“You are from Georgia,” she winked.
“Right. Anyway. Thanks.”
“Just breathe and enjoy it. It’s the first time you’ve been within ten feet of the man in...” she stared at the ceiling, doing the math, “. . . fifteen years? I’m going to pass out in my clothes. Wake me up when you get back, and we will hit the town harder than Hurricane Caroline.”
Emma’s phone blared her father’s ringtone, “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag,” in the lobby of the Manhattan behemoth that housed Knightsgrove-Bishop. She didn’t want him to know she was there. Fat chance. Sometimes she thought he had been more adversely affected by what happened than she had. He was wary of anything that could topple the carefully constructed facade that was her life. She couldn’t keep it from him though; besides tracking her movements with her phone, JT had, no doubt, already informed him of her whereabouts and apprised him of the short meeting last night.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, Beauty, what’s up?”
“I’m in Fiji doing some scuba diving.”
“So I hear.”
“Interview. For my work.”
“Nathan.” It wasn’t a question.
“He doesn’t remember me, Dad. I haven’t seen him in person since I was eight.”
“All right, honey. Don’t be too hard on him. I’m friends with half the board,” he chuckled.
That was easy.
“Okay, Dad, gotta go. Love you.” JT gave her an apologetic nod and headed to the coffee shop across the street.
She stood in front of the sleek elevator doors, her reflection staring back, and waited. Surely in a building this size, it wouldn’t take long for someone to come along. Her issue with confined spaces was one of her most profound and frustrating; especially considering the source of it was lost in some mental black hole her mind apparently wasn’t ready to explore. She had worked through it enough—hypnotherapy, relaxation exercises, breathing tricks—that she could handle common small spaces, like cars and elevators, as long as she wasn’t alone. As counterintuitive as it was, she had realized that if someone else was there, she didn’t experience that blinding terror, despite the fact that a small space would be even tighter with added bodies.
Finally, a group of men approached, laughing and ribbing each other about a baseball game the previous night. She gave a careless shrug indicating that she had forgotten to hit the button. They didn’t seem to mind. A goofy blond guy in the group reached past her to summon the car with an indulgent smile. As the doors slid open, she counted down from seven, breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, and took a confident stride in behind the men. They got off on the thirty-fifth floor, so she got off too, pretending to look confused. When a guy with a messenger bag stepped on, she joined him and sighed in relief when he hit the button for the top. The elevator climbed so high her ears popped. The security measures taken just to get this far had been staggering—her ID had been scanned, her appointment confirmed—the TSA could learn a thing or two from this place. Emma could only imagine what it would take to get to Nathan. Although why anyone would want to was beyond her. If he were as much of a libertine as the press made him out to be... the thought made her flop back against the wall of the elevator. What better way to make Nathan seem harmless than to paint him as a titular figurehead? That could be the reason for his well-documented indiscretions. Of course, going to Norway to BASE jump off the Troll Wall seemed a bit extreme to create that persona. She was grasping at straws—something, anything—to make the Nathan Bishop of her imagination mesh with whomever she was about to confront.
The elevator doors slid open, and Emma was preparing for what she imagined would be the requisite body cavity search when a striking African American woman with a nearly bald head and scarlet lips approached. Emma’s four-inch heels put her well above average height, and this woman towered over her.
“Ms. Porter, I’m Iyla. If you’ll follow me.”
Iyla led her down the marble hall and stopped at a pair of double doors that could easily have been mistaken for a wall. She placed her thumb on an unnoticeable scanner, and the doors parted.
“It’s like getting into the Bat Cave,” Emma joked.
“It’s mostly for show. Clients like all the bells and whistles. Honestly, it would take a SEAL team to make it this far into the building uninvited.”
Emma nodded her understanding, and they continued. As they breezed into a large, open waiting area, an efficient older woman, Aggie, Emma assumed, peeked over her half-glasses and said, “He’s ready for you,” then returned to her phones. I’m sorry, Senator, Mr. Bishop is in a meeting. This afternoon? Yes, sir. I’ll put you on his calendar.
Iyla gestured to the door. “Go on in.”
“So, this one just opens?” Emma joked.
“When he wants it to.” She turned and left.
Emma pushed the door open and saw him sitting behind his computer. He didn’t look up, but he noticed her there. She mustered her easily accessible false confidence and took two strides into the room. He looked up.
Nathan pinched the bridge of his nose. He started to stand, then stopped himself. He ran a hand through his already thoroughly mussed hair.
“Ms. Porter, I...” She let him find the words. “I owe you an apology. I’m appalled at the way I behaved. I’m not used to. . .” He hung his head. Was he embarrassed? “I’m not used to getting a new perspective on a situation.”
Emma decided to throw him a bone. “You’re used to women... Following along.” She meant it literally and figuratively. He understood.
“Can we start over?”