James blinked. “What’s your name?”
“Clara Wilson,” she replied firmly. “My mother’s name is Angela Wilson. She applied for the senior analyst position. She couldn’t come. So I came instead.”
By now, the young receptionist named Melissa had hurried over. “Honey, you can’t just—”
Clara interrupted, “She’s been trying for years. She prepares every night, even when she’s tired from her second job. I know everything she wanted to say. I just need one chance to tell you.”
An unusual hush had fallen over the lobby. Employees lingered near the elevators, their attention fixed on the scene. Melissa shot a bewildered look at James. Then, breaking the silence, a middle-aged man in a gray suit stepped forward. He was tall, with silver streaks at his temples and the composed presence of someone accustomed to being in charge.
“My name’s Richard Hale,” he said, extending a hand at Clara’s height. “Chief Operating Officer.”
Without hesitation, Clara shook his hand.
“Tell me,” Richard asked gently, “why do you think you can speak for your mother?”
