Chapter II First Day
Chapter II
First Day
C lark had never in his entire life jumped out of bed as fast as he did that morning.
One piece of toast and a subway ride later, Clark had miraculously arrived ten minutes early. He gave his name to the doorwoman at the desk in a grand marble lobby, so excited and nervous he was short of breath:
“Good morning! My name is Clark Crane, I’m here for Monica Chase-Whiteley?”
At his mention of Monica, the doorwoman held her gaze at him in surprise, but nodded. With a few clicks of the computer, some shuffles of paperwork, and a phone call upstairs, however, she informed him that they had no note of his arrival, no knowledge of his being there, and as such, they could not let him up.
“I’m supposed to start at seven. Are you sure?” he asked, checking his watch. He showed her the text message from Monica, but the doorwoman shook her head.
“Sorry,” she said. Until someone from upstairs could confirm, there was nothing else she could do. “Them’s the rules, kid.” Clark ended up on one of the lobby’s black sofas reading a book, to the noise of the giant waterfall opposite and the odd phone call to the desk.
As it turned out, that certain “someone” responsible for securing his entry was Monica.
It was almost nine a.m. by the time she finally sauntered in, her heels echoing across that marble lobby, muffling the sounds of Clark’s grumbling stomach.
The doorwoman said flatly, “Good morning, Mrs. Chase-Whiteley.” Monica moseyed on without a pause and without an answer, and Clark made haste to catch up with her. She wore giant sunglasses, and had her purse in one manicured hand, coffee in the other, dressed in all black like the day before. Was she wearing the same clothes?
“I just loathe mornings, don’t you?” she asked. She was chewing gum and had bathed in copious amounts of fragrance. Judging by her sunglasses, Clark wondered if she was covering up a late night, or otherwise nursing a hangover.
In a private elevator, no manicured finger was raised nor a keycard swiped for the electronic sign above them to light up “PH” for penthouse, and for the doors to draw to a close. Up they wordlessly went, 131 stories high. They were up so high that Clark’s ears popped.
The elevator doors opened to a grand foyer, with tall ceilings and portraits, columns and chandeliers, and the morning summer sun streaming in through a ceiling of skylights and mirrored walls. To the right were gold kitchen doors and leafy houseplants. Down the hall, a white marble fountain stood in its center; at the end was a spiral marble staircase, flanked by a room to the left and a hallway to the right. “Where are we?” Clark asked.
“Charisma’s,” Monica said.
To Clark, it felt more like a museum or white-marble palace than a home, or maybe more like a place of worship, sheltered on its perch high above the city...Clark could not remember seeing a more luxurious space. Maybe some of the summer mansions he had visited on outings to barbecues in the Hamptons with his parents’ as a child, but none as extravagant as this. He fought hard to hide the look of discovering a technicolor Oz on his face.
“Wait there,” Monica commanded, pointing to a crimson velvet loveseat on the right and disappearing around the corner, heels clacking on marble.
The mirrored walls were embellished in cream and gold leaf, with mural depictions of goddesses etched in white, in various scenes. Towards the stairs were portraits of ladies in all their regality from bygone eras. Clark tried to imagine what their stories were. Family portraits, he wanted to imagine. Sitting beside him was a marble bust of the goddess Tanit, in her curled bob and robe, staring blankly through him.
In the mirrored wall directly opposite, Clark observed himself seated among the refinery: dressed in a cheap blue button-down, khaki pants, and thrift-store shoes. His ungainly legs seemed to move him out of his seat as if a mind of their own. He wandered down the corridor.
The portraits he came upon depicted women of power and prestige in various poses. They wore their lace and silk, cashmere and fur, and were dressed, Clark noted with curiosity, all in black. Set around them were backdrops of natural sceneries of forests, hills, and seasides, and ornate thrones fit for monarchs, all of which seemed to delineate—was it their hometowns? Or maybe it was something else... Their queendoms, Clark thought. It was as if they were iconography. He discovered upon second glance that their pets, seated in their laps or on pedestals, or on leashes close at hand, were not just small poodles and wild-eyed cats (like their owners... ), but foxes and tortoises, and snakes and birds. One had a frog, and another a red-eyed white rabbit.
