Be a light to the world. That’s what it says in the book of Matthew—5:14, if you take your Bible specific.
Like every good Southern girl, I know my Scripture, even if I don’t go advertising it on a billboard like those megachurches off the I-40. I’ll never be one of those come-to-Jesus types, and you surely won’t find me saving souls outside the JCPenney.
Truth be told, you wouldn’t find me at a JCPenney for any reason. I’m a Saks girl myself, just like my mama.
Still, no one would dare question my devotion, seeing how my papa runs the most powerful Christian-based poultry empire this side of the Mason-Dixon and my people go by Derby.
Not that I’m uppity. Treat everyone you meet with unwavering respect—that’s the motto I live by. Last year alone I mentored precious little black children, led our chapter’s weekly prayer circle, and served as philanthropic chair for the Kappas. The blood drive I organized brought in a record forty-two pints, and our annual Watermelon Shindig raised more than $3,000 for charity. Everyone agreed it was the best event ever, despite those Phi hooligans spiking the melons with vodka.
I don’t practice the word, I live it.
I’m the one pledges come to when they’re tore up over some sorry mess of a boy, and the one my sisters rely on to turn hissy fits and catfights into giggly gossip sessions. Unlike my brethren getting their knickers in a bunch over trifles, I don’t aim my gospel like a loaded weapon. Believers come in all forms, and sure enough I am one.
The other thing I’m sure of? The last thing Jesus wants is for his lights of the world to be shut up in some dusty old cupboard.
Which is why, riding high over New York City in a Luxury Elite helicopter with one of the most powerful men in the free world, I am not surprised by the sudden turn of events. Pleased as punch, no doubt in that. But shocked? Surely not.
Jesus wants us to shine. Just read your Bible.
Set up a meeting with the Boston hedge-fund guys,” roars Mr. Hoff. “And get someone from risk assessment. What’s his name. That little Yale prick I hired.”
“Stephan Englander?” says Eleanor.
“Yeah, that one. They’ll eat up that Ivy League shit. They can compare clubs, yada yada. Then he shuts the hell up, got it? Brief him.”
“Yes, Mr. Hoff.” Eleanor, bless her heart, stumbles to keep up with his big strides. Lucky for me I was practically born in heels. “I’ll pencil in Tuesday at four,” she adds, making a note on her yellow legal pad.
“And I want those mergers projections.”
“Already sent to your in-box,” says Kate, swiping her iPad.
Eleanor narrows her eyes.
“The rundown for Monday?” says Hoff.
“Eight fifteen, Strategy Team,” she says. “Ten forty-five, conference with Dubai; eleven fourteen, interactive media briefing. Noon, the trainer—”
“The blonde with the big rubber bands?”
“The German. Tae Bo.”
“Cancel it. I’ll do the elliptical.”
Eleanor nods, out of breath, and I give myself a little pat on the back for all those Zumba sessions. I’d considered Pole-Dancing Pilates, but only for a hot second. After all, my mama runs Hallelujah! Fitness Enterprises, and reputation is everything. While Jesus may want his army of soldiers strong for the fight, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want them sliding on poles like tramps to get that way.
We step into the private elevator and I head to the back, the designated location for lowly interns. “Hello, Miss Cordelia,” says Gil as I pass him.
“Hello, Gil,” I say.
Eleanor and Kate simply ignore him.
“What floor, Mr. Hoff?”
“The roof, Gil.”
Gil nods and presses the button with a white-gloved fingertip. “Takin’ a little trip, sir?”
“Got a thing with the daughter,” says Hoff. “You know how it is. I just take the orders!”
They both chuckle.
Eleanor pays no mind, drumming her fingers like she’s got somewhere better to be, Kate not bothering to look up from her screen. For the umpteenth time, I wonder who taught these Northern ladies their manners. Embarrassed, I catch Gil’s eye, then bestow on him one of my patented Cordelia Derby smiles. I think he blushes, but it’s hard to tell with black people.
