Those who knew Iris and Steven Spencer said, almost unanimously, that he had the charm and she had the brains. Since they both had the looks, this made them a potentially dangerous combination. And Iris knew it. When a prospective client or benefactor was on the hook, almost ready to write the check but not quite, she'd call a meeting in her office. The visitor would be greeted warmly, practically regaled, ushered into the most comfortable chair in the building -- the one with the view of the manmade canyon -- and reeled in. She and her husband would sit together on the sofa, she in a tailored dress or pants, her long black hair down for the occasion, he in a nonthreatening suit, some color like olive. Steven usually did most of the talking at first, during the pleasantries, but the more matters turned to business the more it was Iris who set the tone, until in the end, however many checks were written with the thought, what an amazing guy, they were invariably handed to Iris without any thought at all.
Iris, in short, had a nose for business, which had allowed her to build her New Age spa and retreat into the biggest thing outside of Sedona. Yoga, meditation, herbalism, tantric sex tips, self-accupressure therapy -- you name it, they had it at Hidden Canyon. What they didn't have, though, was the room to develop. Iris knew that Hidden Canyon was about as big, and had about as wide a profit margin, as a single facility in its location could hope for; to keep growing, to really make their mark, they'd need to tap a different market. That's why today's guest in the corner office was a Mr. Monroe from United Amusements and Entertainment. But Mr. Monroe was proving hard to reel in.
"It's not that simple," he was saying. "The park isn't even going to be built unless that referendum passes, and turning it into a joint venture would be political suicide." He clasped his hands before him as he spoke. Iris recognized this as a way of channeling extraordinary stress upward, onto the presumably broad shoulders of some higher power. She was more than happy to step in and redirect the transaction.
"What makes you say that?" she asked.
"Because people in Johnston don't want to be dictated to. If we were ever to pull our proposal off the table and say wait, here's something better, that'd mean scrapping this fall's ballot and starting over. And if we passed the basic plan and tried to change it after the fact, they'd run us out on a rail."
"I think you miss our intent," said Iris.
"Yes," chimed Steven. "The Resort at SouthWestWorld is more of a dream -- a vision of the future -- than a concrete plan. We are trying to create the means to achieve that vision." He turned to Iris, smiled, and squeezed her hand.
"Look, Ms. Spencer, Mr. Spencer. As part of a company that sells dreams, as it were, I appreciate what it is you'd like to do. But it's just too late for you to get on board, and frankly, I have questions about how compatible the two questions are anyway." He looked back and forth between the two of them, finally settling his eyes on Iris with a sorry-I-can't-help-you smile. She'd used it on countless occasions herself.
Well, she thought, one must be direct with a fellow professional. "Here's all the compatibility you need, Mr. Monroe. They'd exist on adjacent tracts of land, they'd feed each other business. And neither will be built without the right kind of leadership."
"That's what I'm trying to do, Ms. Spencer. And we're working with a citizens' group that's proving to be very well organized. Why, the question wouldn't even be on the ballot without them."
"I know all about that hearing. It was quite an impressive show. But they haven't gotten what they want yet, have they? Ed Fontaine knows what he's doing. By putting it on the ballot, he gave his side a chance. And now wait and see what they do with the power of his office behind them. The only way to get things done in a town, ultimately, is to have the power on your side. And if the power won't cooperate, then you have to take it yourself."
Monroe raised his eyebrows. "And . . . you are proposing? . . ."
Iris unhooked herself from Steven and assumed a thoughtful pose. She clasped her hands in front of her, as Monroe had done earlier, except she extended her index fingers, side by side, and pointed them both at him.
"I am proposing that you work with us," she said firmly. "If you don't, you'll wish you had."
When Monroe had gone, she heaved a great sigh, rose from the sofa, and turned to look out on the canyon vista. "I hope you're ready for this, Steven," she said.
"Ready for what?" he asked, the charm already draining out of him. "It's a one-stoplight town. Even Ed's never seen anything like us . . . we come in, throw some cash around, and boom."
"Boom," said Iris, shaking her head. She just hoped it didn't blow up on them.
But in the week following their meeting, her confidence began to build. Through Steven's real estate connections, they quietly bought a small ranch on the edge of town; they placed huge orders with a printer in Flagstaff and a caterer in Prescott, paying double for pledges of secrecy; and they began consultations with a contact of Iris's, a former PR executive who'd helped manage their evolution from fat farm into "total holistic health center." Everything was falling into place.
The day after they closed on the ranch, Iris got a phone call. She was in the middle of a shiatsu session at the time (she happily partook of her own offerings) and inclined to duck whoever it was, but when her assistant told her "an associate of a Mr. Monroe," she waved off the masseuse, wrapped herself in a towel, and picked up the receiver.
"Iris Spencer," she said in her clearest, most serene voice -- the same voice they planned to use in their advertising.
"Ms. Spencer, my name is Mike Turner. I'm the head of a citizens' group that's working to ensure the construction of SouthWestWorld in Johnston."
"Yes, Mr. Turner. I've been following your group's work in the local media; I'm very impressed."
"Thank you. Anyway, I've been in touch with Buddy Monroe, and I gather you'd like to help our efforts somehow?"
