“Any friends of the family that could help you out?”
“No.”
Mr. Kurtz glanced over her head at the clock that hung above the doorway. He tried again, this time halfheartedly, like he already knew she wouldn’t have a good answer. “Any relatives in business?”
And then, Greta remembered. “I’m related to Deborah Vanderhaven on my mother’s side.”
He perked up then and leaned forward, his eyes bright. “Deborah Vanderhaven? The wife of Harry Vanderhaven, the owner of the Vanderhaven Corporation?”
She nodded. “That’s the one.”
“Well.” He folded his arms, looking pleased. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Being related to the Vanderhavens is the very definition of having great contacts. Get your mother to put in a good word for you, and set something up for the summer.” He grinned. “I would say my work here is done. You’re good to go.” He beckoned toward the partially open door, and she turned to see another girl waiting in the hallway. She knew then that she’d been dismissed.
It wasn’t that easy, though. When she called home and asked for Deborah’s contact information, her mother sighed. “Why do you want it?”
Greta explained about the meeting with Mr. Kurtz, making sure to stress the importance of an outstanding internship for securing future postgraduate employment. When she’d finished, there was silence on the other end of the phone. “Mom?”
“Yes, I’m here, honey.”
“Do you think this is a bad idea?”
“No, it’s fine. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. Deborah and I used to be as close as sisters, but then we drifted apart. I tried to keep in touch, but over the years, her end of it got to be less and less. I have an email address for her, but I haven’t used it in ages. I don’t know if it’s still good.”
“Or I could mail my résumé to her,” Greta said. “We have their address from the Christmas cards, right?”
Another pause. “The cards have a return address, but it’s not where they live,” her mother told her. “It’s the address to their attorney’s office. I guess it’s for security reasons.”
“Oh.”
She continued. “And even if I knew their actual address, they don’t get mail delivery to their building.”
That was weird. “How do they get their mail?”
“From what I understand, they have a post office box. An assistant from the office picks it up, sorts it, and delivers the personal mail to their apartment.”
“Would my cover letter and résumé get through?”
“I don’t know, Greta. But you know, life is short. You might as well go for it.”
“So you think I have a shot?”
“Honey, you always have a shot, but why don’t you try the email first?”
With those words in mind, Greta sent an email of inquiry along with her phone number.
Two hours later, her cell phone rang. She answered it to hear the voice of a very excited Deborah Vanderhaven.
“Little Greta Hansen!” She said this over and over again. “I was so excited to hear from you! Your email was an answer to my prayers! Of course we have an internship for you!”
“I’m so glad to hear that,” Greta said, trying to sound professional, even as part of her was reeling from disbelief. She took a deep breath and continued. “I know a lot of the summer intern positions have been filled already . . . ”
“Nonsense! You’re family! We wouldn’t dream of turning you down!”
Greta had always thought Deborah Vanderhaven seemed serious and unapproachable. In photos, Deborah looked stunning for a woman her age, but something about her public image was flat, lacking in personality. It was hard to reconcile that impression with the enthusiastic voice on the phone.
She said, “I appreciate it, Mrs. Vanderhaven—”
“No, no!” she protested. “Not Mrs. Vanderhaven. Call me Deborah! Or is it Aunt Deborah?” Before Greta could answer, she solved the problem herself. “No, we’re cousins, so I guess it’s just Deborah.”
“Thank you, Deborah.”
She rattled on some more about how the Vanderhaven Corporation would take good care of Greta, and of course, she would stay at their apartment. “We’ll make sure to give you an excellent letter of recommendation too!”
“Just what you’d do for anyone else,” Greta said. “I don’t need preferential treatment.”
Deborah said to give her regards to Greta’s mother. “I hope you realize what a special person she is.”
“Believe me, I do. She’s the best,” Greta said sincerely.
“I hope you tell her that.”
“I do. All the time.”
Then Deborah said she had to wrap up the conversation, but not before she informed Greta that her assistant would be in touch to make all the arrangements. As promised, the assistant, Lexie, called Greta shortly thereafter and set up everything—the date of departure, the ride to the airport, the plane tickets.
“Do you know what I’ll be doing?” Greta asked.
“Doing?” Lexie sounded puzzled.
“For my internship. Which area of the company will I be working in?”
Lexie laughed. “I haven’t a clue, Greta. No one told me.”
“I guess I’ll find out when I get there,” she said.
“I guess so.” Lexie got right back to business. “Michael, the family driver, will be picking you up at the airport,” she said. “Look for a dark-haired gentleman holding a sign with your name on it near the baggage claim.”
“It won’t be Cece and her friends coming to get me?” Greta asked, half hoping.
“Oh, no,” Lexie said with a low chuckle. “You don’t want Cece picking you up. There would be a stampede.”
Greta knew that expecting Cece Vanderhaven to pick her up from the airport was unrealistic, but she had to ask. At least they’d be living together for the summer. It was going to be like a dream come true.
