One of Mrs. Acklen’s assistants appeared in the waiting room. “Miss Brenda is ready to see you,” she said, and Preston immediately stood, took one last look at the painting to his left, the colors deeper than bloodstains, and followed her into something of which he could not, having tried many times, anticipate the outcome.
There was no art in the room, no sign of papers or office supplies, no evidence that the room was even used on a daily basis. The only furniture in Mrs. Acklen’s office was a desk with a chair on either side, one of which was currently occupied by that very woman. Though she was in her eighties, she seemed much younger, her body lean and suggesting a lifetime of good choices and moderate exercise. She wore a faded pair of red khakis and a chambray shirt with a blue-and-white bandanna tied around her neck, as if she were a cowboy in the old west. In one hand, she held a glass tumbler of what looked to be iced tea and, in the other, she held a copy of Dr. Grind’s book, The Artificial Village.
“Dr. Grind,” she said, not standing, no available hand to offer for a handshake, “I am so happy to finally meet you.”
Preston replied that he was happy to meet her as well and then awkwardly sat down in the unoccupied chair and tried very hard to understand what was going on and why he had agreed in the first place to meet with her. Did he think she was going to give him a billion dollars? He did not need a billion dollars. But why else would he be here? He decided that it was simple curiosity, the hope that someone important might need his expertise. It was, after all, what he spent his life doing, offering his expertise to people who seemed to desire it. It was how he made his living, not a billion dollars, but enough that he considered himself to be fairly rich.
“I have read and reread this wonderful book of yours,” she said, holding the book out to him as if she were unsure whether he was aware that he had written a book at all. “It is so enlightening and really gets to the heart of something that I care about very deeply.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Acklen,” Preston replied. “It’s very gratifying to hear that.”
“I wondered, if it’s not too much trouble, if you might sign it for me?” she asked him.
Suddenly, it dawned on Preston that this might be the entire reason that he was summoned to Knoxville. A billionaire wanted her book signed. “I can do that, Mrs. Acklen,” he said.
“Let me get you a pen,” she said, opening the desk drawer and then frowning. “There’s no pen in here. Well, damn it. They keep this office for me if I ever have official business, though I rarely do, but, still, someone is supposed to keep the desk stocked with supplies. Samantha!” The assistant stepped back into the room. “Yes, ma’am?” she asked.
“I need a pen.”
The assistant was holding a pen, though she seemed slightly reluctant to part with it, and handed it to Mrs. Acklen, who then handed it, and the book, to Preston. With no precise idea of how to personalize the book, he merely signed it and wrote “with warm regards” and then handed the book to Mrs. Acklen and the pen to her assistant, who took it and then disappeared from the room.
Preston and Mrs. Acklen sat for a few seconds in silence, both of them smiling, the air-conditioning rattling softly. Finally, Mrs. Acklen leaned over the desk, looking directly at Preston. “I imagine you’re a little confused as to why I asked to meet you,” she said and then nodded as if there was no need for him to respond because she already knew the answer. Still, Preston could not help but nod in agreement. “I was wondering what the main objective might be,” he admitted, “but of course it’s also an honor to meet you.”
“Nothing special about me,” she said. “But you . . . you are something else. After I read your book, a little later than everyone else did, I admit, I knew that you were someone who had designs on improving the world, of doing something important. And, in my old age, doing something important really appeals to me.”