Charitable Getting: Chapter Nine

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ETA 10/1/10: This is a FIRST DRAFT of Charitable Getting. Please see this post for the index to the second and most current draft.


CHAPTER NINE

It's not stalking, Tanya told herself, rubbing her hands together for warmth, if you're getting paid for it.

She was lurking near Bo Sparks' car in the building parking garage, anticipating that he might be leaving early after his company's holiday event. She'd seen the staff returning, most of them on foot and waving sparklers they must have picked up at the party. Then most of them had either walked out towards the subway or to their cars, but Sparks hadn't yet emerged.

She felt as though two days was probably enough time to set the company talking, and to make Sparks nervous if he was Non Prophet. Possibly nervous enough to slip up.

" -- didn't have to wait for me," Sparks's voice rang in the stairwell.

"Oh, I had work to do," said a second voice -- she recognized it as the receptionist she'd pumped over the phone.

"Are you in tomorrow?" Sparks asked.

"Only until everyone clears out," the receptionist answered, as the pair of men passed into the parking garage proper.

"Your folks visiting?"

"Nope, just me and Zeke this year. I'm roasting a chicken, he's got gigs later."

"Pigs?" Sparks sounded fascinated.

"Gigs. He's playing the south side. Good tips," the receptionist said.

"Are you headed for the train?" Sparks asked. "You're in Wrigleyville, right?"

"Yup."

"Want a ride?" Sparks offered, pulling out his keys.

"That'd be great, but -- actually, boss, I needed to talk to you," the receptionist said.

Tanya made her move, walking out from between two cars, pretending to tuck her keys into her purse. If she actually let this guy finish the conversation, they'd be in the car and away before she could approach.

"Mr. Sparks!" she said, stopping in faked surprise.

"Tanya, isn't it?" Sparks answered, stepping away from his car to shake her hand. The receptionist leaned against another car patiently.

"That's right. I was just coming to see if you were in your office, I'm glad I caught you," she said.

"I always have a few minutes for the Tribune," Sparks said, smiling. "Ian, you okay?"

"Take your time," Ian said.

"It's about Non Prophet," Tanya said, taking out her voice recorder. "I had a few more questions."

She looked up to see Sparks frowning, and Ian the Receptionist still standing impassively nearby.

"Tanya," Sparks said, crossing his arms, "I feel a little bit lied to. I don't think you're writing an article on bloggers. I think you're writing an article on one blogger."

She smiled, but he was having none of it; finally, she gave up and nodded. "Okay, guilty as charged. I was going to be writing about bloggers, but this guy -- I find him fascinating."

"That's fine," Sparks said. "But you're distracting my staff. I told you I'm not Non Prophet and I don't think anyone who works for me is."

"You're willing to go on the record with that?" Tanya said.

"Yes, I am," Sparks said.

"If you did find someone at your company was blogging about not-for-profits the way Non Prophet is, what would your reaction be?"

"I think anyone who found out a staff member was doing that would have to fire them," Sparks said. "It's a PR nightmare."

"But Non Prophet's a positive figure."

"Most of the time. Not always," Sparks said. Tanya glanced at Ian again, to see if he saw it too -- the occasional crack in Sparks's veneer of comedic obliviousness, revealing something much deeper underneath. Ian was watching his employer keenly. "And if he were publicly outed, it'd be a nightmare for the company no matter what; it would, if nothing else, imply that the company employed liars. So it's just managerial good sense."

"Hard for the man in question, though," Tanya said. "What if he runs a company?"

"I really don't think he does. Most executive-level managers haven't got the time."

"So he'd be a fired employee."

"Sad for him, but he probably earns more from the blog ads anyway. We're terminally underpaid, and you can put me on the record with that," Sparks said, popping the locks on the car. "When's your article due?"

"It's a long-view project," Tanya said.

"Freelance?" Sparks asked perceptively.

"Sort of," Tanya replied. She found it almost impossible not to be charmed by Sparks, even when he wasn't trying to charm.

"In that case, call me after the holidays," he said. "Come on, Tanya, give the guy a break, it's Christmas. I'll see you in the new year. Ian?"

"Yes, boss," the receptionist replied, climbing into the car. Sparks flashed his lights and pulled out past her. Ian the receptionist waved with a friendly smile as they drove off.