Excuse me, African-Americans.
In the past two months I’ve learned that Hispanics prefer Latino, handicapped is for parking spaces, and Oriental only applies to carpets. Dwarf is bad and so is queer, unless you’re studying it in college, which seems an odd choice for a major, but who am I to judge? As for Eleanor and Kate, they are not secretaries, but first and second administrative assistants.
Up here, folks care a lot what you call them. How you treat them seems less important.
“You scheduled Barry?” booms Mr. Hoff, right back in Big Boss mode.
“Yes,” says Eleanor, jumping to attention. “Eight o’clock dinner on Monday. His assistant requested a plus-one. Less request and more order. Said Mr. Diller insisted.”
“Oh yeah?” Mr. Hoff snorts. “A new pretty-boy assistant, I’ll bet. And he sure don’t hire ’em for their typing skills.”
I stifle a giggle, knowing Eleanor’ll have my hide if I let loose with one. Not that I care what she thinks, but I’d rather not spend the next week sealing envelopes.
“Tell him drinks instead. Mafioso bar on Mott, the one full of tough old bastards.” He laughs to himself. “He can bring the pretty boy along, but I’d strongly advise against it.”
“Got it,” says Eleanor. “I’ll let him know—”
“Already texted his people,” says Kate, looking up from the send button. Eleanor glares at her.
Eleanor’s been around forever, but Kate only eight months. And while Eleanor has the prestige of time, Kate has got speed and youth, which sure counts for something.
What neither of them has, bless their hearts, is even the bitiest sense of style.
For a split second, I imagine how we look, three women-on-the-go trailing the CEO with determined expressions. Real working ladies, only two in black and gray suits, their hair pulled back in tight knots and their sensible heels going clickety-click.
As for me, I’m dressed to the nines in the sweetest new little Lilly Pulitzer pink-and-blue shift, my bun flawlessly messy, my Hermès bangles gently tinkling. I am chimes in a gentle summer breeze, my every arrival a cloud of iris blooms and Casablanca lilies. Chanel No. 5 is just fine, but I’ll go to the grave wearing my top-secret signature. That and my false eyelashes.
We have come to a stop. “Move along, ladies,” booms Mr. Hoff, striding out before the doors have fully opened.
We exit and Gil tips his hat to me in the most darling way. What a lovely man, I think. Impeccably groomed, and his uniform always freshly ironed.
These little things matter, and so does noticing them.
“How about the Kid?” says Mr. Hoff, his voice softening a tad, hardly enough that anyone would pick up on it. “Have we got all our ducks in row for his arrival?”
The others may think it’s a strategic business move, this little Hamptons hootenanny, but I know better. Mr. Hoff longs for a son, and this boy genius is as close as he’s probably getting. There’s his little girl, of course, and word is she’s a handful. But in his heart of hearts he longs for a strapping male heir, one to carry on his glorious legacy. And as luck would have it, he went after a deal, and Jesus saw fit to bring this boy wonder right along with it.
Mr. Hoff may be a media mogul, but he’s a man, just like every other. And every Southern girl worth her salt knows the truth: men are simple creatures. Unless they’re homosexuals, I suppose, in which case you’d have to consult one of the Yankees majoring in homosexual studies.
“Your VIP is in transit,” says Eleanor. “His jet arrives at the Hamptons airport in forty-five minutes. A driver will be waiting.”
Now is the moment I’ve been waiting for. “Actually, sir,” I pipe up, “I went ahead and upgraded him to a limo.” Three faces turn in my direction. “You said you wanted him to feel right at home, and I figured that would be a more hospitable welcome than some old town car.”
“And I took the liberty of putting together a basket of munchies,” I add cheerily. “Just a little something. After a flight, I’m always positively famished!”
There’s the teeny-tiniest pause, Kate looking at me like I’m crazier than a loon, Eleanor like I’m not worth the time it took to look in the first place.
