isn’t it? But you know something, Andrew? I refuse to give up. I really do. It doesn’t matter to me if I fail. It matters to me if I don’t try.” He thought about it a moment. “Too bad I’m not really the Wizard of Oz. If I were, I could just step behind the old curtain and pull a lever and change everything—just like that.”
Wren chuckled. “No, you couldn’t. The Wizard of Oz was a humbug, remember?”
Simon Lawrence laughed with him “Unfortunately, I do. I think about it every time someone refers to me as the Wiz. Do me a favor, Andrew. Please refrain from using that hideous appellation in whatever article you end up writing. Call me Toto or something; maybe it will catch on.”
There was a soft knock, the door opened, and Stefanie Winslow walked in carrying the lattes Simon had sent her to purchase from the coffee shop at Elliott Bay Book Company. Both men started to rise, but she motioned them back into their seats. “Stay where you are, gentlemen, you probably need all your energy for the interview. I’ll just set these on the desk and be on my way.”
She gave Wren a dazzling smile, and he wished instantly that he was younger and cooler and even then he would probably need to be a cross between Harrison Ford and Bill Gates to have a chance with this woman. Stefanie Winslow was beautiful, but she was exotic as well, a combination that made her unforgettable. She was tall and slim with jet-black hair that curled down to her shoulders, cut back from her face and ears in a sweep so that it shimmered like satin in sunlight. Her skin was a strange smoky color, suggesting that she was of mixed ancestry, the product of more than one culture, more than one people. Startling emerald eyes dominated an oval face with tiny, perfect features. She moved in a graceful, willowy way that accentuated her long limbs and neck and stunning shape. She seemed oblivious to how she looked and comfortable within herself, radiating a relaxed confidence that had both an infectious and unsettling effect on the people around her. Andrew Wren would have made the journey to Seattle just to see her in the flesh for ten seconds.
She set the lattes before them and started for the door. “Simon, I’m going to finish with the SAM arrangements, then I’m out of here. John has your speech all done except for a once-over, so we’re going out for a long, quiet, intimate dinner. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Stef.” Simon waved her out.
“Nice seeing you, Mr. Wren,” she called back.
The door closed behind her with a soft click. Wren shook his head. “Shouldn’t she be a model or an actress or something? What sort of hold do you have over her, Simon?”
Simon Lawrence shrugged. “Will you be staying for the dedication on Wednesday, Andrew, or do you have to get right back?”
Wren reached for his latte and took a long sip. “No, I’m staying until Thursday. The dedication is part of what I came for. It’s central to the article I’m writing.”
Simon nodded. “Excellent. Now what’s the other part, if you don’t mind my asking? Everything we’ve talked about has been covered in the newspapers already—ad nauseam, I might add.
The New York Times
didn’t send its top investigative reporter to interview me for a rerun, did it? What’s up, Andrew?”
Wren shrugged, trying to appear casual in making the gesture. “Well, part of it is the dedication. I’m doing a piece on corporate and governmental involvement—or the lack thereof—in the social problems of urban America. God knows, there’s little enough to write about that’s positive, and your programs are bright lights in a mostly shadowy panorama of neglect and disinterest. You’ve actually done something where others have just talked about it—and what you’ve done works.”
“But?”
“But in the last month or so the paper has received a series of anonymous phone calls and letters suggesting that there are financial improprieties in your programs
Wren chuckled. “No, you couldn’t. The Wizard of Oz was a humbug, remember?”
Simon Lawrence laughed with him “Unfortunately, I do. I think about it every time someone refers to me as the Wiz. Do me a favor, Andrew. Please refrain from using that hideous appellation in whatever article you end up writing. Call me Toto or something; maybe it will catch on.”
There was a soft knock, the door opened, and Stefanie Winslow walked in carrying the lattes Simon had sent her to purchase from the coffee shop at Elliott Bay Book Company. Both men started to rise, but she motioned them back into their seats. “Stay where you are, gentlemen, you probably need all your energy for the interview. I’ll just set these on the desk and be on my way.”
She gave Wren a dazzling smile, and he wished instantly that he was younger and cooler and even then he would probably need to be a cross between Harrison Ford and Bill Gates to have a chance with this woman. Stefanie Winslow was beautiful, but she was exotic as well, a combination that made her unforgettable. She was tall and slim with jet-black hair that curled down to her shoulders, cut back from her face and ears in a sweep so that it shimmered like satin in sunlight. Her skin was a strange smoky color, suggesting that she was of mixed ancestry, the product of more than one culture, more than one people. Startling emerald eyes dominated an oval face with tiny, perfect features. She moved in a graceful, willowy way that accentuated her long limbs and neck and stunning shape. She seemed oblivious to how she looked and comfortable within herself, radiating a relaxed confidence that had both an infectious and unsettling effect on the people around her. Andrew Wren would have made the journey to Seattle just to see her in the flesh for ten seconds.
She set the lattes before them and started for the door. “Simon, I’m going to finish with the SAM arrangements, then I’m out of here. John has your speech all done except for a once-over, so we’re going out for a long, quiet, intimate dinner. See you tomorrow.”
“Bye, Stef.” Simon waved her out.
“Nice seeing you, Mr. Wren,” she called back.
The door closed behind her with a soft click. Wren shook his head. “Shouldn’t she be a model or an actress or something? What sort of hold do you have over her, Simon?”
Simon Lawrence shrugged. “Will you be staying for the dedication on Wednesday, Andrew, or do you have to get right back?”
Wren reached for his latte and took a long sip. “No, I’m staying until Thursday. The dedication is part of what I came for. It’s central to the article I’m writing.”
Simon nodded. “Excellent. Now what’s the other part, if you don’t mind my asking? Everything we’ve talked about has been covered in the newspapers already—ad nauseam, I might add.
The New York Times
didn’t send its top investigative reporter to interview me for a rerun, did it? What’s up, Andrew?”
Wren shrugged, trying to appear casual in making the gesture. “Well, part of it is the dedication. I’m doing a piece on corporate and governmental involvement—or the lack thereof—in the social problems of urban America. God knows, there’s little enough to write about that’s positive, and your programs are bright lights in a mostly shadowy panorama of neglect and disinterest. You’ve actually done something where others have just talked about it—and what you’ve done works.”
“But?”
“But in the last month or so the paper has received a series of anonymous phone calls and letters suggesting that there are financial improprieties in your programs
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