Clark followed the portraits around the corner and to the left, into another grand landing room. Here the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the west and south sides of Manhattan, so high above it all the city was soundless. The usual white noise of sirens and honks and the city’s millions of inhabitants were eerily mute and insulated. From Charisma’s tower, the miles of unattainable city were well within Clark’s grasp and at his feet, the cars below a personal ant farm, the veins of the city teeming with life and possibility. He became dizzy from the view and so drew away.
The decor inside was again in cream and gold, elegantly decorated and tastefully minimal, with well-lit oak shelves just behind him, displaying various vases, figurines, and star-studded photos, just like the article the day before had mentioned. One sculpture was of a pair of intertwined hands, almost touching. There were two blue velvet Art Deco couches atop a freshly vacuumed and untouched rug that led up to a smart marble fireplace. Opposite to this was the room’s only portrait, the grandest painting of them all and the clear focal point of the space. Clark drew up even closer.
It was less portrait and more a tall, full-bodied spectacle, almost as high as the ceiling, unmistakably of Charisma Saintly, dressed all in black. One of her legs stepped out of the slit of a long dramatic gown, whose train exited portrait right. Her arms were slipped into black velvet gloves, and her bust was on full display. Her fiery copper hair lay in cascading waves around her shoulders, complete with fringe, a backcombed bouffant, and a diamond tiara.
More like a crown . . .
She stood on a spotlit gray canvas and shadowed background, and just within the frame to her left was a tree, the leaves and trailing branches of which bore a single raven and many red, round apples. Their color, like her copper hair, punctuated against the contrasting, monochromatic palette. Level with or just above the artist’s eyeline was Charisma’s kohl-rimmed gaze of yellow-green, feline-like eyes staring back, leering out across the room at Clark from her perch. He had that telltale feeling that her eyes were following him around the room, watching him. Clark wasn’t sure if the entire thing was gaudy or extravagant and wondered why he found it to be so arresting all the same.
Clack clack clack went a pair of heels creeping closer, a landing above. Figuring that Monica would not like to catch him on his own private tour, and surely not wanting to wait around to find out, he took the lightest, most deft tiptoe of steps back towards that loveseat in the foyer so as to not make a sound, just in time for Monica to appear on the landing and clack her way down. Clack clack clack. She took forever to reach him.
“Here,” she said, none the wiser, handing him a pen, an NDA, and an envelope made of fine stationery.
“Is this for me?” Clark said, turning it over and reaching for the lip. She swatted at the top of his hand.
“Of course it’s not for you. Under no circumstances are you to open this,” Monica said exasperatedly. He looked up and flushed. “Sign this NDA, and then take this envelope to the address I am sending to you now via text. Await further instruction there. Hand deliver it, delete the address when you are done, and most importantly, guard it with your life . Do you understand?” “Yes,” Clark said with a nod. Silently, he read through the form.
Nondisclosure Agreement...Recipient shall not disclose confidential information or permit the disclosure of confidential information of CHARISMA SAINTLY INC., for any purpose except to evaluate and engage in yada yada yada, blah blah blah. The term “confidential information” means uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh. Upon signature, this Agreement shall bind, blind, mute, and inure to the benefit of CHARISMA SAINTLY INC. and their respective successors and permitted affiliates. Yeah yeah yeah, whatever that means. Huh, that’s funny. This Agreement will be interpreted and construed in accordance with the laws of the ‘American Witches Tribunal’ in Salem, MA. Seriously; they’ve got to be joking. He signed the bottom with his name and the date.
Inside the elevator, when the doors closed, Clark peered up. A security camera and its blinking red eye stared back at him. He turned the envelope over in his hands to examine it anyway: the envelope was small and squarish, made of thick, rich paper that was blank on both sides and sealed in red wax, with an emblem stamped in the symbol of an eye. Curiosity welled up inside of him.
As instructed, Clark set out into that sun-drenched summer morning, to the address he received via text. His journey took him up Fifth Avenue past the tourists at the infamous windows at Bergdorf’s, and the equally infamous legless, armless panhandler in front. He walked by the Plaza Hotel and the telltale smell of the horse carriages at Central Park, past the museum and the zoo, twenty or so blocks north. There, the doorman seemed almost surprised to hear who he was sent by.
“First elevator on the left,” the doorman said. At the landing on the sixteenth floor, there was a single apartment door, and no sooner had he arrived did he receive a text message from Monica:
(9:59 a.m. Monica Chase-Whiteley): Where are you?