***

Sparks was still perplexed by the reporter as he left the parking garage and pulled out into the sparse afternoon traffic on Michigan Avenue. Ian was silent as they headed north, until they hit Chicago Avenue and he leaned forward.

"You know Oscar Wilde said that the Water Tower was the ugliest building in America," Ian said, watching as they passed by the oldest standing structure in the city. "He called it a castellated monstrosity with pepper boxes stuck all over it. I like it, though."

"I do too," Sparks replied, hurrying through a yellow light and down into the tunnel leading onto Lake Shore Drive. "I remember the first time I caught a cab down Lake Shore, too. I was blown away by it."

"Yeah," Ian said, gazing out the window.

"Hey, you wanted to talk to me about something?" Sparks said. "What's your cross-street?"

"Irving Park," Ian said. "Thanks."

"Talk?" Sparks prompted.

"Uh," Ian said. "Well, I was kinda hoping I could make a quick getaway if it went south."

"If you need to jump, I'll slow down," Sparks promised him. "What, are you quitting?"

"No! Don't worry about it, it can wait."

Sparks gave him a long look, which made Ian grip the armrest briefly until he turned back to the road. "You want a raise."

"Well, more money's always nice, but..." Ian paused. "Well, I -- yes. I mean, I was thinking about it."

"You just had to say," Sparks said cheerfully. Ian probably needed one. "You don't need a loan, do you? Do you owe money?"

"Oh -- no, thank you," Ian said. "I do fine. Honest."

"I'll talk to Naomi about it," Sparks said. "If there is, we'll do the whole paperwork rigmarole and get it done by the end of January. No going out and getting a diamond stud or anything, though," he added, shaking his finger at Ian.

"I wouldn't dream of it, boss," Ian said with a smile. Sparks loved it when his people smiled. They all worked hard, and deserved to be happy.

***

The gingerbread house was a sight to behold.

It sat in the staff kitchen on Wednesday morning, on a platform perched on the slightly fragile and tippy snack sideboard. It had to be at least two feet tall -- three stories, in Gingerbread measurement -- and it was held together at every seam with a generous coating of royal icing, sculpted to look like snow. There were jujube shingles on the roof, and the eaves had red-licorice guttering. The yard around the gingerbread house was full of chocolate logs, gingerbread men, and little hatchets made out of fondant or possibly marzipan.

Marzipan, Erin discovered, as she popped one in her mouth. She picked up the little card next to it -- With our thanks and best wishes for the holiday season, from Shelter House.

Nice of Shelter House to send them such a nice treat, too, she decided, gently removing the door from the gingerbread house and snacking on it as she peered inside. It looked like there were little gingerbread people inside, too.

She took one of the gingerbread men back to her desk with her and sat down to read her email. She was hoping there wouldn't be much; it was, after all, the end of December, and most of her email should be holiday wishes and away messages from people who had gone on vacation already.

***

From: Ian
To: All Staff
Date: Wednesday 12/23/09 08:04
Subject: Gingerbread House

Good morning all!

The lovely gingerbread mansion in the kitchen is a gift from Shelter House, to celebrate our new partnership.

I've spoken with Sparks and he says we should all admire it and take pictures with it, and then tomorrow Cee will take it down to the Jackson street soup kitchen so they can serve it up for Christmas dinner along with the mass-produced stuffing and turkey.

Tis the season!

IB.

--
Ian Butler
SparkVISION.nfp: Providing for the Providers
Front Desk Administration
"Providing for those who provide for the providers"

***

Erin looked down at the remaining torso of the gingerbread man in dismay.

When she looked back up, there was another email in her inbox.

***

From: John
To: Erin
CC: Anna, Ian
Date: Wednesday 12/23/09 09:15
Subject: re: Gingerbread House

When Dad finds out, you are so dead.


--
John McGill
SparkVISION.nfp: Providing for the Providers
Grant and Publicity Writer
Writers aren't exactly people. They're a whole lot of people, trying to be one person. -- F. Scott Fitzgerald

***

From: Erin
To: John
CC: Anna, Ian
Date: Wednesday 12/23/09 09:16
Subject: re: Gingerbread House

The door broke off in my hand! It was an accident, I was just trying to see inside!