CHAPTER TWO
“Dalton, I can’t believe you’re going through with this,” said his best friend, Will. They were in the waiting area of the Greyhound bus station, and although Dalton’s bus wasn’t leaving for another few minutes, he wanted to be ready. Emptying his pockets was as symbolic as it was necessary.
“Believe it. This is happening.” Dalton stuck his loose cash—twenty-three dollars in assorted bills and a handful of coins—into his jeans pocket, then handed his wallet to Will, along with the keys to his apartment.
“A platinum card,” Will said, thumbing through the slots in the wallet. “And your driver’s license too. Score! I could pass myself off as Dalton T. Bishop, no problem. You’ll be sleeping on the streets while I’m ordering room service at the Waldorf and living the good life.”
“The joke will be on you because I put a hold on all my accounts.” Dalton looked longingly at his cell phone and said, “I think I will miss you most of all,” before handing it over. He tugged on the brim of his baseball cap so it shaded his eyes and did a mental assessment of everything he now owned. He had bus tickets, both today’s and for the return; a small amount of cash; a lightweight jacket; an extra T-shirt; a shaving kit with a toothbrush and toothpaste; his ReadyHelp device; a notebook and pen; and his harmonica.
He’d chosen his clothing carefully. He wore an old pair of jeans, some scuffed athletic shoes, and a plain gray T-shirt. Nothing that would make him stand out. Picking up the backpack at his feet, Dalton stuffed everything inside. He’d bought the backpack at a thrift shop for two dollars, happy to find one that looked so weathered and shabby. As soon as he’d spotted the denim iron-on patch on the back and what looked like a bloodstain on the front pocket, he knew it was perfect for his purposes.
Yes, he was ready to officially shed his old life and become someone else for two weeks. Someone less privileged and more aware of how the world treats the disadvantaged. He left his backpack with Will and went to hit the bathroom one last time. While he washed his hands, Dalton took no
te of what it was like to have unlimited running water and liquid soap. In the days to come, this might be a luxury.
When he returned to the waiting area, Will greeted him with a grin. He said, “Man, you have balls. I couldn’t handle going that long without a hot shower and a comfortable bed. You could die out there, and for what? Frankly, the whole thing just seems kind of stupid.”
“I know. Just take good care of my car and my stuff,” Dalton said, gesturing to the phone and wallet in his friend’s hand. “And I’ll see you in two weeks.”
“I can’t believe you’re leaving your phone behind. Why don’t you just take it and not use it?”
He shook his head. “I know myself, and it would be too tempting. I want the authentic experience. You know me: do it right or not at all.” Besides, not having it would keep him from texting his former girlfriend late at night. He’d been blindsided by the breakup, which had come out of nowhere. Even as he assumed everything had been fine, his relationship had been unraveling after she’d met a guy named Drew two months earlier.
His ex-girlfriend made dumping Dalton for Drew sound like the obvious choice. She’d explained it this way: “He’s everything I thought you were, except you’re not. I mean, you’re out of college two years and still not doing anything.” She said it as if this were a good reason. Like he’d understand.
“It’s not that I’m not doing anything,” Dalton had protested. “I just finished my master’s, and I’m in a relationship!” At least, he’d thought he was in a relationship.
“He has a life plan, and it includes me,” she said. “I know it’s sad, but you know as well as I do that we weren’t a great combination. Our relationship was just drifting.”
“Drifting?” This was a shock. He hadn’t felt any drifting.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not sounding like she meant it. “You just aren’t my someone.”
Dalton felt like he’d been hit from behind. “Your someone?”
“You know, like when you see a person across a room and just know they’re your someone. The one you’re meant to be with. Drew is my someone. You’re not. I’m sorry. That’s just the way it is.”
Two years of his life, and she’d said they weren’t a great combination. That they were drifting. That Dalton wasn’t her someone. He still felt love for her, but it was waning with each passing day.
Becoming homeless would be easy compared to the pain of heartbreak. Two weeks without a phone would prevent him from sending take-me-back texts disguised as friendly platonic updates. Not having his driver’s license would enable Dalton to walk away from his own life temporarily and become someone else.
Will said, “There are homeless people who have cell phones. I see them all the time.”
“What you’re seeing is people with cell phones who aren’t at home.”
“No, seriously. There are street people with phones.”
“Maybe so. But that’s not the way I’m playing it.”
Will didn’t look convinced. “What if you get attacked or break a leg or something? How will you get help?”
“That’s what this is for,” Dalton said, pulling out the ReadyHelp device and holding it between his fingers. It was designed for the elderly, but he’d researched it and knew that with its lithium battery and built-in GPS, it would serve his purposes just fine. “I’ll just push the button and say, ‘I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up,’ and they’ll send help.”
A slow grin crossed Will’s face. “You’re a crazy man, Dalton.”
“You know it.”
When the announcement came over the loudspeaker saying it was time for his bus to board, they got to their feet. Will pulled him into a forceful man hug, then gave him a firm pat on the back.
“You’re going to see me again,” Dalton told him, taking a step back. “It’s not like I’m going off to war.”
“I might come into the city to see you in a few days.” The words came out in a hurried rush. “Just to check on you. Is that okay?”
