Page 22 of Buttons

“It smells funny,” Meredith announces as we approach the entrance, her hand firmly in mine.

Leo trails behind us. “Will the animals be in cages?”

“Some of them, probably,” I answer honestly. “The workers can’t have them roaming around.”

“Will there be bears and lions?”

I laugh. “No.”

The metal door squeaks as I pull it open. Inside, the shelter smells of bleach layered with the unmistakable scent of animals. To our right is a wall of metal cages holding various cats. To our left is a hallway that, based on the sound of barking, leads to the dog kennels.

Directly ahead of us stands a counter, and behind it sits a woman who appears to be in her late fifties, early sixties. Her white hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, and her face has the weathered look of someone who spends hours outside every day. She doesn’t glance up when we enter, as she’s busy writing on some sort of ledger on the counter.

We approach the counter, and still, she doesn’t acknowledge us, so I clear my throat. Not to be rude, but because, given her age, I wonder if maybe she didn’t hear us come in.

“We don’t have any room for surrenders today,” she says, still without looking up. “Intake is on Tuesdays and Thursdays only.”

Briefly, I check behind me, wondering if a dog followed us in and the woman thinks we’re placing it for adoption.

Nope, it’s just me and my children.

“Actually, we’re not here to surrender an animal,” I reply. “We’re here to help.”

This gets her attention. She raises her head, eyes narrowed as she assesses us. Her gaze is something I personally recognize. It’s the same one I used when screening Julian’s potential clients, separating those with genuine business from those just looking for a connection to his influence.

“I’m Elowen Pl—” I stop and correct myself. “Elowen Fallinger. These are my children, Meredith and Leo.”

“Beatrix Hale,” she responds, offering nothing more. Her eyes flick from me to the children and back. “Help how, exactly? We’re not a petting zoo, and I don’t have time to supervise a cute little photo op with the animals for your social media followers.”

Ouch. The assumption stings, but I don’t flinch.

“Actually, I was thinking more about administrative help,” I say, my voice steady. “I noticed your website hasn’t been updated, and your donation system is manual only. You only accept check or mail-order cash, rather than digital payment options.”

“That’s correct.”

“I spent ten years as an executive secretary and office manager. Organization is what I do best. So I brought my children to see the animals, maybe feed them and clean their cages while I supervise, of course, and then offer my expertise.”

Beatrix’s expression remains skeptical.

“For example,” I continue, gesturing to the paper ledger in front of her, “I could digitize your record-keeping system by setting up spreadsheets that automatically calculate your monthly intake and costs. I’d also create an email prompt that sends an automatic thank-you from our web-based payment services.”

“And what would you get out of this?” Beatrix asks, arms crossing over her chest.

The question catches me off guard. What am I looking for? It’s not like the animal shelter can match the salary I got as Julian’s executive assistant—though I do know Julian will pay child support and alimony if I ask, which I will.

“To show my children what matters,” I answer simply. “A way to use my skills for something I can be proud of.”

Meredith tugs at my hand. “I want to see the kitties, Mommy.”

“In a minute, sweetie,” I say, not breaking eye contact with Beatrix. “I’m also thinking about your grant applications. When was the last time you applied for county funding?”

Her brows rise slightly. “How do you know about that?”

“The financial firm I worked at donated to charities on a quarterly basis. I know the basics. The county offers matching grants to animal welfare organizations, but you have to have proper documentation and financial records. I could help get organized with that, too.”

“Bold of you to assume we haven’t applied already.”

Shoot. “I shouldn’t have assumed. I’m sorry.”