Free A Window Opens: A Novel by Elisabeth Egan Page A

of interrogators would meet for a debrief, where they would compare notes and then vote me on or off the island. If one person objected, I would not be offered a spot on the team.
    It was surreal to try to come up with business-appropriate examples of how I was a negotiator, a closer, a committer, and an experienced analyzer of data. My mind kept boomeranging to examples starring dog training (not many success stories there) and my kids. For instance, when Oliver was a ferocious toddler, Nicholas and I used to refer to him as the terrorist—as in, “We do not negotiate with terrorists.” And when I thought about data, it wasn’t in terms of Excel, which I’d never used, but in terms of weight and height charts from the pediatrician’s office, or the printout I examined with the orthodontist while he showed me, degree by degree, exactly how he would shift Margot’s teeth into submission.
    “Our mission is to reinvent reading the way Starbucks reinvented coffee,” said the Marketing Specialist, whose name I missed. Caleb? Ethan? Anyway, he was a bearded guy in his twenties, the doppelganger of every other bearded guy I passed in the minimalist hallway. “We’ve targeted the experience our customers will most value, and we’ll deliver it along with steep discounts, membership opportunities, and the chance to spend peaceful, uninterrupted time at the intersection of the past and the future.”
    I sighed reverently; the words peaceful and uninterrupted make me weak in the knees. Then I leaned forward in my seat—a white leather sling suspended from a chilly metal frame. “Can you talk a little bit more about that?Membership opportunities and the part about the intersection . . . ?”
    The Marketing Specialist nodded knowingly. “Of course—we just get so excited about this stuff, we forget our thought process isn’t really in the zeitgeist yet. Note, I said yet . Okay, so firstly, we’re crafting a membership model for frequent fliers. A flat monthly fee will net you four titles of your choice, one title we select for you via our ScrollOriginals series, and unlimited access to the SSR area.”
    “Sorry, SSR—?” Oh, how I wished I’d caught this guy’s name.
    “Alice, I just love your inquisitiveness.” The Marketing Specialist unbuttoned the cuffs of his denim cowboy shirt and rolled them up, one fold at a time, with the precision of a doctor scrubbing in for surgery. His forearms were slim and elegant like hairless cats. “SSR stands for sustained silent reading . These areas consist of leather armchairs reserved for our most serious readers. We’re talking waitress service, foot massages, complimentary biscotti, cup holders with mini hot plates to keep your coffee warm . . . oh, and unlimited gummy bears. Market research shows that Haribo gummies are the leading candy consumed by voracious readers.”
    I nodded vigorously, dumbfounded.
    “I’m sure you’ve logged time in the Virgin Atlantic Clubhouse when you travel?”
    “Of course.” I hadn’t, actually; I’m steerage, born and bred.
    “Then you’re familiar with our model for SSR. We want to deliver that first-class experience to our literary lounges.”
    “Wow. That sounds amazing.” It really did. Like Barnes & Noble superstores in their heyday but better. The gummy bears alone were reason enough to covet the job. “How much will the monthly membership cost?”
    His jaw tightened slightly. “We aren’t able to talk about pricing at this time.”
    “Oh, that’s fine, I was just curious. And wait, can we rewind for a minute?”
    He nodded his head warmly. (Was it Seth? Keith? I knew it wassomething gentle, the name of a kid my brother would have beaten up in grade school, when he was still known as Billy.) “Absolutely. How can I illuminate you?”
    “Can you explain the part about the intersection of the past and the—”
    “Future? Abso-fuckin’-lutely. As a lifelong booklover, I’m so stoked about this. Now, our