Erin

--
SparkVISION.nfp: Providing for the Providers
Client Joy Manager

***

From: John
To: Ian, Anna, Erin
Date: Wednesday 12/23/09 09:16
Subject: re: Gingerbread House

Jesus, did your mouth fall on the door? Are you okay?

--
John McGill
SparkVISION.nfp: Providing for the Providers
Grant and Publicity Writer
Writers aren't exactly people. They're a whole lot of people, trying to be one person. -- F. Scott Fitzgerald

***

From: Ian
To: John, Anna, Erin
Date: Wednesday 12/23/09 09:17
Subject: re: Gingerbread House

I notice you panicked and ate a marzipan axe, too.

IB.

--
Ian Butler
SparkVISION.nfp: Providing for the Providers
Front Desk Administration
"Providing for those who provide for the providers"

***

From: Sarah
To: John, Anna, Erin, Ian
Date: Wednesday 12/23/09 09:19
Subject: Plausible deniability

All four of you need to stop giggling before I'm legally bound to tell Sparks what I know.

That house was going to the poor!

Sarah

--
This email is covered by the Electronic Communications Privacy Act, 18 U.S.C. 2510-2521, and may be legally privileged. The contents of this email, all related responses and any files and/or attachments transmitted with it are CONFIDENTIAL and are intended solely for the use of the individual or entity to whom they are addressed.

***

From: Erin
To: John, Anna, Sarah, Ian
Date: Wednesday 12/23/09 09:19
Subject: re: Plausible deniability

They can still have it! I'll buy them a bag of cookies!

Erin
--
SparkVISION.nfp: Providing for the Providers
Client Joy Manager

***

From: B. Sparks
To: All Staff
Date: Wednesday 12/23/09 09:45
Subject: re: Gingerbread House

What happened to the door of our gingerbread house?

--
Bo Sparks
Executive Director, SparkVISION.nfp
"Providing for the Providers"

***

From: Ian
To: All Staff
Date: Wednesday 12/23/09 09:46
Subject: re: Gingerbread House

I suspect we have mice. I've put in a call to the building engineers.

IB.

--
Ian Butler
SparkVISION.nfp: Providing for the Providers
Front Desk Administration
"Providing for those who provide for the providers"

***

Anna was still snickering at the Great Gingerbread House Caper when her phone rang mid-morning, and she answered "Creative!" without checking caller ID.

"Yes you are," purred a voice on the other end. Trent.

"Well, I try," she said. It was easy to flirt with Trent, perhaps easier than it strictly should be. But he could be charming, and she was pretty sure --

"I'm calling to see what you're doing for Christmas eve tomorrow," he said.

-- he was calling to see what she was doing for Christmas eve.

"Well, I'm meeting my parents for Christmas Day dinner, so I need to be home by nine in the morning to sleep off any hangovers," she said, and heard him laugh.

"I think we can do that," he replied. "Especially if you don't have to go home."

"I don't?" she asked.

"Nope. Come away with me Christmas Eve to the sixteenth floor."

Anna paused. "I work on the nineteenth floor."

"Not of the Trump Tower, you don't," he replied. "There's this little place called Sixteen that's doing a six-course tasting menu. How do you feel about Macadamia foam?"

"It sounds like a shampoo."

"It's delicious. You'll love it. We'll get wine sent up to the hotel room afterwards. Tower room, river view, 28th floor. Please say yes."

"You're lucky I'm a loner and didn't have plans," she said. "Yes, I will."

"Great! You're not working, are you?"

"Half-day. I need time to go home and primp."

"Pick you up at yours at eight?"

"Make it nine," she told him.

"I guess you couldn't get fancy at work just to show off who you're going out with?" Trent asked.

"What, the hot young thing taking me to Sixteen?"

"Oh baby, say it louder."

"Save it for the hotel room," she said, and hung up to his laughter. "IAN!"

"YES?"

"SMOKE?"

"Well, I'll enjoy watching you smoke yours," Ian said, pulling his coat on. "Cee?"

"I have a feeling today is not the day the important phone calls come through," Cee said. "Go on, I'll cover you."

Downstairs, Anna offered him a cigarette, shrugged when he waved it off, and lit her own.

