6) The Muse of Portland

Le Ciel revolved so slowly it almost seemed to not move at all. Yet presently you noticed that the river, once to your left, was now drifting lazily behind you.

Prescott ordered a bottle of wine that cost more than some people's rent. Spi ordered iced tea and they both had fresh brioche, a crisp salad and lobster for lunch.

"Three thousand dollars," Prescott said, swirling his glass. "That's what I gave you. It's not enough."

"It's plenty," Spi responded with a twinkle in her eye.

"No." He set down the glass. "You saved my company today. Not because you knew spreadsheets or A/V. Because you walked in like you belonged there. Your presence commanded the room and had them all eating out of your hand like I've never seen before. I've hired hundreds of people, and not a single one could do that."

Spi looked out the window. The river curved through the city, sunlight skipping off its surface. To the east, Mount Hood floated above the skyline like a sleeping giant. Bridges stitched the city together. "Where I come from," she said slowly, "we understand that who you believe you are becomes what you experience. If you believe you're helpless, you are. If you believe you're a person who solves problems, you do."

Prescott leaned back. "That sounds like confidence."

"It's deeper than confidence. Confidence can be faked." She turned to face him. "I'm talking about identity. You are what you know you are. Not hope. Not wish. Know."

He was quiet for a long moment. The restaurant silently rotated a degree. A barge chugged down the river below.

"I don't understand you," he admitted. "But I know I need you. Not as a temp. Not as an admin." He searched for the word. "I need a... I don't know. A muse. Someone who inspires. Who brings people together. Who solves things before they break."

Spi smiled. "That's a lovely job description."

"Can you do that for me? Consult. No set hours. No office. Just... be around. Let me call you when I'm stuck. Let me introduce you to people who need what you have."

She considered. The river glittered. The city hummed below.

"Yes," she said. "But not for money. I already have three thousand dollars."

Prescott laughed. "Then what?"

"Connections. You know people. I need to meet them. Not for business. For something larger." She didn't explain. She didn't have to.

He nodded slowly. "Deal."

Spi sipped her buttered coffee. "There is one small thing. I just got into town and I don't have a place to stay."

Prescott waved his hand like it was nothing. "My son and his new wife are on a month-long honeymoon. Their apartment is sitting empty. It's on the river side of town, top floor, in the city. You can have it until they're back."

"Perfect! Thank you, Mr. Prescott."

"Call me Richard."

They rose from the table. Spi paused at the window one last time. The city of Portland spread out below her, river cutting through it like a silver thread. Somewhere down there, people were worrying, rushing, forgetting who they really were.

She was here to remind them.

Identity = life, she thought. And mine is just getting started.