“Mr. Hoff,” Eleanor says, her sneer transforming into a mask of apology, “I hadn’t approved—”
His grin stops her cold. “Cordelia, I like how you think,” he says, smiling like he’s never seen me before. “In fact, I got a great idea. Why don’t you come along? The Kid’ll appreciate a pretty little thing to welcome him. At least I woulda at his age. Not that I remember much from twenty-two.”
“Oh, Mr. Hoff, that’s just silly. You’re so not old! But if you’d really like me to—”
“I would.”
“Then of course, I’d be absolutely delighted!”
He bows ever so slightly and puts out his arm to beckon me, Eleanor and Kate stepping aside with their mouths gaping open like codfish.
Lift your chins, ladies, I think, taking my sweet time. Or your faces just might stick that way.
If I’ve learned anything in the two months since taking the semester abroad, which is what I call this sudden relocation, it’s that women in New York are nothing like Sex and the City. At this point, I’m pretty sure Carrie Bradshaw won’t come waltzing down Fifth Avenue in some fabulous frock and invite me out for cosmos. Women like her don’t exist, not really.
At least, not at Hoff Incorporated.
The women here are hard as logs. They lack in basic social graces, view their chests as burdens instead of God-given accessories. It didn’t take long to understand: instead of competing with the men, they’ve decided to just become them.
These ladies don’t want to bond, they want to eat me. Southern-fried intern on a big old platter, maybe even two helpings.
That’s not how I imagined it would be, of course. Not for one itty-bitty second.
The new intern,” said Eleanor on my first day, looking me over like Maw Maw does porcelain figurines at the Antiques Fair.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, giving her my most gracious smile. “I’m so excited! It’s such an honor, I can’t thank you—”
“It wasn’t my decision,” she replied curtly, turning her back to file something in a metal cabinet. “In fact, I’m not sure what we’ll do with you.”
“Well, I can type fast, nearly sixty words per minute. And I’m a wonder with a coffeemaker!” I kept my voice light. I’ll win her over, I thought. In no time we’ll be getting lunchtime blowouts at Drybar!
Enthusiasm is infectious, everyone knows that. It’s the first thing they teach you in pre-K etiquette, even before proper utensil placement.
“Look, Cordelia.” She whipped around in her slick leather chair and fiddled with papers on her desk. “I realize your father knows Mr. Hoff, but we don’t usually take interns.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand that. I know it was real sudden. And it was supernice of you to consider—”
“As I said before, it wasn’t up to me.” She tapped her stubby, bare fingernails on a legal pad. Forget the blowout, we’ll go for manicures. “And here’s what you must understand: Hoff Incorporated is one of the, if not the, most important international media conglomerates in existence.”
She kept emphasizing phrases, like I’m touched in the head, or maybe she thinks Southerners are dumb in general. The Kappa house scored the highest GPA in the whole SMU Panhellenic system, I’ll have her know.
“And Gerald Hoff is central to that infrastructure. In fact, he is that infrastructure. So he is a busy man. Very busy. Right now he’s got several ventures—”
“The Rock Exchange, I know! I love that site, so smart of him to snap it up! And I heard that young man who started it is moving here, isn’t that just lovely? And Mr. Hoff is starting a fashion magazine as well? That’s so exciting. I know all of them inside out, every publication. Cosmo, Vogue, Bazaar, even the European—”
“Cordelia,” Eleanor interrupted.
I pretended not to hear her. This was my chance and I refused to waste it. “The editors, the makeup of each section . . . I’m majoring in fashion merchandising, after all. I even started a style blog at SMU, and we get thirty thousand visitors a month. Isn’t that something? So I’d love to help out there if Mr. Hoff could use me!”
I ended the speech with my own flourish, the kind of smile I save for special occasions. The one that works wonders on pageant judges, even landed me a front-page photo after the Daughters of Confederate Heroes Annual Diamonds and Rosebud Cotillion.