"How do you make Macadamia foam?" she asked.

Ian raised an eyebrow. "You blend Macadamia nuts, water, salt, and soy lecithin, strain it, re-blend it, and scoop the foam off the top."

"That sounds foul."

"Molecular gastronomy." Ian shrugged. "It's supposed to be good. Why?"

"I'm eating it on my date with Trent tomorrow night."

"Oh! You're going to Sixteen?"

Anna peered at him.

"What?" Ian asked. "Sarah read me a review."

"How did she know? Even I didn't know before five minutes ago."

"Magic," Ian replied, taking the cigarette out of Anna's mouth and taking a drag.

"You better not have swine flu," she said, taking it back. "What are you nervous about now?"

"Nothing," Ian said. "Okay. This. Maybe? You shouldn't be sleeping with Trent Byron on Christmas."

"You know what? He's a dick. But, and it pains me to admit this, I've dated guys who were worse. I made the decision and I'm not finding it a hard one. Six course tasting menu, Ian. With Macadamia foam."

"Okay, okay," Ian said, holding up his hands in a gesture of defeat. "You win. Go ye forth, Mata Hari. If you can, try to seduce the reporter that keeps bugging Sparks, while you're at it."

"Is she still trying to track down Non Prophet?"

"She accosted the boss yesterday at his car," Ian said. "What if she's right? I mean, how do we react to that?"

"If it's the boss, we keep our mouths shut," Anna told him.

"But what if it's one of us?"

Anna considered the snow gently falling outside of the little roofed-over portico. "I don't know."

"I mean, Sparks said they'd have to be fired. But I like Non Prophet," Ian said. "If you didn't cut them off, if you stayed friends with him or her. Is that rewarding a liar, do you suppose?"

"You never struck me as much of a moralist," Anna told him.

"Yeah, well. I'm not much on thinking in the moment. I sort of want to be prepared if Roxy does find out who he is. Or she."

"You don't think I'm Non Prophet, do you?" she asked.

"Are you?"

"Jesus, no."

"Are you lying?" Ian asked, and Anna opened her mouth to shout at him, then saw the slight curve of his lips.

"You are not as funny as you think you are," she said instead, and Ian laughed before taking her cigarette, inhaling once, and stubbing it out in the ashtray.

***



Date: 12/24/09
Subject: Two For Non

Well, readers, Christmas is near. The presents are wrapped, people are gathering together, and lights are getting lit (along with some coworkers). To those of you who don't celebrate Christmas, I extend my sympathies and would like to express my appreciation for your tolerance in these trying times.

I'm taking a holiday and signing off shortly; I won't be at my "real" job, or working on NonProphetBlog, until next Monday. I might be posting photos of Christmas dinner, but that's all.

Before I do that, however, I want to say a few words about giving.

This is a terrible time of year. It's dark and cold and for a season when we're supposed to be full of joy there's an awful lot of pressure on all of us. For those without family or much money or a job or hope, this is the worst time to be told you should have and appreciate those things. I am grateful every day for my job, my work family, my blood kin, my friends -- so many things. But I remember that not everyone has them.

If you have given this season, or are planning to give, I'm pleased and proud for you. If you're not giving, I can only assume that you need the money, and I wish you the best possible luck for the new year.

That said, I have a proposition to make, and I'm calling it Two For Non (this is a pun, or play on words).

Whatever you're giving -- thousands, hundreds, five bucks, nothing -- if you read this blog I want to ask you to add two dollars to it. Two dollars isn't much; it's less than a cup of coffee or a sandwich downtown. It's less than a gallon of gas. It's less than a tenth of what most of you are paying for the internet access to read this right now.

Two dollars is something nearly anyone can do.

Two dollars, in the hands of a charitable organization, can buy several cans of food. It can buy vaccinations for children here or abroad, and subsidize medication for the elderly. It can buy a box of pencils for a kid who hasn't got any. It's one fifth of a warm hat, or a gallon of coffee for tired volunteers.

In the hands of an ordinary person, two dollars is a quarter pound of lunch meat, or almost a pound of ground beef. It's a bottle of clean water. It's two apples, four bananas, six potatoes. It's a tin of cooking fuel or a blanket from a thrift shop.

