And then the flood hit.
One of those torrential rainstorms, the kind the weather experts called a “hundred-year storm” but which seemed in more recent times to happen annually. Those black clouds, heavy with moisture, hung over Julie’s neighborhood for hours. The storm drains on the city streets couldn’t keep up. Water rose above the curbs. And then the front lawn of Julie’s modest one-story was underwater.
The shallow, ground-level windows that allowed some light into the basement caved in, and water cascaded into the house.
The mess was unbelievable. Basement furniture floated upward until it hit the ceiling. The circuit breaker panel became submerged. Once the storm was over, the water receded, and the basement had been pumped out, the extent of the devastation could be seen. Twenty, thirty thousand in damage, the insurance company said. Too bad you’re not covered for this kind of thing. Go ahead, look at your policy. Read the fine print. Oh, you didn’t? Is that our fault?
Despite how desperate things were, today Julie went out for lunch. Because, she figured, what the hell. She was in a hole so deep she was never going to crawl out.
She couldn’t afford to fix her house. She might have to sell it, at an enormous loss, and find some cheap apartment to live in.
Sophie owed the college an installment on her tuition, and she had drained every last cent out of her own account. Julie didn’t know how she would make up the difference.
She had told Dr. Gold about her dilemma. Julie had too much pride to ask him, outright, to help her. But if he were to offer, well, that’d be different. She hoped to appeal to his better angels, that upon hearing her tale of woe, he would reach into his desk and pull out his checkbook. It didn’t have to be a gift, she’d tell him. She would pay him back. He could take it out of her pay, a small sum each week until it was totally paid off. Just something to help her get through this difficult period.
Dr. Gold had listened as she brought him up to date on her misfortunes. He had nodded sympathetically.
And he’d said, “That’s just awful, Julie. I hope you’re able to work out things with the insurance company.”
At which point he went back to reading something on his computer screen.
The weasel.
So today, Julie treated herself. At the Winslow Diner, a block from the ReproGold Clinic. She ordered an egg salad sandwich and a coffee. Seven dollars and thirty-five cents, not counting tip.
It was delicious.
But she found herself unable to enjoy it. She felt guilty. She could have brought her own lunch and been up five dollars. And somewhere around her fourth bite, Julie believed she might start crying.
Hold it together, she told herself.
She put down her sandwich, dabbed the corners of her eyes with her paper napkin, and took a sip of coffee from the chunky, ceramic mug. There were only half a dozen customers in the diner, although it could probably hold close to thirty. Julie had chosen to come shortly after eleven, before it became crowded, and when there were no appointments scheduled at the clinic. Rather than sit on a counter stool, Julie had taken a table for two and sat so that she could watch people walk past outside.
A woman entered the diner.
Fiftyish, Julie thought. A bit frumpy, plump, gray hair that she’d pulled back into a ponytail. Gave her a kind of aging-hippie look. She was wearing a jacket that was frayed at the edges and clutching a much-scuffed purse large enough to hold a sleeping bag. She had a somewhat distracted look, as though she was not quite sure why she’d come in here.
But then the woman scanned the restaurant and her gaze seemed to stop when it landed on Julie. Slowly, she worked her way through the tables until she reached Julie’s. She smiled and said, “May I join you?”
There were plenty of places to sit, Julie thought. Couldn’t she take one of the other tables? Maybe sit at the counter?
“Um,” Julie said, “I’m about to leave in a minute.”
“Okay,” the woman said, and flopped down into the seat across from her. She made it into something of a production, letting out a big sigh, adjusting her coat so it wasn’t bunched up under her, then lugging her large purse up into her lap. She glanced around, as if looking for a server.
“How’s the coffee here?” the woman asked.
“It’s... okay.”
“Looks like a good sandwich. Egg salad?”
Julie nodded. Was this woman homeless? Should she offer her the rest of her lunch?
“You’re Julie Harkin,” the woman said, smiling.
That got Julie’s attention. In a fraction of a second, she realized this was not a random event. This woman had sought her out.
“Yes. Have we — do I know you?”
The woman smiled. “No. My name is Heather.”
“Heather...?”
“Last name’s not important.”
Julie glanced about nervously. None of this felt right. Should she get up and walk out?
“It’s okay,” Heather said. “I’m not here to deliver bad news. I’m here to make a proposal.”
“A proposal?”
“Yes. I represent someone sympathetic to your current situation.”
“My current situation?” Julie leaned in closer. “What do you mean, you represent someone?”
“I have a client who believes you can help him. And he’s prepared to reward you for your efforts.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You make thirty-three thousand dollars a year. Your home has sustained damages that amount to more than that annual salary, and your insurance company is denying coverage. You have a daughter in college who needs financial help. Your car, a 1998 Civic, hasn’t been serviced in three years and three out of the four tires are bald. That’s not safe. You should do something about that.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Let me show you something,” Heather said. She dug down into her purse and came out with a plain, letter-sized envelope. She set it on the table, but rested her arm on top of it so it was barely visible. In the glimpse she’d had of it, Julie noticed that it was very thick, and sealed.
“This envelope contains fifty thousand dollars,” Heather said. “It’s for you.”
Julie could find no words. She wasn’t even sure this was really happening. She could not stop looking at the envelope under Heather’s arm.
“Fifty thousand dollars would go a long way to solving your current problems. You could get your house repaired, cover your daughter’s educational costs, and even have enough left over for some new tires.” Heather smiled. “I’m kind of partial to Michelins, but that’s totally up to you. I understand your daughter is interested in pursuing a career in the culinary arts. That’s wonderful. You must be very proud of her.”
Julie managed to get out a sentence. “I don’t understand.”
“I want to make it very clear that there is no threat here,” Heather said. “If you do not wish to help my client, I’ll leave, and take that envelope with me. You won’t hear from me again. This will be the end of it. But if you do wish to help my client, these funds constitute a thank-you. Simple as that.”
“What does your... client want?”
“Information.”
“What... does he want to know?”
Heather spelled it out.