It worked a lot better on the Society-section reporter.
“Let me be clear, Cordelia.” She looked me in the eyes for the first time since I’d entered her office. “Your father may have dealings with Mr. Hoff, may even have socialized with him. And this relationship opened the door, my door to be exact, to your presence here. But this is not the country club, this is business. And your sole job at Hoff Incorporated is to be seen and not heard.” She raised her overplucked eyebrows, like two commas rising. “Have I been perfectly clear?”
“Yes, ma’am. Crystal.”
She need not have elaborated. Her first look said everything. In Eleanor’s eyes, I was a cowlick on church Sunday, a wine stain on a wedding dress. I was that mangy old dog that keeps showing up on your porch no matter how many times you shoo it.
I’ll just have to prove myself, I thought, smiling even harder, and you bet I’ll be sweet as pie when I do it.
I firmly believe in manners, even dealing with a plug-ugly Yankee B-word with a bad attitude.
“What would you like me to do first, ma’am?”
I’d seen Eleanor’s type before, only with far better taste in accessories. I’m a Kappa, after all, so I’m used to being envied. Those Thetas and Deltas with their wet-T-shirt nights and pimp and ho parties would talk smack till the cows came home, but in the end, they couldn’t touch us.
You can’t touch what doesn’t acknowledge your existence.
Sure, we were the good girls who wouldn’t put out and never threw keggers, but everyone knew we were the prettiest on campus, not to mention some of the richest.
Do a Theta, marry a Kappa, that’s what they say. Should I spread my legs for every good old boy this side of the Mississippi, or should I bear his children and run a fashion label from my multimillion-dollar neoclassical estate? I preferred my dignity, not to mention true love and Jesus’s eternal salvation.
There is no condom for the heart. That’s what I tell my sorority sisters.
I’d prove myself without changing, of that I was certain, except for a minor wardrobe update and downgrade of Aqua Net. From what I’d seen, the-higher-the-hair-the-closer-to-Jesus did not apply to New Yorkers, probably due to the large population of Jewish citizens.
In the end, I’d keep my sass, self-confidence, and social graces, just like my mama taught me. And my mama should know, seeing how she owns a successful fitness franchise, oversees a staff of sixty, and has her own secretaries.
Excuse me, administrative assistants.
I like the Kid,” says Mr. Hoff, booming even louder than usual, probably ’cause of the wind and propellers. “So I figure, no effing around. ‘You got this great product,’ I say. ‘I want it. How much we talking?’ And he says, ‘Give me a number.’ So I do, and what do you know? He takes it. No haggling, doesn’t want to control a thing. Just a check with his name and, boom, TheRockExchange-dot-com is a Hoff acquisition. He didn’t even want the stock options, but I insisted. And just you wait till we go public. Think the Kid is rich now? That’s nothing. He’s gonna be one loaded eff, I tell you!” Mr. Hoff smiles to himself. “But it’s worth every penny. This site is gonna be a monster. It’ll change the face of the music industry, just you wait!”
“Such a brilliant acquisition, sir! I mean, everyone follows the Rock Exchange. I remember my sorority sister Linette going goo-goo for this alt-country group, putting in all her au pair savings, and her mama kept saying, ‘Are you a ninny?’ But now they’ve got a top ten and she made herself a pretty penny, paid off credit cards and then some—”
“And that’s just the beginning, Cordelia. Grassroots is fine, but wait till my marketing guys sink their teeth in. Product placement, MTV tie-ins. This thing is an explosion waiting to happen.”
He leans back and grins, the stress falling from his face, and drinks his second martini. I mixed them both, the first before we’d even done liftoff.
Let me, sir. After all, I’m the intern! On the rocks with a twist? My papa’s not a drinker, but every lady knows how to mix a proper drink up.