You don't have to give much. People think they have to give ten bucks, fifty bucks, whatever, to make a difference. I get seventy thousand unique hits on this blog a day, sometimes more. If everyone who reads this gives a one-time donation of two dollars, that's a hundred and forty thousand dollars.

I'm offering you a chance to give a hundred and forty thousand dollars to help someone out, and all it's going to cost you is two bucks.

Give to your favorite charity. Check the sidebar for links to secular, hardworking organizations if you haven't got one already. Give two bucks to the guy you see on the street every day. Drop it in a donation box. Hand it to a volunteer.

Be warm, be safe, be good, and if you can't be good, be clever.

I'll see you on Monday.

Post A Comment / 299 Comments Posted

***

John shut down his computer around noon on Christmas eve, just as Cee called out to Sparks that she was leaving for the holiday, and he hurried to pull his coat on so that he could "accidentally" run into her on the way out the door. She was wrangling a largish wheeled-suitcase out from behind her desk when he reached the lobby.

"Going home for Christmas?" he asked her, as she finally got a handle on the bag. He tightened the strap on his unusually-well-stuffed courier bag.

"Out of town, actually," she replied with a smile. There was a snort from the general direction of Ian's desk. "You?"

"Family."

"Well," she replied, as he held the door for her, "that'll be nice."

He pushed the elevator button. "I think so."

They rode down in the elevator in silence, and it wasn't until they reached the garage where he'd parked his car that they burst out into laughter.

"That was so awkward," she said. "How did you fit all your stuff into that little bag?"

"Check the back seat," he told her, and she laughed again when she saw the trio of bags covering the seats.

"Where's mine supposed to go?" she demanded. "You said to pack snow clothes."

"Trunk!" he popped it and helped her get it over the ledge of the bumper, on top of the spare tire and a pile of snow chains.

"Remind me again where in the back of beyond you live?" Cee said, as she climbed into the passenger's seat.

"I don't live there, my parents live there," John said. "And my brothers and sister and her husband and everyone. It's only four hours outside Chicago."

"Couldn't afford a plane ticket any further away than that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. John scowled.

"I like my family," he told her. "We get along great."

"Yeah, when you're across the state from them. What's the city called again?"

"Galena," John sighed. "Population three thousand. You'll like it, it's a tourist town, people go there to relax."

"I'm sure I'll love it," she said with a smile. "So we'll be there in time for dinner? Are we eating with your parents?"

"My mother is making an old immigrant German recipe," John said.

"What's that?"

"Beer brats and seven-layer-dip," he said. Cee stared at him, openmouthed, until he glanced at her and couldn't help cracking a smile. "And my parents say I get the guest room, which has a double bed, because that's 'roomier'."

"Oh luxury!" Cee said. "Do we have to sleep with one foot each on the floor?"

"Might be unavoidable, a double's not very big."

"I'm sure we can cuddle for warmth," Cee suggested, and rubbed the fine hair at the back of his head. "Should I be nervous about meeting your parents?"

"You should be terrified. They're like gibbons. They fling poo when they're angry."

"John!"

"They'll love you," he said, giving her a smile. "Promise."

He glanced briefly in the rearview mirror, at his laptop bag. If everything went well, they'd have a few secrets to tell the staff at work, when they got back.

***

Although nobody wanted to admit it, because the weather hadn't been that good, it had to be said that until Christmas it had been unseasonably warm in Chicago. It had only snowed two or three times all winter long, and even the rain on the 24th was accompanied by warm air from somewhere or other.

Christmas morning, however, snow began to fall.

Zoe and Charles, like most of the staff of SparkVISION, lived on the north side, close enough for a short commute to work but far enough from downtown to be able to afford something larger than a studio. They were literally down the road from Ian's apartment building, and not more than two miles away from the condo building both Jess and Roxy lived in.

Just after noon on Christmas Day, with snow still falling, both Zoe and Charles jumped when a snowball hit their window. Zoe glanced out, then grinned and slid the window open slightly. Zeke already had his harmonica to his lips; Ian burst into a vaguely on-key rendition of "Here We Come A Wassailing".

"Aren't you boys a little lost?" she called, after they finished. Ian waggled a large snow shovel in the air.

