“So, I’d fuck the girl you’re obsessed with or the one I think you’re obsessed with. I’d be interested in finding out if you’re jealous of her or of me.” I waited for a comment or a reaction. But Bonita gave me no reaction, no indication of what she was thinking. Typical Bonita.
“And who would you marry? Who would you kill?”
“Well, I definitely wouldn’t marry the girl in the center. She looks like she’d be trouble.”
“Hmm, how so?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. She looks a bit uptight; don’t you think? Like she’s always conscious of the rules and the societal norms.”
Bonita nodded. “Yeah, I see it, too.”
“Definitely not the kind of girl you’d be fascinated with,” I added, very sure of myself. “So, I guess I’d kill her and marry the girl on the right.”
Bonita swiveled in her chair and threw her arms in the air. “Congratulations! You’re a billionaire.”
Surprised, I pointed at the girl. “She’s a billionaire?”
“Well, she is now. That picture’s at least ten years old.”
“Hmm. I take it she’s the one you’re obsessed with then.”
Bonita nodded. “Yep. Sasha Snow.”
“That’s Sasha Snow?”
I’d first heard of Sasha Snow only two days ago. Her son, Tanner, had interned at my father’s law firm last summer, though I’d only met him once and didn’t suspect he was the son of a billionaire. Greta happened to ask me about him out of the blue: “Does Sasha Snow’s son, Tanner, still work at your father’s firm?” I didn’t know the answer and didn’t know why she would ask. But now I was beginning to suspect that her question wasn’t so “out of the blue.” Greta could be sly, and now I was beginning to put the pieces together, though I still didn’t have a clear idea of the picture.
“You know her?” Bonita asked.
I nodded. “I know about her, in a way.”
Bonita took my hands in hers. She squeezed tight and looked up at me with wide eyes filled with excitement. “Imagine, I follow up my documentary about living with a deadly sun allergy by doing a documentary about a woman who has figured out best how to harness the power of the sun and thrives on it.”
She framed a marquee in the air.
“The sun: one woman’s curse, another woman’s treasure.” She shrugged. “I don’t have the name yet, just spit-balling.”
Her excitement was infectious, and her idea was quite compelling, too. I told her as much.
“Greta thinks I should send her my film, tell her I want to make one about her, ask for an interview.”
“Yeah, you should definitely do that.”
“Problem is,”—she let go of my hands and turned from me back to the screen—“she’s a very private person. She doesn’t give interviews and contacting her is pretty much impossible.”
I rubbed my chin, mind going a mile a minute. “Yes, that is a problem.”
She turned to me again. This time her expression held something of mischief. “Do you have any ideas of how I can reach her, show her my film, and pitch her my idea?”
I smiled. The picture was starting to come together. Either she had done a tremendous amount of research and managed to find the thin threads that loosely connected Sasha to my father, or she was just taking a stab in the dark. Knowing Bonita and seeing the mischief in her eyes, I suspected it was probably the former.
I nodded. “I think I might have an idea.”
Sasha Snow, who stood for clean, renewable energy, inexpensive and accessible, was pretty much the antithesis of Angelica Fay, CEO of Fay Energy, Sasha Snow’s leading competitor: a biofuel company not at all reputed to be clean, inexpensive, or accessible.
Sasha Snow had outbid Angelica Fay for a multi-million-dollar contract with the state of New York. However, when allegations surfaced of bribes and kickbacks, the contract was nullified and awarded to Angelica Fay.
Eventually, the allegations proved to be unfounded. Allegedly Angelica Fay had been the one to start those allegations, not only with libel but with potentially forged documents and a few counts of perjury added to the cocktail.
My father was one of several lawyers Sasha Snow hired to right the wrong that had been done to her. He did have access to her, in a way. Not only had her son interned at his firm, but my father had spoken on the phone with Sasha on a few occasions. I was skeptical that that would be enough to get her to read a letter from Bonita and possibly watch her fifteen-minute film. I was even less optimistic that my father would agree to send her these materials.
I should not have doubted my father. He knew how much Bonita meant to me, and he’d never been one to put work before family. Not only did he send Sasha the documentary and Bonita’s hand-written letter with a request for an interview, but he spoke with her personally about Bonita and her project.