I’d never been in a helicopter before and hadn’t expected the built-in wet bar, let alone the buttery-leather seats or the flat-screen set to CNBC.
Below us, the buildings and cars look like toys you could pick up and rearrange, like how I did with the furniture in my Barbie Dreamhouse.
It didn’t take long for Mr. Hoff to open up and start jabbering. One of my God-given gifts, having this effect on people. Men people especially.
“I respect the Kid. Just sell and move on. Want to know the best word in the English language? Next.” I nod and smile encouragingly, and he takes another gulp. “As for the rest, he’s a mystery. My guys did a full vet, couldn’t dig up a thing. Not much of a talker, either. But he’s sharp, maybe the sharpest twenty-two-year-old I’ve ever met. So I said, ‘Move here, Kid. What have you got to lose? I’ll bet you got more ideas, and I sure got the capital. Besides, New York is the center of the free universe.”
“And you’re the center of New York, Mr. Hoff.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far.” He winks. “Then again, maybe you’re right, kiddo.”
“You are! That’s why I practically begged my papa to call in a favor. Know what he said? ‘You don’t need that big old city. Why don’t you just intern for me, honey?’ And I said, ‘‘’Cause as much as I love you, Papa, poultry just ain’t my thing.’”
Mr. Hoff laughs. Not just a snort or a chuckle, but the real thing. He drains his glass, sets it down, and I get him freshened up before he’s even noticed.
“Good man, your father,” he says. “And one hell of a negotiator. When I went to nail the sponsorship deal, he took me to that spread you guys got, whaddaya call that place?”
“Dove Hollow Ranch? With the horses?”
“Lots of trees—”
“The Texoma Lake House?”
“Nah, the place in the woods—”
“Oh.” I smile. “The Lodge. He musta really taken a shine to you!”
“Craziest way I ever closed a deal. Rifle in one hand, shake with the other. And then ya go kill something! Well, your father did, and I shot the air a coupla times. Got the picture pretty quick. I’ll keep my killings to the boardroom.”
“You just need practice!” I say encouragingly. “I got my first rifle at seven, after all! The prettiest little .22, pink camo with Swarovski crystal. Shot my first whitetail a month later!”
He stares at me for a second. “You’re somethin’ else, Cordelia. Chip off the old block!” He reaches for his glass, now full instead of empty. For a second, he looks confused, then he glances at me and chuckles. “Somethin’ else, I tell ya.”
“Well, I sure appreciate that, Mr. Hoff. And I must have got Papa’s negotiating gene. After all, I got myself a heck of an internship! What did they call you in the Post? ‘The Master of Media,’ wasn’t that it?”
Mr. Hoff doesn’t answer, just leans back, tipsy and swole up with his own brilliance. No man can resist being praised, and that’s just a fact of nature. And coming from a pretty girl? Well, that’s even better.
I take a moment to run my hand across the baby-soft leather seat and stretch out my legs, knees together of course. I wiggle my toes, admiring the fresh pedicure in newly purchased Louboutins. The turquoise straps and the Blue Sparrow polish are a match made in heaven.
Everything works out in the end, I think, as long as you put your faith in something bigger.
Amen.
I turn to Mr. Hoff, whose cocktail glass is once again empty. “Another freshener, sir?” I ask pleasantly.
“Cordelia, you are a peach.” He holds out his glass to me.
“With all due respect, Mr. Hoff, girls from Georgia are the peaches. Now me, I’m Lone Star through and through! And there’s nothin’ soft about a Texas girl.” I give a tinkling laugh, and I can see, in that very moment, he thinks I am the most charming thing in existence. And in all honesty, I just might be. Sure did work for it with all that cotillion training.
“So I hear you’re starting a magazine, Mr. Hoff?” I say, daintily unplugging the Grey Goose bottle. “Tell me all about it!”
“Oh, yeah, that thing. My daughter won’t leave me alone about it!”
