She'll Take It by Mary Carter Page B

made up of retail management and security personnel,” Margaret informs me as if this is somehow helpful.
    â€œI have files waiting,” I plead, craning my neck lamely toward the file room.
    â€œThere’s a town car waiting at the curb,” Margaret continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “It will take you to the 92nd Street Y. The workshop is in Buttenwieser Hall. Security will direct you. I’ll call Greg and tell him you’re on your way.”
    The 92nd Street Y is a renowned Jewish institution that opens its doors to cultural events, literary readings, concerts, performances, authors, and even housing for young men and women of every race and religion. They have a gym, a health care center, and an impressive list of events. In an effort to expand my cultural horizons, I had been meaning to get there for some time but had yet to make it. As the town car zips toward the Upper East Side, I attempt to open the briefcase. Breaking and entering isn’t usually my thing, but I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Why was Trina so quick to send me to the workshop? The briefcase is locked by a combination built into the clasp, and although I pray to the Saint of MacGyver for some instant lock-picking brilliance, no bobbie pins or credit cards materialize to help me out.
    Before I know it we arrive at our destination. I enter the 92nd Street Y and before I can think of an excuse to flee, a security guard ushers me into an elevator and escorts me to Buttenwieser Hall. I can hear the murmur of a crowd as I approach. The hall is filled to its 200-seat capacity. As I enter, a woman in a navy suit hands me a pile of note cards. “Questions from the audience,” she says. “Hand them to Mr. Parks, please.” I glance to the front of the room where two men in suits are standing on a small stage near a large screen.
    â€œMr. Parks,” I say to the two men as I near the stage. Both men turn toward me. The largest of the two is a barrel of a man with dark hair and a goatee. He dabs his nose with a hanky and gestures to the other man. Greg Parks turns and nails me with a huge smile. I feel like a butterfly pinned to cardboard, and I try to smile back. There is something familiar about him, but I can’t quite place why. Maybe I do read the newspaper. He’s certainly easy on the eyes; he’s wearing a gray Armani suit with a blue shirt and a black silk tie. But I think more than anything it’s his navy eyes that catch me off-guard. After all, what other explanation is there for the instant rush I’m feeling? Besides, he has wavy dark blond hair, and I like men with dark hair, don’t I? He’s definitely tall and I like tall but—
    He’s holding out his hand so I switch the briefcase to my left hand and hold out my right for the shake. He laughs for a second before shaking my hand. He has a nice grip. Why is he laughing at me? Then he leans toward me and whispers, “Can I have my briefcase?”
    Oh God. “Of course,” I say, handing him the briefcase. “Your other laptop bit the dust huh?” I say nervously.
    He looks at me for a second and then gestures to an empty chair in front. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he says smiling.
    I nod and quickly take my seat. I’m still holding the stack of questions from the audience. I don’t know whether I should give them to him now or not. He’s busy setting up the laptop, and Steve Landon has already left the stage, so I just keep them in my lap. As the laptop is opened, Greg glances to the side of the room and I follow his gaze over to a cameraman standing in the corner setting up a tripod. This must have something to do with the commentator position Margaret mentioned Greg Parks was going after. Sure enough, when the cameraman turns around I note he’s wearing a blue badge reading Side Court TV .
    â€œThanks for bearing with us, ladies and gentlemen. This