Dalton slung the backpack over his shoulder. He could see his bus through the window. A line of people waited patiently for their turn to climb the steps. “Of course it’s okay, but I don’t know where I’m going to be. Don’t freak out if you can’t find me.”
“I thought you were going to Times Square?”
“The bus lets off on Forty-Second Street, so I’m starting off in Times Square, but I don’t know what’s going to happen after that. It wouldn’t be much of an adventure if I planned it all out.”
“It’s not much of an adventure either way.” Worry creased Will’s forehead.
He and Dalton had been friends since their university days. They had a lot in common. Both had overachieving fathers who didn’t know what to make of having sons who weren’t wired the same way. Dalton’s older brother, Grant, went along with everything their dad had planned, not minding at all. Grant was fine with playing golf, dating the right girls, and working toward taking over the family business in twenty years when their dad retired.
Dalton was the problem. His parents didn’t know what to make of him. He joked around too much for their tastes. He was different from his older brother. He thought of himself as a freethinker; his parents saw him as rebellious. After he’d graduated from prep school, he’d chosen a university that didn’t meet with their approval. To their credit, they’d paid his tuition but not without a lot of grumbling.
Every step of the way, Dalton heard lectures about his ill-informed decisions and how they would detrimentally affect his entire future. His parents didn’t like his major—philosophy—saying it was a waste of time. And when he went to graduate school for social work, they were so embarrassed, they couldn’t even tell their friends. You’d think he had gone to rehab. He’d graduated with honors, but even so, his education was still such a sore spot, his father could only shake his head when the subject came up.
So many times Dalton had wished he could please his father, but he couldn’t do that and be true to himself. The thought of going to an office every day, poring over spreadsheets and strategizing how to take down competitors, made his stomach turn. His brother excelled in that area, and his parents had assumed both sons would follow that path, but Dalton had veered off course, heading for parts still unknown. He hated being a disappointment. It helped one day when his grandma had taken him aside after a family gathering and said, “Dalton, it’s important to live your own life.” She’d tapped his chest with one long skinny finger. “Never let other people interfere with your heart’s desire. Listen to your intuition. You’ll know what’s best for you.”
Will understood what it was like to stray from family expectations because he had gone through that as well. By being themselves, they were disappointments to everything their old, established families stood for.
Will was the only one who knew about his crazy scheme. Dalton appreciated his concern. He clamped a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Will, believe me, it’s all going to be fine. No one’s going to mess with me. Besides, I don’t have anything to steal, and I’m going to keep a low profile. Really, what could go wrong?” And then he left to get on the bus, ready to begin.
CHAPTER THREE
LaGuardia Airport was not at all what Greta expected. When she thought of New York City, the things that came to mind were Broadway, culture, and fashion, so she’d expected to walk off the plane and find a modern and sleek airport. In her mind’s eye, she’d envisioned abstract sculptures in the terminal and gleaming floors with clearly marked signs overhead, all the better to lead weary travelers to their destinations.
Instead, she found the airport nondescript, as generic as the Milwaukee airport. To make matters worse, there was a line to the women’s bathroom. Once she was inside, the room smelled like a dirty diaper.
Even though the airport was a disappointment, there was no place she’d rather have been. She took it all in, marveling at the buzz of anticipation circling the people who were coming and going. The ai
rport was a United Nations of languages. She recognized Spanish, German, and French but was clueless about most of the others. One young couple spoke to each other, their words punctuated by energetic tongue clicks. She tried not to stare but listened as their voices rose and fell, full of passion and enthusiasm. Different from English but so beautiful to hear.
Standing in line at the restroom, Greta inched forward along with everyone else, all patiently waiting their turn. When she was out of the stall and washing her hands, her carry-on at her feet, she accidentally dripped a little liquid soap on the counter. Then she noticed a wadded-up paper towel left on the adjacent sink. Without even thinking about it, she reached over and threw it out, then took a fresh towel to wipe up the mess before cleaning up another puddle on the other side of the basin. When she looked up, a woman was watching, an amused look on her face.
“I just hate to leave things dirty,” Greta explained.
The woman smiled. “By any chance, are you from the Midwest?”
Greta straightened up. “Why, yes. I flew in from Wisconsin about twenty minutes ago. How did you know?”
“Just a hunch. Enjoy your time in the city.” She leaned toward the mirror to examine her teeth. Finding them satisfactory, she smiled at her reflection in approval.
“Thanks. I will.” People in New York were turning out to be very friendly.
Greta made her way toward the baggage claim, going down a ramp that led to a set of stairs. On her right, she passed a few offices, noticing the people who worked behind the glass fronts. At the baggage carousel, she recognized a few people who’d been on her flight, reassuring her she was in the right place.
There was a system to the baggage carousel, a routine people seemed to follow instinctively. Everyone knew to step forward to pull their luggage off and then back up and give others room so they could do the same. When her own tan suitcase came into view, Greta politely and quickly claimed it. That done, she was just about to go look for the driver who’d be meeting her when he found her first.
Good Man, Dalton Page 2
