Amber couldn’t believe that the day after Mr. Schilling was found dead with her tea bags in his room, she had to go back to the Parker Hotel. Sweating, she fidgeted in the seat of her car. The traffic was terrible on Lake Shore Drive. She hated driving. And she dreaded going back into that fancy hotel. Why’d her boss have to have a baby?
She thought of Gary—how cute their baby would be, if they ever had one. Maybe someday. She hoped. They’d talked about marriage but decided to wait until they both finished school.
Even though the university would reimburse her, Amber felt bad for parking in the thirty-dollar-a-day garage at the Parker. Her beat-up Toyota Corolla was out of place amongst the BMWs and Porsches. She drove to the last floor of the garage and parked in a dark corner. She checked her phone to see where she was supposed to meet the potential donor. Mrs. Vandermeer’s late husband was an alum who had made it big in Silicon Valley after graduating with a major in Russian history, of all things.
Amber was better at dealing with computers than people, especially rich people. She’d been working for the development office for over a month and still wasn’t used to the dollar amounts—and designer perfumes—floating through the department. She preferred healing essential oils to the ingredients used in rich ladies’ perfumes. Some luxury brands contained castoreum and hyraceum—fancy names for beaver anal secretions and fossilized badger urine. Honestly, badger urine! I shouldn’t even be here. Amber’s boss was on maternity leave, and her boss’s boss had just been headhunted by Harvard . . . leaving Amber in this awkward position. I’m a math whiz, not an estate planner.
Everyone said she’d been lucky to get this internship in the development office, especially since she was older than your typical college senior. She still cut hair on the side to make extra money . . . and because she loved it. She could tell a lot about a person by their hair. The way they cared for it, the way they styled it, even its texture told her something. Folks who wanted perfect hair were usually trying to make up for some insecurity in another area of their life. She had a theory: thick hair was for extroverts—like her—and thin hair was for introverts. And people who didn’t care about their hair were deceiving themselves about something else.
She would probably still be doing hair full-time if it weren’t for Gary convincing her she was a computer wizard—and, of course, her biological father leaving her that money in his will. He must have felt guilty about getting her mom pregnant all those years ago. She was glad she could go back to cutting hair if the computer science thing didn’t work out. Hacking was fun, but programming was boring. She’d helped Jessica hack that Pope mafia guy a couple years ago. And she’d made the fake thumbprint Jack had used to break into the animal lab. Considering Jack was in prison, maybe that had been a mistake. But she’d rather help Jack liberate lab rats than meet rich donors. She needed the job to afford her tuition, so she really had no choice.
In the hotel elevator, Amber rifled through her purse until she found the reassuring blue vial. She dropped five drops of the pungent herbal tincture under her tongue. She tapped on the top of her head to rebalance her body’s magnetic energy. Computer science might pay the bills, but natural healing was her true calling. She could spot a misaligned aura from ten feet away.
As she knocked on the hotel room door, she sensed a strong negative energy swirling like a vortex on the other side of the door. When the door opened, that toxic vortex materialized in the person of Mrs. Vandermeer, a tall reed of a woman with a perfectly painted face. With her Botox and lip fillers, Mrs. Vandermeer looked like all the other rich women donors Amber had met, except less stretched and puffy. She looked like a very well-preserved fifty-year-old but held her heart-shaped lips in the perpetual pout of a teenage girl.
Amber extended her hand. “I’m Amber Bush from the development office. I have the paperwork you already discussed with my colleague.”
“Wonderful,” Vandermeer gushed. “I’m looking forward to discussing my estate planning.”
“I understand you’re particularly interested in donating to the Center for Russian Art and Culture,” Amber said, wondering why such a young-looking woman would be thinking about estate planning. Her hair was ash silver—obviously a balayage, a very expensive one—but everything else about her was vibrant and young.
“Yes, I just adore everything Russian.” She gestured toward a small table. “I’ve ordered us tea.”
“Thanks.” Amber sat down and pulled a slightly bent folder out of her mammoth purse. “Here are the documents. Once you cut through the legalese, it’s really very simple. If you’d like to will your estate to the Center, we can make sure it happens. Upon your death, the Center would receive the funds. We all appreciate your support.” She’d had to practice her lines on how grateful the university was for financial support, how important their mission was, how the development office would make sure the funds were used appropriately. She felt like a robot on autopilot. She sat on her hands to keep from playing with her hair.