What in the . . . Clark thought to himself. He typed:
(10:00 a.m. Clark Crane): Hi Monica, I just got here. Delivering the envelope now.
He rang the doorbell. Had she really expected him back that fast?
A short woman appeared and Clark could almost not believe who was standing in front of him. Elegant and poised, her blonde hair in a messy bun, she was dressed all in black (of course... he thought). The woman peered out at him and simply said, “Hello?”
“Good morning! How are you today?” he piped back.
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Delivery from Charisma Saintly,” Clark said, presenting the envelope to her with both hands.
“Thank you, sweetie,” she said, not taking her eyes off him.
“You’re welcome,” he said with a smile. She smiled back.
“You must be new, I haven’t seen you before. What’s your name, pumpkin?”
“It’s Clark.”
“Aw, hiya, Clark! Aren’t you just the cutest, most handsome thing!”
Clark blushed. “Pumpkin” was the pet name his mother used, his favorite.
“Would you like to come in for some water or lemonade?” She opened the door, beckoning him in. “It’s freshly squeezed, just made it,” she encouraged.
As they stood on the landing of her sunny, air-conditioned home that smelled sweet like jasmine and vanilla, a voice in his head echoed the old adage never take candy from a stranger... He wanted to say, “thank you but I have to get going!” and make his way back to Charisma’s. As she smilingly stood there with the door ajar, however, and said “I won’t bite,” another thought came to mind.
“Sure! I’d like that very much, thank you.”
She showed him to her kitchen and poured him a glass of crisp lemonade, which Clark drank down almost in one gulp. The next thing he knew, he was being toured around her three-story Fifth Avenue penthouse with homemade cookies on a napkin. There was a wall of shelves displaying her many Grammys and awards, but mostly she waved those away. They glided past the magazine covers and the portraits of her glossy editorials. Instead, she talked animatedly fast about the photos of her daughter and her family, beaming up at the camera, the candids on the beach or on safari, in nature, or at home, and about how she so wanted to have grandkids (“How old are you?” she asked him, one question of many). She showed him her gorgeous garden terrace with a view of Central Park, and a giant library with thirteen-foot-tall ceilings that could make any reader salivate. In the end, she sent him off with a couple more cookies and a tight hug. Clark thanked her profusely.
“Have a good day,” she said from her doorway, waving and smiling before the elevator closed. “Good luck, sweetie.” Clark was too charmed by her to think anything ominous.
When Clark returned—with a cheery wave to the doorwoman, who only stared back at him—Monica was already in the foyer.
“What in the hell took you so long?” she demanded. “Who did you leave the envelope with?!”
“Wow, was she nice,” Clark said, clasping his hand to his cheek. “I can’t believe I just met—”
With a wave of her phone, Monica said, “Bette just called me to tell me how adorable and precious the new guy is. You actually spoke to her?”
The glow on Clark’s face came crashing down.
“You know what,” she said, “I thought you might be a psycho the first time I laid eyes on you yesterday, but now I know for sure that you are. Do you even know who that is?!”
“We only exchanged a few words!” Clark said defensively. “She offered to show me her home. It happened so fast, I couldn’t say no!” But not even Clark bought his own lie.
Monica took a couple of steps toward him, narrowing her eyes on him. Sharply, she said, “I don’t care if she offered to pluck your impoverished little ass from Queens and adopt you. You are not here to make friends, you are here to work for Charisma! Never, under any circumstances, are you to speak to a soul. Do you understand me?”
“Oh, okay. I didn’t know...Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry,” he added.
“Good.” She tossed him another envelope. “Be back here, and quickly.”
Clark nodded. “Okay.”
By the time the elevator doors closed, those gray-blue eyes were just about burned into Clark’s retinas. Did I just make a big mistake on my first day...? He thought to himself in the quiet, How was I supposed to know not to engage...? She was very engaging...! In spite of that, Clark reasoned he hadn’t been fired yet, and that he had the rest of his shift to redeem himself. As he landed on the main lobby floor, a smile crept back onto his face, the awe of who he had just met and who he was working for having dawned on him. He did a little dance before stepping into the noise of the city.
This time he walked south, twenty or so blocks to the address sent on Park Avenue, running the envelope and its stamped eye wax seal over in his hand and in his mind. On his way, he bypassed the longest soup kitchen line he had ever seen, spanning around the long avenue block, with a preacher shouting a sermon on the corner.