"Better shovel out before it gets any deeper!" he said. "We're doing the rounds."

"That's good of you," Zoe said.

"We've been given four cups of eggnog and made fifteen bucks in tips," Zeke announced.

"He shovels, I hustle," Ian said.

"Hang on!" Charles yelled. "No tips, but I'm getting the snow-blower!"

"Oooh," Ian and Zeke chorused. A few seconds later, the garage door opened and Charles wheeled a squat machine out into the still lightly-falling snow.

"You know how to work one of these?" he asked.

"Yessir," Zeke replied.

"Well, you can take it anywhere else you're going, just have it back by Sunday," Charles said.

"We thought we'd go dig Jess out, she's having the interns over," Ian said. "Roxy's out of town so we don't need to worry about her. This keeps up, Zeke said he'd drive me out to help Naomi if she needs it, and Sparks."

"Can you picture Sparks letting someone else shovel his walkway?" Zoe called from the window. Bolo, waking up from his impromptu nap on the sofa, wandered over.

"SNOWBLOWER," he yelled.

"That's right, kiddo," Charles said. "Daddy's loaning the snowblower to Ian and Zeke."

Zeke raised the harmonica to his mouth again and played We Wish You A Merry Christmas. Bolo yelled along delightedly. We wishoo a merry crimmas, we WISHOO a merry CRIMMAS!

"Is Sparks even home, do you think?" Ian asked Zoe. "Doesn't he have family in Michigan?"

"Well, I hope he got there safely if he does," Zoe said. Ian clutched his chest, suddenly, and for a second she worried he was having a heart attack until he pulled his phone out of his breast pocket and answered it.

"Speak of the devil," he said. "Mmh. Jesus, really? Uh huh. No, she's out of town, I tried to call her yesterday evening and her phone's out of service area. Boondocks, I don't know. Okay. Jesus Christ. No, I'll check the TV, do you need -- sure. Yeah. Wow. Really?"

"What the hell is going on?" Charles asked. "Hon, check CNN."

Zoe grabbed Bolo, dug around for the remote, and turned the TV on, flicking over to the news channel. Half a minute later, Charles trooped into the living room, followed by Ian and Zeke. Ian had hung up the phone, and looked grim.

"Somebody tried to bomb an airplane on the way to Detroit," Zoe said.

"Yeah," Ian agreed. "Sparks decided not to fly anywhere today. He's staying in town."

"Good call," Charles murmured, going to the kitchen. "Who wants coffee?"

***

Despite its big-city reputation, Chicago had been founded by pioneers and filled with the hopeful of the plains for too long to be anything but a city of Midwesterners at heart: polite, generous, corn-fed, stolid and confident, and traditional about their holidays. Christmas in Chicago was not the main event; it was a footnote, a stay-at-home party for family before the big metropolitan bash of New Year's.

Which was why, when Sarah picked up the phone on the 25th, she figured it must be some distant relative calling to wish her a Merry Christmas, possibly under a delusion or in a state of denial about 1. her Jewish upbringing and 2. the rocking Yule ritual she'd done on the 20th.

Instead, the caller ID read "Anna-Work". (Of the three other Annas in her phone, two were ex-girlfriends and one was her mechanic.) Sarah felt perplexed, and when she was perplexed she liked to spread it around. She answered:

"Were the sunchokes everything Ian dreamed they would be?"

"What?" Anna asked. "Sarah?"

"Yes, dear," Sarah said patiently, rolling over in bed so that she wasn't elbowing Mark every time she adjusted the phone against her ear. Boudicca complained from the depths of the blankets and batted at her with claws extended. "The sunchokes. Jerusalem artichokes. You had them for a starter last night. Ian was fantasizing about them."

"Oh, they were orgasmic, but that's not why I'm calling," Anna said.

"I didn't think so, but I'm glad to hear it," Sarah said. Mark dislodged Hildegarde from his head, leaned over Sarah, and cocked an eyebrow. "Anna," she whispered, covering the phone, then uncovered it again. "Why are you calling at three in the afternoon on Christmas day?"

"I overslept, and then I had to get ready to visit my parents, and this was the first time I could get away to make a call, while they're washing the brine off the turkey -- "

"If all time is eternally present, all time is unredeemable," Sarah intoned. Hildegarde yowled that she was cold, puny humans!

