistic? She felt as if the "Reply" button's flashing cursor was making fun of her. Competitive pay. The need for discretion is paramount. No queries were raised. She clicked "Attach résumé" on impulse. Over "Send," her finger lingered. She reflected on her parents: her father's unwavering faith that she would eventually discover her calling in life, and her mother's gentle encouragement to keep going. She pressed "Send" with a shuddering breath. --- At daybreak two days later, an answer was received: "Interview: Monday at 9:00 a.m. The location will be revealed after verification. No name. No title. There was just a private phone number and a signature line that said **"Thorne Enterprises." No office location. Exhilaration and fear coiling in Marie's chest, she let out a breath. She had never heard of a business called Thorne Enterprises, and it was definitely not based in quaint Vermont. However, the cost of ignorance was less expensive than another month of gaslights and stale food. She anxiously practiced her responses in front of the broken bathroom mirror throughout the morning. "I am very well-organized." "I perform best under pressure." "I have perfect discretion." Only a hollow echo remained when her words sunk down the sewer with the chilly water. She picked up a suit from a consignment store in the late afternoon after driving into the closest town, which was twenty miles away. Although the charcoal-gray coat and skirt were more expensive than her weekly groceries, she was aware that first impressions might make all the difference. The cashier at the register smiled sympathetically at her. "You have an important meeting?" Marie forced a nod in response, "Something like that." She did not mention that this may be her last opportunity. It is 8:45 a.m. on Monday. Her pulse was racing as she got to the meeting spot, a quiet brownstone on Manhattan's Upper East Side. After taking her name, a discrete doorman in a fitted suit led her through a maze of corridors. The elevator journey up seemed to go on forever; the dimly lit hallway beyond led to a far more subdued space with walls covered in abstract art that she could not understand. Office 37's door was slightly open. Marie slipped inside after knocking. He had already arrived. Fingers clenched, John Thorne sat behind a gleaming wood desk. His clothing was well tailored, and his black hair was combed to perfection. At that point, he seemed more like the face of corporate power than a human being. Without a glimmer of warmth, his icy eyes locked with hers. "Miss Dubois," he murmured in a quiet, steady voice. "I appreciate you coming." She extended her resume. "I appreciate you having me." His brow remained fixed as he scanned it. "Your qualifications are impressive." He stopped and looked at the wall-mounted digital clock: 8:53. "We will start with a quick assessment of your flexibility." Her stomach fell. "A test?" He gave a nod. "I have a little emergency planned. Five minutes from now, you will leave this building, take a cab to John F. Kennedy Airport, and be ready to handle a last-minute flight to London. On his desk, he tapped a modern tablet. "This is your schedule." The blood drained from Marie's face. "I—I did not pack." He smiled thin-lippedly at her. You have just fifteen minutes. Before 10:00 a.m., I expect you to physically report to the gate with your baggage checked. This interview will end if you do not succeed. Her heart pounded. She looked at the itinerary: a first-class, red-eye trip to Heathrow to see the CEO. Pay information, vacation benefits, and a seven-figure yearly package. If only she could make it happen, it would be all she had ever imagined. “With a fixed jaw, she responded, "Understood." Her Dartmouth-blue heels clicked on the gleaming floor as she ran out of the room. After fumbling for her phone, she texted her landlord, "Meeting opportunity," and contacted a town car service. She then reeled off the airport location. may spend the most of the day out of town. Within fifteen minutes, she was speeding through the early traffic in Midtown in a black automobile. She stuffed a silk blouse, a pair of heels, and—on a whim—her parents' necklace into a tiny carry-on, her hands shaking as she did so. She looked directly into the tinted glass at her reflection. *You are capable of doing this* she told herself.