“I just sign these documents and that’s it? And then it’s all legal and binding?”
“Yes, sign them and return them in the white envelope.” She fidgeted in the chair, hoping the meeting would be over soon. She needed more Rescue Remedy.
“What if I change my mind later?”
“You mean if you no longer want to leave your estate to the Center? You can always specify another recipient at the university.” Amber spewed the spiel. “You could endow a chair in a specific department, or you could make a general donation and leave it up to the discretion of the administration—”
“What if I no longer want to donate?” Mrs. Vandermeer folded her hands in her lap. “How do I cancel this agreement?”
“You can cancel at any time. Just send a letter indicating you want to cancel—”
“What if I die and my heirs want to cancel the donation?”
Amber shifted in her chair. “I’m not sure. I think it depends on whether you put it in your will or just make the pledge.” She wished her boss was here.
“So, if it is only a pledge, then it isn’t binding and the wife—er, husband, wouldn’t have to honor it?” She smiled.
“That’s right. Only if it’s in his will would it be binding. I guess you should check with your lawyer.”
“Of course, I will.” She smoothed her skirt. “Do most people do a pledge or also put it in their will?”
“I’m not sure. Depends on whether they want their heirs to be able to change the bequest, I guess.” Why is this rich lady asking so many questions? Does she want to donate or not? Amber had a calculus test to study for.
Mrs. Vandermeer passed her a box containing an assortment of teas. “Would you care for tea?”
Just to be polite Amber took it. When their hands touched, she sensed that vortex of toxicity again. She shifted in her chair, itching to do her energy-balancing protocol. “You know what? I have my own tea.” Amber reached in her pursed and pulled out a baggie full of homemade tea bags. “This is my special detox blend. It has peppermint, milk thistle, and chamomile . Very nourishing for the liver.”
Mrs. Vandermeer tried to raise her botoxed eyebrows. “Mind if I try it?”
“You’re welcome to keep all of it.” Amber passed her the baggie. “Drink it a couple times daily. If the detox effect is too intense, back it down to once a day.” She hoped these tea bags wouldn’t meet the same fate as the last ones she’d shared with a VIPER donor.
Mrs. Vandermeer was very much alive when Amber left her, tea bags and all. On the way back to her car, she glanced at her phone. She had just enough time to stop by the Girls First Refugee Center and deliver school supplies for Amira, Lila, and the rest of the younger girls. She’d bought paints and a sketch pad for Amira. For the younger girls, she had colored pencils, Hello Kitty notebooks, and backpacks adorned with the princess sisters from Frozen. She hoped the girls would like them. After dropping off the supplies, she had to get back to campus for Gary’s stupid Young Socialists meeting. Then she had to study for her calculus test, before going back to Girls First to teach her English night class for adult refugees. What a day! She fumbled in her purse for her Perk Up energy drops.
The Girls First headquarters was a red brick building in the heart of Rogers Park, not too far from her apartment. Amber had been working with the organization for two years now. She loved tutoring the younger girls, but their stories broke her heart. She had a soft spot for Amira, whose family had fled Syria when she was only four. After three years in a Turkish refugee camp, they’d made it to Chicago. Seventeen-year-old Amira refused to speak. Instead, she drew and painted pictures.
Amber parked her car, grabbed the shopping bag from the backseat, and hurried into the building. The sound of a commotion came from one of the classrooms. When she opened the door, she saw Amira crying in a corner.
“What’s going on?” Amber asked the volunteer teacher.
“I told her to put her drawings away and pay attention to the lessons.” The teacher huffed. “So, I took her pencils and paper away and she became hysterical.”
Amber rushed to Amira and hugged her. “There, there, sweetie. You’ll get them back.” She wiped tears from the teenage girl’s round face, then pulled a chocolate bar from her purse and held it out. “This will make you feel better.” This volunteer is bad news. Amber would have to report her to the director.
Amira sniffed and sat up on her knees, her long dark braids falling over her shoulders. She tentatively reached for the candy. Amber nodded, and the girl grabbed the chocolate with a weak smile. Amber stroked her hair. Poor thing had seen so much violence. She’d had to watch her father murdered and her mother assaulted. No wonder she wouldn’t talk.
If only there was something more Amber could do for these sweet girls . . .