Contracts of Heart

Chapter 2: Anonymous Offer

The cabin door was shutting as Marie entered the jet bridge. With a courteous smile from the flight

attendant, she slipped into her first-class seat, her pulse still pounding. Everything seemed unreal,

even the abrupt silence of the aircraft and the sound of the engines powering up.

She saw the skyline of Manhattan fade away through the oval window as the cabin lights faded a

moment later. There was a raw, exhilarating optimism underneath her.

She sighed after wiping a drop of perspiration off her temple. She had succeeded. She had

overcome insurmountable difficulties.

But even as the city lights went out and the engines roared, Marie could not get rid of the unsettling

notion that was gnawing at the back of her mind: *Who is John Thorne, really—and what am I getting

myself into? *

She was taken toward a destiny as unclear as the midnight Atlantic as the plane rose into the sky.

And the last strands of her former existence permanently unwound somewhere in the temples of

steel and smoke.

As the early morning light slanted through her flimsy curtains and threw long shadows over her

coffee-stained kitchen table, Marie awoke to the soft hum of her aged radiator. She looked at her

phone one-handed as if it were a lifeline, blinking against the brightness. Six calls were lost. Three

texts that have not yet been read. And—above all—an email from the recruiter from last night, this

time without the appearance of anonymity:

From: "E. Executive Search, Lawrence

Subject: Next Steps for the PA Position

Her heart was racing. She opened it with a tap:

Ms. Dubois, good morning.

I appreciate your quick replies. We would like to schedule an in-person interview with you in New

York City. To confirm your availability and chosen travel arrangements, please respond by 5 PM

today. Details will be provided later.

Interviewers' schedules change often, thus priority is urgent.

Best,

E. Lawrence Marie gasped. It was 8:07 AM on the clock on her stove. She would have just enough time to

scrounge money for a bus ticket—or, better still, a last-minute Greyhound fare—if she responded right

away. Even though they were unpleasant, they were significantly less expensive than the train.

However, every penny mattered.

With her mind racing with thoughts, she hurried downstairs after putting on her university

sweatshirt, which was made of more thread than cloth. Who was this Lawrence? And which

business has the power to recruit a PA under strict NDA terms without seeing them? The assurance

of an instant start seemed less like an invitation and more like a directive.

She called the reservations line for Greyhound. She had purchased a one-way ticket to New York

City two minutes later, with a 3:30 departure time that same day. She had to take a chance even

though the ~$45 trip would deplete her remaining money. Before searching through her beaten

rucksack for her resume and a change of clothing, she scrawled the bus confirmation number on a

piece of paper. She made the cut with her lone pair of black pants and a clean shirt that she

borrowed from a friend.

She prepared her response back at her laptop:

Mr. Lawrence,

I appreciate the invitation. I would be thrilled to do an interview in New York City today, and I am

available. A Greyhound bus that I have reserved is scheduled to leave at 3:30 PM and arrive in Port

Authority at about 8:45 PM. As soon as possible, please provide the interview location and any other

instructions.

With best wishes,

Marie Dubois

She felt as if she had leaped from a precipice, heart first, as she clicked "Send."

Time passed in broken rhythms over the following several hours. Marie attempted to eat a piece of

dry bread, warmed the coffee from yesterday, and looked at the power bill that was still on the table.

The recruiter's questions—complete discretion—repeated in her head. frequent journeys. No

conflicting obligations. The invisible boundary lingered: Are you prepared to completely uproot your

life?

Doubt flitted in her breast as she muttered to herself, "I am."

One among the hundreds of offices dotting the Midtown skyline was Suite 47B, a modest office in a

tall glass building. After copying the location to her phone's notes, she gazed at it for a while,

imagining what it would be like to enter that lobby. Would she shake her hands? When faced with

someone strong enough to demand complete confidentiality, would she find her voice? She packed her laptop (in a scuffed neoprene cover), two pencils, a highlighter, and her resume in her

bag. A toothbrush, a pack of gum, a paperback of Chekov's tales, which are her mother's favorite,

and her phone charger. Beyond the little picture of her parents pasted to the corner of her laptop,

there was no space for nostalgia.

She left her flat at 2:30 PM with her bus confirmation in one hand and her keys in the other. The sky

was a swirl of gray and pastel blue, and the Vermont air was crisp. Pulling her coat tighter, she shut

the door and stepped onto the creaking porch of yellowed wood. For a moment, she thought of

going back and remaining in the dull comfort of her familiar existence. However, the wind dispelled

that idea and guided her to the bus stop at the end of the lane.

At precisely 3:30, the Greyhound bus roared to life, idling outside the terminal before engulfing her.

As the scenery changed from rolling countryside to industrial fringes and then skyscrapers, she took

her seat toward the rear, number 27.

As she watched the light go below the trees, she placed her forehead against the chilly pane. She

was too tired to read when they arrived in Albany. Her imagination half-dreamed of a glass tower

with her name engraved on the entryway while she slept in fits and starts.

The bus shook to a halt at Port Authority around 8:45 p.m. Fatigued travelers staggered onto the

station, pulling their bags with them. With her muscles weary from sitting for hours, she raised her

load and made her way through the throng.

The lights of Manhattan shone outside like a constellation. While neon signs flickered, taxis raced

by. There was a hum of urgency in the air.

She looked at the map on her phone: Lexington and 58th, one mile to the east. She rattled out the

location and hopped into a neighboring cab. With his eyes on the road, the driver gave a single nod.

It was a ten-minute journey. He left her at the foot of a gleaming glass structure, and she gazed up

till the top disappeared into the darkness. Boots clicking on granite, she turned in her ticket and went

out onto the pavement.

As Marie walked into the foyer, her heart pounded in her ears. A sleek concierge counter was

illuminated by recessed lighting, and marble flooring shone under tall potted plants. From the floor-

to-ceiling windows behind the desk, a chilly air blew down.