This is news to me. I file it away, like any good intern. “You know, it’s a personal passion of mine.” I hand him the beverage. “I’m just plain crazy for fashion periodicals. . . .”
What have you done?”
“Isn’t it lovely, Daddy?”
“I said intimate, Annalise. What the hell is this monstrosity?”
She opens her mouth to speak but gets all choked up. From the look on her face, this is a new experience.
It’s only five minutes after our arrival and Mr. Hoff is in full meltdown, his daughter looking like she got smacked upside the head with a two-by-four. Thank the Lord I got fair warning, I think. Deer in a headlights sure isn’t pretty, even if that deer happens to be wearing Escada.
Such a shame the tulle doesn’t suit her figure.
The second the driver pulled through those electronic gates, I’d known hellfire and brimstone were to follow. “What?” said Mr. Hoff, eyeing the rows of shiny vehicles.
A parking attendant came jogging over with an ear-to-ear smile. “Can I get you a spot?”
“I live here, you dumb fuck,” said Mr. Hoff, his car door already open.
Thank the Lord I’m a wonder in heels, because I had to run. That’s how fast he was marching.
Now he stares at his daughter with fury. He’s fit to be tied, but the place is fetching. The grass is so green it sparkles, the tent a big white poof above it. Guests drink champagne and mingle, the women dressed to a tee in floaty sundresses, the men turned out in crisp shirts and pastel jackets. A Texas boy wouldn’t be caught dead in pink, that’s for sure, but I find the whole thing charming.
A quartet plays something sweet, and the vases are full of long-stemmed ivory orchids. I would have gone with a pop of color, but that’s just me. After all, these are her stomping grounds.
At least, that’s what she must have been supposing.
“Two hundred strangers, Annalise,” booms Mr. Hoff. I never approved—”
“There aren’t more than eighty, Daddy, and they aren’t strangers—”
“I don’t know them. So, strangers.”
Her smile is back, and it looks painful. Frozen as a second runner-up’s when she’s forced to squeal for the winner.
“They’re all the right people, just like you said. And we’re having the loveliest time imaginable! Rumor has it there’s even a royal coming!”
“Royal pain in my ass, maybe. And where the fuck is Candace?”
“Language, Daddy!” Annalise hisses, glancing over her shoulders. “I assume she’s mingling, but she’s helped me enormously. And she’s absolutely thrilled with the outcome, just as I assumed you—”
“Get her now.”
“Lower your voice, Daddy. You’re making a scene!”
Mr. Hoff stares at her and I know what he’s thinking. Is she too big for a whupping? He’s got a temper, that’s for sure, but until now I’ve only seen the boil. Now he’s fixing to blow, and forget the gasket. This time it’ll be the whole dang engine.
Instead, he turns sharply. He’s looking right at me. “Cordelia,” he says, using his Big Boss voice from the office, “you know what I just decided? I’m making you an editor on my magazine. Think you can handle it?”
“Yes, sir! I’d be absolutely delighted.”
Then comes hollering, but this time Mr. Hoff isn’t the one doing it. Men are pushing through, their cameras flashing, not caring a whit whom they barrel into. “Watch it!” says one, nearly running poor little me over.
“What the fuck is this?” says Mr. Hoff.
“The royal, I assume,” Annalise says quietly, though she isn’t paying a smidgen of attention. Not to Mr. Hoff or the flashing bulbs or the nervous babble of her guests.
She’s looking at one person, and her eyes tell me everything.
Fixin’ to lay a hurtin’, just like my paw paw used to say when vagrants trespassed on his East Texas farmland. Then he’d clomp out the door, Jesus rest his sweet soul, the old .243 Winchester cocked and ready.
Just like my paw paw, I’ve got an arsenal. The only difference is the choice of weapon.
I lift my chin high, look her dead-on, and shoot my biggest, glitziest Cordelia Derby smile. “Lord Almighty,” I say giddily, “isn’t this just terribly exciting!”