"What?" Anna asked.

"It's Eliot, look it up. For what reason are you calling me, Anna?"

"It's Trent," she said. "Okay. Um. If I tell you something about someone committing a crime are you legally bound to tell anyone about it?"

"Ethically and morally bound, but I make an exception for friends," Sarah said.

"So, last night, we went to Sixteen, and we were having dinner -- "

"The orgasmic sunchokes and the Macadamia foam."

Mark mouthed orgasmic sunchokes? and Sarah waved him off. Boudicca tried to attack her arm.

"Yeah. And the mustard-crusted lamb -- not my point," Anna said, as if shaking herself back to the present. "We had it with wine pairings, but you know I think most wine tastes kind of the same, so I wasn't drinking much and just sort of praying for a margarita later."

"I hear those cost like fifteen dollars at Trump."

"Thirty if you do it right. Anyway. So we're talking and Trent's a little wasted and he starts telling me about how he's going to Paris in the new year, and I said, how do you afford all this, I know what kind of money you have to make -- that was pretty funny actually, we bantered for a while about how I know all his secrets because I work for SparkVISION -- anyway, then he says to me, like he's still recruiting me for a job..."

Sarah sighed and tried to prevent Hildegarde from burrowing under the pillows. "What did he say?"

"He said a big charity like Union Arms doesn't notice when a few grand here and there goes missing," Anna said. Sarah sat bolt upright. Mark yelped in protest and clutched the headboard to keep from falling off the bed. The cats erupted from the blankets indignantly, then wormed their way up next to Mark, for body heat.

"He said what?"

"I know! What do I do?" Anna wailed.

"He's skimming the books?" Sarah demanded. She climbed out of bed and began hunting for her clothes. The cats both stared at her as if she'd lost her damn mind. So did Mark.

"I think he has to be! Seriously, do you know how much he dropped on our food alone last night?" Anna asked.

"But it's just what he said, right? You don't have any proof?" Sarah asked. "Still, a sworn deposition ought to be enough for an investigation..."

"He just said it offhand, he might have been joking!" Anna said. "I just don't know what to do. I thought you would."

"I do. We're going to call Naomi and see what she says and then -- "

"Sarah!" Mark called.

"Not now, honey -- "

"Sarah, it's Christmas," Mark insisted. "Naomi's probably at the movies, and it's her day off. And ours," he added meaningfully. Sarah paused, underwear in one hand.

"Hey," Anna said, on the other end of the line. "Was that Mark? Were you in bed? Are you naked?"

"Yes," Sarah replied.

"Oh. Sorry."

"Don't be, I'm not."

"No, I mean -- "

"I know," Sarah sighed. "It's okay. It's good you called me."

"Seriously, what do I do?"

Sarah glanced at Mark, who made pleading eyes. He held up Boudicca, who made venomous, vengeful eyes.

"Nothing, today," she said. "You haven't got any hard evidence and it's a holiday weekend. We'll talk about it on Monday. Just sit on it until then, okay? Are you seeing him again?"

"No. I'm dumping him, for real this time. I didn't even sleep with him last night, I put him off until he passed out. It's too creepy and I don't want to be robbing orphan children for my eighty dollar steaks. I mean, they're really good steaks, but I'm going to have nightmares about the big-eyed kids."

Sarah smiled. "Anna, I think you should never change."

"Good! I suck at self-improvement. You're sure I should do this? I won't get in trouble for it?"

"Let's just talk Monday," Sarah told her, and hung up. Mark sighed with relief.

"You weren't talking about Sparks just now, were you?" he asked. "I like Sparks, I'd hate to see you send him to prison for robbing the company."

"If Sparks tried that kind of shenanigans, Naomi would smite him in the face," Sarah said. "And then she'd let me have a go."

"Is it something I shouldn't know about? Legally?" Mark asked.

"Anna's boyfriend is a dick," Sarah said.

"Ahh. Say no more."

"I wasn't planning to. Is it still snowing out?"

Mark pulled a corner of the drape aside. "Yep."

"Good. Stay right there, I feel the need to huddle for warmth."

***

Chapter Ten