AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“And it was mutual at one time, I’m guessing, although she tried to hide it. Now she’s got some frost on her feathers when it comes to you.”
I’d hired Diane because with a master’s degree in behavioral psychology, and trained by the FBI in suspect observation, she saw ten times more than the average person when it came to body language. Unfortunately, she also read me all too well, so I gave in. “Once upon a time, yes. But we were kids.”
“What happened to cool her off? Was it you?”
“Her family went broke, like sell the houses, the cars, everything broke.”
Diane nodded. “That sounds rough.”
“Her father blamed it on my dad pulling out of a real estate deal. Dad predicted the Evergreen project would run into delays and fail. It did, and her father was so overextended he couldn’t recover. He lost everything to the banks.”
“Let me guess. Sins of the father fall to the son?” Diane continued. “Her entire family hates your entire family because of that.”
“Bingo.”
Alexa’s father had poisoned her against me, but that was, as they say, water under the bridge at this point.
“Are you going to make the normal call in spite of the family history?”
I nodded. “Don’t I always?” It was a constant in my routine to make a follow-up call after a meeting to thank the person for his or her time. The gesture was small, but the worthwhile in the long run to aid future negotiations.
“I think she’d like that. I’ll leave you to it then,” she said, looking over the railing. “Just be careful out here, boss.”
“Thanks.” I pulled out my phone, but then put it back. It was too soon to call.
* * *
Alexa
After finishingup at Bear Foster, my brain immediately shifted to remind me it was time to get back to my day job—or as it was today, my night job. An accountant’s work was a constant treadmill of activity. As soon as one month or quarter or year had been completed, summarized, and analyzed, the calendar ticked over to the next one. I started the walk back to the subway as the meeting I’d just finished replayed in my mind.
I’d met with three of their people, which was a little bit unusual and scary because I knew only too well that it took just one skeptic to scuttle a meeting. That’s when “we’ll get back to you” resulted in a follow-up phone call or the answer was no.
They had been very kind and understanding about my request that sponsoring a table at our gala was preferable to a cash donation, and they had committed to one.
This brought my total to three for the week, and Three Sisters another table closer to being able to keep our gala venue this year. Having to downscale from using the Sanders Hotel only one year after selecting them would be a blow—particularly since we’d moved to them after failing to fill the Roosevelt. The mere thought of it made me cringe and squeeze my eyes closed. It would be devastating to the fund.
I pulled out the phone I’d turned off in the meeting and held the side button to turn it back on. I’d once had a potential donor get annoyed when the phone I’d put on silent kept vibrating in my purse. He’d felt it rude and had cut our meeting short. Since then, my phone was always off while talking with donors.
The voicemail that appeared as the phone powered on rattled me when I listened to it.
“Hi, Alexa,” Evan’s voice began. “I wanted to thank you for coming in today…”
I paused the message. It was hard to listen to his voice and not picture our past and what his father had done to us. I pressed play again.
“I look forward to seeing you again soon. How about Friday to have further discussions about a cash gift to your cause?” After a long pause, he added, “It was really good seeing you again… And, take care.”
The recording ended, and I pulled the phone from my ear. His mention of a cash gift was as clear as it got, and it overrode our past. My finger hovered over the replay button. I wanted to be certain I’d heard him correctly.
I didn’t get the chance.
Staggering back from the blow, my phone fell to the ground. Heat scorched my other hand.
“Hey. Watch where the fuck you’re going,” the guy yelled, as only a New Yorker could.
“Sorry,” I said—an automatic reaction.
A crushed cup lay on the ground between us. He wore most of the brown liquid on his dirty coat. Some had gotten on my sleeve and hand, scalding me.