Since this was a phone conversation, Iris allowed herself a big devilish grin. She'd like to help them, would she? "Well, I think there's a chance for us to work together," she said. "Would you be able to make a meeting next week? Tuesday afternoon, to be precise?"
"Tuesday, Tuesday . . . that should be fine. You'd like me to come up to Hidden Canyon?"
"No, we're going to be in town that day . . . you should drop down and see us. My husband and I will be at City Hall at two o'clock."
"City Hall?" She heard him chuckle. "I haven't made it a point to go down to City Hall lately. Do you have business there?"
"Yes. Important business. And I think you should know about it."
"Does it concern the park, then?"
"I'd prefer to leave the details for then. . . ." She secured a promise, shook her head once more at Turner's sense of proportions, and called the masseuse back into her office.
Tuesday morning Iris took a while to get ready, searching for a look between businesslike and alluring. It infuriated her, the balance women in public life were expected to strike: one step too far one way and you'd be branded frumpy, the other and you'd be called a slut. For men, the two qualities were considered allied rather than opposite, and dealing with them was considered synergy rather than balance. How else could candidates for any office up to and including president strive for sex appeal without losing an ounce of gravitas? "I suppose it's a good thing it's Steven," she muttered, to no one in particular. "All he needs to do is pick a tie." Eventually, she settled on a bright red dress, cut just above the knee, and let her freshly hennaed hair spill over her shoulders. She gazed at herself in the mirror -- perfect, right on that razor's edge; looked at her watch -- time for one last-minute check on preparations; and went to round up Steven.
"You've got your speech down?" she asked on the ride over.
"I've got it. Sweet and simple."
"It's all right to refer to a text, you know. As long as you don't stay buried in it."
"But I've got it down, Iris."
"Because there'll be a big media presence."
"Then I'll bring the damn text with me, all right? Stop your damn worrying, I know what I'm doing."
"Yes, dear, you do. But you're not doing the heavy lifting, hmm?" Still, he was right, in a way: once'd they'd pulled up to the curb, once they'd gotten out and shaken hands and pointed with glee at the banners she'd arranged to have hung, there was no more coaching, it was in his hands. And if there had to be a splitting of roles, it was better that Steven be the one taking the bows. After all, charm has its purposes.
They arrived amidst a small sea of microphones and mini-cams, reporters with notebooks and supporters bused in from the resort and onlookers cheering for no reason other than the free Mexican food they'd been chowing on for the past hour. Steven went first, grabbing as many hands as he could, making just enough eye contact, all the while heading straight toward the podium they'd set up at the foot of the City Hall steps. Iris followed, waving and smiling, filling with a kind of giddiness she'd never known before. This venture -- the means to an end, the end being the enhancement of her business -- was just starting, and already it was taking on a life of its own. She took her place beside Steven as he began to speak:
"Friends, distinguished guests, concerned citizens -- I stand before you today as someone who has been, up till now, a neighbor. A good neighbor, I hope, but that is yours to judge. Certainly, as of late, a concerned neighbor. You may know my wife, Iris, and I as . . . " But Iris knew the speech by heart, having written it herself, and her attention drifted to how the scene was playing out. She looked all around: the cameras and lights were well positioned, centered and slightly below them; the banners and placards, in sand and blue to echo the desert, were well distributed; and behind them, at the top of the steps, Ed Fontaine and his staff had gathered to watch and listen. Perfect, she thought; the old and the new. Meanwhile, Steven was coming to the heart of the brief speech.
"That is why I am proposing to establish residence in Johnston and run for mayor," he said. "On a pro-growth platform. It is not just a matter of building this park, though the park is important: it is a matter of choosing between the past and the future. The past, though it might sustain our hearts, cannot sustain our lives here. Only by embracing the future -- by embracing change and growth -- can we ensure that there is a life worth having here. And so, Mr. Mayor" -- he turned around, with a dramatic sweep of his arm, and conveniently ended up gesturing straight toward Fontaine -- "I engage you in a debate that will be about not just who occupies your office, but how that office will be used to move the town." He turned back and looked straight into the cameras. "This election will be about whether we cling to the past, or face the future with confidence and hope. I look forward to answering this question along with you, and I thank you for being here today." With that, he took Iris's hand and raised their arms together, then waved and led her off the podium to a burst of applause.
Superb, she thought, just superb; I knew there was a reason I married him besides sex. She waded into the crowd, beaming, answering reporters' questions about her role in the campaign ("supportive") and any financial interest in the park ("none whatsoever," which was technically true), thinking about being in the same position, triumphant, on election night . . .
"Ms. Spencer!" Iris turned to face a stocky gray-haired man who was trying to push his way forward. She tensed momentarily, wondering what he wanted, but then saw that he couldn't get through anyway. "I'm Mike Turner," he called out. "We spoke on the phone?"
"Mr. Turner," she called back. "So good of you to come out."
"Ms. Spencer," he shouted, "we have to talk," and he didn't sound happy.
"Yes," she replied, "I'll have my assistant set something up," and she turned back to the pack of reporters, radiant again. This moment was much too sweet to interrupt.