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Dear Ms. Christensen,
We trust you are well.
Mr. Robertson, chairman of Solver Industries, would like to meet and discuss a private matter with you this Thursday, October 22nd, at 5 p.m.
Are you available?
Regards,
Damon Green,
PA for Mr. Robertson, Solver Industries.
The email didn’t give me any more details than it had the first time that I’d read it. Not even my response to Damon Green asking for an agenda had resulted in answers.
All he had been able to say was that he didn’t know the agenda, as the meeting was of a private nature.
I wasn’t one to jump when rich people asked me to, but Robertson was among the hundred most influential men in the world and a benefactor to Harvard, which I’d graduated from. He was known for his sharp intellect and his impressive rags-to- riches story.
The limousine took a sharp turn and continued up a gorgeous driveway where tall trees formed an arched canopy above us.
My parents had money but this was a different level of wealth than what I’d grown up with. It was certainly in stark contrast to the modest life I lived now. With my student debt and a job as an International Nonprofit Administrator, I was lucky to have my two-bedroom apartment in a decent building in downtown Chicago.
The car came to a stop in front of a wide staircase in white stone. Before I had a chance to open my door, a man in a dark suit opened it for me.
“Welcome Miss Christensen. I’m Damon Green. We corresponded.”
“Hello.” Stepping out of the limousine with all the grace my mother had instilled in me from early childhood, I offered my hand to Damon, who was in his fifties and reminded me a little of an old-fashioned butler with the way he stood straight.
“How was the drive?”
“Fine, it’s a pretty area.”
“Yes.” Waving his hand to the staircase, he gave me a polite smile. “Mr. Robertson is ready to see you.”
We walked up the stairs and into the grand entry, where two curved staircases provided symmetry in a room created to impress.
“May I take your jacket?”
“Yes, please.”
Damon waited for me to shrug out of my soft green leather jacket, which had been high fashion three years ago.
“Thank you. It’s right this way.” With my jacket across his arm, Damon walked over and opened two French doors into another opulent room with a lit fireplace and four large floor-to-ceiling windows that provided a breathtaking view of the pristine garden and the lake in the distance.
“Ms. Christensen is here, sir.”
An old man rose from a reading chair close to the window.
I recognized him as Mr. Robertson from the research I had done, but he looked tired and older than in the pictures I’d found of him online.
“Thank you for coming. Would you like something to drink?”
“Yes, thank you. Water would be fine.”
Robertson was dressed in an expensive-looking suit but it was loose on him, making me think he’d lost weight recently. Walking over to an oval-shaped free-standing bar made of mahogany, he poured me a glass of water from a jug that still had ice cubes in it. “Here you go.”
I stepped closer and took the crystal glass. “Thank you.”