“Isaiah warned the Devil would hide in plain sight. The witches are here! Your blood will be on your own hands! Leviticus 20:27...” he shouted. Clark was so distracted, in fact, that as he stepped off the curb and into the street, a food deliverer on a bicycle almost ran him over. The man let Clark know about himself with a couple of choice words in Spanish before continuing on.
The doorman at this residence looked at Clark at a slant too—his blue button-down was spotty with sweat, and he had gotten warm fingerprints all over the parchment envelope. Clark gave the doorman a sheepish smile, but this one spared no words, and not a glance more. Clark tried not to take it personally.
When he arrived on the landing, a maid bade him enter and disappeared, into an apartment even grander than the last. Clark received another text:
(10:21 a.m. Monica Chase-Whiteley): Leave the envelope with the maid.
As Clark looked up, a woman entered from a hallway to the right and gave him a dubious look.
Clark said, “Hello, delivery from—”
The envelope was almost snatched from his hands, and quickly she walked away, disappearing down the hall.
“Thank you, ma’am. Have a nice...day,” he said aloud to the empty landing. Had she taken a single look at him and run?
On his way back, Clark was too hungry to wait a second longer. He stopped at a lone deli, disappearing from the commercial streets of the city, for a quick breakfast sandwich— “Baconeggandcheese , please,” he said, laying on a New York accent thick—when he received another text:
(10:25 a.m. Monica Chase-Whiteley): Where are you???
Clark fumbled with his phone from hand to hand and almost dropped it, before typing a white lie he regretted immediately after clicking send. Shit...! he thought. Am I late already?!
(10:25 a.m. Clark Crane): Hi Monica, I’m on my way back now.
Clark, being at least smart enough to know he couldn’t possibly show up with food in hand, not on his first day, tore down the street while scarfing his sandwich. He dodged tourists and bag-ladies-who-lunch, and jumped around pigeons on the sidewalk (flying rats...! he thought). Twice he almost spilled his coffee crashing into a tourist who short-stopped on the sidewalk to look at their phone or look up at a building, and at one point he almost gagged and choked.
With a cramp in his side and a scalded tongue that would take three days to heal, Clark made his way back up to Charisma’s sky mansion, just in time for Monica to meet him at the door once again. She cut him the most severe of looks.
“What took you so long this time?” she asked with her hands on her hips. “Stop for a tea and a chat, and to braid each other’s hair?”
“I caught every red light,” Clark said, lying through his teeth, which he hoped had no visible remnants of food.
Monica’s eyes narrowed in on him, her heavy-lined and shadowed eyelids contrasting against her blue-gray irises. “I thought you said you were never late.”
“I’m not,” Clark said, his cheeks turning pink.
“Allow me to spell this out for you, because I don’t think you get it,” she hissed. “Many, many girls would kill for this job. Literally . It is a privilege to be here. Everyone is replaceable. And here I thought you wanted to work for Charisma. Are you a lazy little liar, Clark?”
Clark wanted to shrink and disappear. “No,” he said.
Monica advanced on him, and leaning in, she spoke dangerously lower than before. “Then listen to me very, very carefully, so that you don’t fuck this up, for my sake: a good assistant—and that includes you ,” she said in a hiss just above a whisper, hovering over him closer and closer, “is seen and not heard . One must always be on time. Always . One must speak only when spoken to; one must do exactly as they are told; and one must always look busy. Actually, don’t just look busy. Be busy. Don’t laugh. Don’t smile. Don’t even so much as breathe out of turn. Never save the day. Never forget your place. Your one and only function, your sole purpose here, is to serve Charisma, and by extension, me . Got that? Everyone has a role; this is a well-oiled machine; and when one steps out of line, one gets cut. Do not step out of that line. Do you understand me? ”
Clark gulped. He looked her in those gray-blue eyes, hollow and wild. He replied, “Got it.”
She handed him a third envelope. “Be back in thirty minutes, or this time, don’t even bother coming back.” She said nothing more, no other energy expended or spared, and walked away. Clark just about hightailed it out of there.
When he reached the lobby downstairs, his phone vibrated and he did a double-take in disbelief: this location was even farther than the last. He triple-checked it, hoping he had maybe mistaken the address. Then he set off in a hurry, dodging passersby and darting in between cars slowed at traffic lights as fast as he could.
