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“Do all you CPAs insist on being so logical all the time?”
* * *
At eight AMI sat in opulence outside Julia Thorpe’s office. The low-rise building Thorpe Holdings occupied in Midtown looked understated from the outside, but from where I sat it screamed old money.
The plush comfortable chair was no catalog office furniture buy. The rug under my feet was not from Carpet Outlet, but an antique Persian from the look of it. The wood paneling was no cheap wallboard.
And, the one art history class I’d taken had taught me enough to recognize the painting on the wall opposite me as Renoir or one of his students. The cracks in the old paint made it unlikely that it was a recent knock-off.
Horrors—what would the clients say if one displayed a reasonably priced facsimile instead the real thing outside one’s office?
Even now that the million dollars from Evan’s company had been deposited and allowed me to cross off my personal goal, I was still working through the list of potential donors I was responsible for. Anything less would be letting Chelsea down and I always followed through on my commitments.
Thorpe holdings made a minor contribution last year. When I’d called to make this appointment, I’d been horrified to learn that the man I’d dealt with last year, Phelps Winklemoss, had left the company, and nobody had replaced him.
The assistant who’d answered my call gave me the bad news that charitable giving was now under the Strategic Marketing umbrella. Then came the worse news. She informed me that the founder’s daughter who ran that department could fit me in for fifteen minutes as opposed to last year’s one hour.
None of this boded well, but here I was anyway. The children deserved no less than my best effort.
I checked my watch. Five minutes of my alloted fifteen had already passed and I was still waiting outside the office, staring up at a painting worth enough to take care of dozens of children. What a waste.
When I’d asked Evan before leaving this morning, if he knew anything about Julia Thorpe, he’d winced. “Ouch. She’s a ball buster. Don’t let her stare you down.”
Would I be able to get a repeat of last year’s contribution, or would Julia be more tight-fisted with the family’s money and send me off with a pat on the head mumbling something about next year?
The assistant’s phone dinged. She read the message and stood. “She’s ready for you now Miss Borelli.”
I entered the large office as the assistant held the door for me.
Julia stood and rounded her desk. She was everything I’d expected, fitting into the successful businesswoman stereotype. Early forties I guessed, in a conservative navy suit and hair pulled back in a chignon. A diamond tennis bracelet adorned the wrist of the hand she offered. Large diamond studs in her ears matched the short pendant around her neck.
I shook her hand with the firmness that Evan had made me practice with him. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Ms. Thorpe.”
She motioned to the guest chairs. “My pleasure, Alexa. Please have a seat, and it’s Julia. Ms. Thorpe is my mother.”
I answered with a light laugh. “Julia it is then.” I waited for her to re-seat herself behind the desk before sitting myself, another hint from Evan. “I know our time is short, so I’ll give you a quick overview of our charity.”
She nodded, and I went through the shortest version I could of how we started and our mission. All the while maintaining eye contact per Evan’s advice.
She nodded once when I finished. “That was an excellent summation, Alexa. I’m proud of you.”
Proud of me? All I could manage was a confused expression. “Uh, thank you.”
She waved her hand. “I thought I recognized your name after you called for an appointment so I looked you up. You wouldn’t have known it at the time but I was on the admissions committee when you applied. You had the most glowing recommendation letter and I’m glad we accepted you.”
I nodded along. She’d worked at Columbia?
“It’s men and women like you that add to our school’s reputation.”
I’d thought it had been my application essay that had made the difference, but instead, it had been one of my teacher’s recommendations—interesting, but off the point. Nervousness soured my stomach. This digression was using up what little time I had left with her and we hadn’t gotten to discussing a donation yet. “Thank you,” I repeated.
She checked her watch before I could say any more. “I have to run.”
My hopes died with her words. “Perhaps we could meet again before the month is out.”
She stood. “We've discussed your charity with someone whose judgment we trust.” She fetched a check from the drawer of her desk. “And we’d like to make a donation.”
Swallowing hard, I read the amount on the donation she handed me and almost fainted. “Thank you. This is very generous.” It was another one million dollar gift.
