consumed a copious amount of Magners Irish Hard Cider while watching a Colin Farrell movie before our visit to the Golden Temple.
The receptionist returns with my juice. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Thank you.”
I am sipping the neon orange juice when two people enter the conference room—a tall, wiry blonde in a White House Black Market dress, and a taller handsome man wearing impeccably tailored Canali trousers and vest with a pair of leather mandals. Ugh! The last man to work a pair of mandals was Julius Caesar—and look how things turned out for him.
“Stéphanie,” the woman says, walking toward me with her arms out. “We spoke earlier today. I am Rachel Mills.”
I quickly stand and hold my hand out. Instead of shaking my hand, Rachel hugs me like we are giddy pre-teen BFFs meeting at the mall. I am not a hugger. I stand there with my arms locked at my sides until she steps back.
“And this is Finn Thompson”—she beams up at Mandals—“founder and President of Each One, Teach One.”
“ Bonjour Mademoiselle Moreau,” Mandals says, grabbing me by the shoulders and kissing both my cheeks a la Parisian greeting. “ C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer. Vous remercie d'être venus. ”
“ Merci .”
Finn Thompson, with his shaggy sun-tipped California surfer hair and expensive Italian trousers, is as perplexing as his office.
“How was my accent?” he asks, grinning. “Hopefully, not too atrocious.”
“ Parfait .” I switch to English because I am not sure if Rachel understands French. “You speak like a native. Did you live in France?”
“Briefly.” He pulls my chair out and gestures for me to be seated. “When I was in college, I spent a summer in the Oisans working as a volunteer on a mountain biodiversity project.”
“Which village?”
“Villard-Reculas.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Finn walks around the table and takes a seat opposite me. “Do you know it?”
“My mother was born nearby, in La Garde.”
“ C’est un petit monde !”
“Yes, a very small world!”
During my loneliest and lowest moments at boarding school, like when the other girls snatched my bath towel and pushed me out into the hallway, naked and wet, I wished God would send my mother back to earth to be my guardian angel. I am not a superstitious person—the French are too practical to be superstitious—but I wonder if this is an omen.
“Are you all right?” Finn asks.
My cheeks flush with heat. I have been staring at Finn. I nod.
“Are you sure? You suddenly looked sad.”
I can’t very well say, “I have felt hopelessly lost for days, but I think my dead mother just sent me the message that I should be working for your company.” So I employ one of my classic avoidance maneuvers and change the subject.
“Your offices are spectacular.” I run my hands over the smooth mosaic glass tabletop. “I like this table.”
“Thank you.” Finn narrows his gaze just enough to let me know that he is wise to my avoidance maneuver. “All of the furniture in the room has been made with reclaimed items.”
“Really?”
“The table was made in Mexico, using repurposed soda and beer bottles,” he says, smiling. “The covers on these chairs and the sofas in the lobby are Eco-friendly sustainable leather, made using bark cloth from mutuba trees in Uganda. In fact, they were made by students at our edification centers.”
“Edification centers?”
“Some would call them schools,” Rachel explains. “We prefer to call them edification centers because we believe our mission is to educate, elevate, and enlighten. We don’t just teach the impoverished a trade. We restore their sense of self-worth through close mentoring.”
“That sounds inspiring.”
“I am glad you think so, because we believe you would be a splendid asset to TTF.”
“We read your mission statement,” Finn interjects. “We were very impressed.”
“Thank you,” I say, my cheeks
The receptionist returns with my juice. “Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
“Thank you.”
I am sipping the neon orange juice when two people enter the conference room—a tall, wiry blonde in a White House Black Market dress, and a taller handsome man wearing impeccably tailored Canali trousers and vest with a pair of leather mandals. Ugh! The last man to work a pair of mandals was Julius Caesar—and look how things turned out for him.
“Stéphanie,” the woman says, walking toward me with her arms out. “We spoke earlier today. I am Rachel Mills.”
I quickly stand and hold my hand out. Instead of shaking my hand, Rachel hugs me like we are giddy pre-teen BFFs meeting at the mall. I am not a hugger. I stand there with my arms locked at my sides until she steps back.
“And this is Finn Thompson”—she beams up at Mandals—“founder and President of Each One, Teach One.”
“ Bonjour Mademoiselle Moreau,” Mandals says, grabbing me by the shoulders and kissing both my cheeks a la Parisian greeting. “ C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer. Vous remercie d'être venus. ”
“ Merci .”
Finn Thompson, with his shaggy sun-tipped California surfer hair and expensive Italian trousers, is as perplexing as his office.
“How was my accent?” he asks, grinning. “Hopefully, not too atrocious.”
“ Parfait .” I switch to English because I am not sure if Rachel understands French. “You speak like a native. Did you live in France?”
“Briefly.” He pulls my chair out and gestures for me to be seated. “When I was in college, I spent a summer in the Oisans working as a volunteer on a mountain biodiversity project.”
“Which village?”
“Villard-Reculas.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Finn walks around the table and takes a seat opposite me. “Do you know it?”
“My mother was born nearby, in La Garde.”
“ C’est un petit monde !”
“Yes, a very small world!”
During my loneliest and lowest moments at boarding school, like when the other girls snatched my bath towel and pushed me out into the hallway, naked and wet, I wished God would send my mother back to earth to be my guardian angel. I am not a superstitious person—the French are too practical to be superstitious—but I wonder if this is an omen.
“Are you all right?” Finn asks.
My cheeks flush with heat. I have been staring at Finn. I nod.
“Are you sure? You suddenly looked sad.”
I can’t very well say, “I have felt hopelessly lost for days, but I think my dead mother just sent me the message that I should be working for your company.” So I employ one of my classic avoidance maneuvers and change the subject.
“Your offices are spectacular.” I run my hands over the smooth mosaic glass tabletop. “I like this table.”
“Thank you.” Finn narrows his gaze just enough to let me know that he is wise to my avoidance maneuver. “All of the furniture in the room has been made with reclaimed items.”
“Really?”
“The table was made in Mexico, using repurposed soda and beer bottles,” he says, smiling. “The covers on these chairs and the sofas in the lobby are Eco-friendly sustainable leather, made using bark cloth from mutuba trees in Uganda. In fact, they were made by students at our edification centers.”
“Edification centers?”
“Some would call them schools,” Rachel explains. “We prefer to call them edification centers because we believe our mission is to educate, elevate, and enlighten. We don’t just teach the impoverished a trade. We restore their sense of self-worth through close mentoring.”
“That sounds inspiring.”
“I am glad you think so, because we believe you would be a splendid asset to TTF.”
“We read your mission statement,” Finn interjects. “We were very impressed.”
“Thank you,” I say, my cheeks
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