“Delivery from Charisma Saintly,” he said when he had arrived, panting, to the doorman, who had an elevator already waiting. It let him out on a landing, with warm yellow light in a bright foyer where a maid was standing at the ready.
Swiftly, Clark swapped the envelopes and grabbed the elevator doors that had not yet closed, on the elevator that had not yet left, sprinted through the lobby past the doorman, who did not look up, and out the doors to the street outside.
Damp, uncomfortable, and out of breath, Clark returned to Charisma’s lobby in record time. Only, this time the doorwoman had words for him: “Go through the back, kid,” she said, catching him before the elevator. “Up the freight elevator, to the employee entrance. You’ll see it.” She pointed him down the block and around the corner. “Just ring the doorbell,” she said, eyeing his sweat-dripped shirt up and down. She didn’t wait to hear any of Clark’s questions before disappearing.
At the numbered entrance to the freight elevator, Clark rang the doorbell as instructed. He looked up at the blinking camera. The red light on the door flashed green and buzzed open. He stepped in, clicked PH, and up he went. Clark checked his watch: it wasn’t even noon yet.
Clark wound up in what appeared to be a storage room lined in boxes and shelves. Around the corner was a small landing room with hooks and cubbies. It was lit by fluorescents and a small window, and so quiet his ears were ringing in the soft hum of the air conditioner.
Opposite him was a set of double doors. He stepped up to turn one of the handles: locked. Shit... he thought. Now what...? He felt the buzz of his phone. Probably Monica... He wondered if being sent to the back entrance meant he was keeping his job, or if he was, in a way, demoted. The middle of his forehead prickled and he reached up to give it a scratch.
“You lost, baby?” a voice behind him said. Clark was startled so badly that he let out a gasp and spun around. Behind him, sitting in a chair at a table with a paperback in hand, was a small, slim, mature woman he had somehow failed to notice, taking deep rasping breaths, slapping her hand on her knee. Clark realized she was laughing, and he couldn’t help but laugh too.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s okay, sweetie,” she replied in a nasal alto. Clark thought it endearing. “I’m sorry to laugh, and I sure as hell am sorry to scare you like that, but, my gosh, it was as if you had seen a ghost!”
He smiled. “That’s okay.”
“What are you doing here, baby? You know you shouldn’t be here.” Clark’s face fell. He wasn’t sure how to answer. Had he gotten off on the wrong floor?
“Isn’t this the employee entrance?” he asked.
“Here, we like to call it Hell’s Entrance,” she said matter-of-factly.
Clark looked back at her, perplexed.
“That’s what we like to call the help’s entrance. Hell’s Entrance. And you sure as hell found it, baby.” They regarded one another from across the room, her with a smile in her warm, brown eyes that conveyed a motherly softness, while Clark stood there, damp and dehydrated, envelope in hand, and deeply confused. Clark considered her, with her short hair, reading glasses, dignified posture and crossed legs. She was dressed in a matching blue-gray top and pants and clean white sneakers: a maid’s uniform. The book she was reading was still open and aloft in her hands, one finger holding her page like a bookmark.
“What I mean to say is,” she continued, removing her glasses and dropping them from their beaded-chain lanyard, “what is a boy like you doing here, mixed up with a crowd like this?” There was a slight twang to her voice that Clark imagined could only be from the south.
“Oh,” Clark started. “Um, well...” He held out his arms and shrugged. He was at a loss for words. What am I doing here...? Is this what I really want...? “I guess I’m the new junior,” he answered.
“Ha!” she exclaimed. “What is she having you do, run notes around town like some kinda errand boy? ‘Intern,’ my ass. More like a carrier pigeon.”
“Yeah,” Clark said, “she is actually . . .”
“Mmhmm, I see. These people, they’ve got no trust in the mail system. No, better to hand deliver their important communications. Who would suspect an intern like you, anyway? But just you wait, baby. First, it’s letters, then she’ll have you running boxes, so much so you’ll think you should be wearing brown and driving a truck. You watch out for that one, you hear me? Evil, that one is. You see it in her face, don’t you?”
