Wikipedia…Google…none of the usual suspects yielded any information about “The Wycliff Fellowship.” Searching for Wycliff alone yielded nothing relevant. The foundation, its sprawling parent corporation, and the shadowy family that had created the entire empire proved invisible. Bobbi fought down the pang of unease tingling along her body and tried that urban legends site, just in case it was a known scam. Nothing came up there either.
“Maybe that first check-in with the board will clear it all up,” Bobbi muttered. Her attention turned to the packet that had come with the announcement. The dean had mentioned “details in the fine print.” So far, she had only skimmed the materials, hoping to find a clue as to how she had ever come to be awarded this obscure prize. This survey had only underscored the dean’s summary, which stated she was obliged to produce a public product, such as a piece of sculpture, in exchange for funding and work-release time to pursue the project in any way she saw fit. The amount was beyond generous.
“The fine print” proved daunting. Bobbi snatched up the loupe she used to inspect the details of her students’ work and applied it to the tiny type. Therein she found only a brief history of the Wycliff Foundation, a charitable organization funded by “responsible investment” and motivated by “the greater good.”
The clearing of a throat startled her. Bobbi turned to find a man in a silky suit with an artistic, museum-themed tie approaching. She noticed the hand just pulling away from his mouth bore neatly manicured nails and that he wore a platinum watch. She caught a faint scent of spicy musk from him, even over the stronger, more familiar scents of the graphic arts lab.
“Are you Barbara Kamil?” he asked.
“Yes. Do I know you?”
“You may. I am Guillaume Sackett. I manage the Shoals Court complex. I am also the local representative of the Wycliff Foundation’s board of directors. I chair the board of overseers for the Wycliff Fellowship program.”
“Yes, now that you mention it, I have seen you around the Court.”
As Guillaume held out his hand, Bobbi approached him to shake on their new re-acquaintance. The grip of his wide palm was strong. He turned her hand and kissed it, planting it into the palm of his other hand afterwards. He ignored her gentle attempt to retrieve her hand.
“Welcome to our family, Ms. Kamil,” he purred. “Should you want for anything, call me, day or night.”
As Guillaume dug in his pocket with one hand, he twisted the other to keep Bobbi’s hand in check. The moment crawled by for her until he retrieved the business card and placed it in her hand, releasing her at the end.
“I shall call on you more formally as you proceed,” Guillaume said.
Bobbi glanced at the card, her heart hammering. He had neatly penned in his personal cell phone number and underlined it. He winked as he turned away.