Before Clark could help himself, he said, “Now that you mention it, she’s got the most villainous eyebrows. And her smile—”
“—doesn’t reach her eyes,” she finished with a nod. “Yep, they’re all like that. Nothing good behind those eyes to find. I’ve been here a while, baby, seen lots in my time. Lots of interns and juniors , whatever you wanna call ’em, come and go. None of them are like you, though. I can tell. You’ve got a heart of gold and a light—a big, big light out of that gold heart—and a soul that’s worth more than all of these bitches combined. Don’t you let ’em have it, you hear me? Don’t you let them! You just keep your wits about you, just keep to yourself.” She leaned in, unable to hide the desperation in her voice. “Keep to yourself, and don’t show fear, but don’t be too sweet either— or these witches will eat you . You hear what I’m sayin’? They’ll chew you up and spit you out, a little snack like you,” she said, “just for the fun of it.” There was a ferocious sparkle in those warm eyes of hers, gleaming up at Clark, that told him she meant what she said.
“Me, I like to mind my own,” the woman continued, flashing her book and leaning back into her seat. “They’re in there, by the way,” she said, pointing to a cubby on the shelf nearest the door. “The other envelopes. I saw her put them out.”
Clark turned and read the labels: on one cubby, “Inbound,” and the next, out. He opened the latter and sure enough, there was a stack of small envelopes waiting inside, with red wax seals and an eye stamped on each.
Clark looked up to the corner: a security camera stared back at him, blinking red, and another blinked by the elevator. He quickly examined the envelope he had been holding: this one was blank and unaddressed like the others. For all of the effort, he thought it all unceremonious, and a little disappointing. He switched the deliveries and turned around.
“Thank you,” Clark said. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she said.
Clark asked, “What’s in these envelopes?” He hoped that the cameras didn’t pick up sound.
“Hmm,” she began slowly, admiring him with an inquisitive eye. “You’re a reader, huh? I can see it. Your granny was a cunning woman, too. She used to read to you. Helped develop that curiosity, that discerning eye of yours.”
Bemused, Clark watched her tap the middle of her forehead with her free hand. He thought it odd and tried not to wear it on his face.
She said, “Yeah, I fancy myself a reader too.”
Clark could see the title of the book in her hands, The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House by Audre Lorde. He thought fondly of that photo next to his bed, of him and his grandmother. Sometimes at night, as he was falling asleep, he could almost remember her voice, almost hear her reading Grimm’s Fairy Tales to him just before bed like a dim echo. She was the best storyteller.
“Yeah, I’ve seen ’em,” she said, “handwriting those notes by candlelight like it’s feudal Europe up in here. I’ve seen ’em reading those notes too. Snuck up on ’em once or twice. They just need a little light . Can’t read them otherwise. Sometimes they’re just invitations and little ‘thank you’s, but other times...I say throw it in the mailbox and forget about them. Don’t spare this lot another thought. Hear me? Take yourself on home and don’t come back.”
In his head, he parroted, They just need a little light... “I’m not sure what you mean,” he said aloud.
“Secrets, baby,” she said, straightening her posture. “Witch secrets. And take it from me, baby, with witches like these, the fewer questions you ask, the better. Did you sign anything?”
“Sign anything?” Clark parroted.
“Yes, baby. Anything in writing?”
“Oh. Yeah, an NDA, I think.”
She tsked. “Never sign a witch’s contract, baby. Everybody knows that.”
Clark wasn’t sure what to make of it all. Can I trust her...? What kind of “witches” does she mean...? “You think they’re actual witches?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” she said quickly. “What do you think? What’s your gut tell you? You really wanna wait around and find out?”
Clark chewed his cheek. After a moment’s consideration, he said, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name?”
She paused for a moment herself before answering with a smile that was as warm as a hug: “You can call me Miss Honey.”
“I’m Clark,” he said, smiling back. “Thanks, Miss Honey.”
“You’re welcome, baby,” she said.
Clark checked his texts: they were a series of addresses from Monica. “Guess I’d better get to pigeoning.” He waved his phone and held up the stack of cards. “It was nice to meet you.”
“It was nice meeting you too, baby,” she said, opening her book and crossing her other leg. Clark made his way around the corner and to the exit.
“Oh, and Clark?” Miss Honey called.
“Yes?” he said, turning around in the arch of the doorway.
“If you’re smart—and I know you are—you’ll listen to Miss Honey and get the hell out now while you still can.” The way she leaned in and the earnestness in her eyes, Miss Honey wasn’t kidding. With that, she gave him a wink and returned to her reading.