Page 45 of Buttons

“The Trixie J Foundation doesn’t fund startups. You need an established track record and corporate sponsorships.”

“They do fund startups through their innovation partnership program if the initiative is connected to an existing organization with at least five years of operation.” I tap the relevant section of the grant guidelines.

“You’ve done your homework.”

It’s not quite praise, but it’s not a dismissal, either. I continue, warming to my subject. “The grant would cover renovation and up-front costs. Adoption fees, donations, and merchandise sales would fund everything moving forward. And with plenty of time until the sponsorships are due, I’m confident I can use my connections to secure them.”

“Wait…did you say merchandise?” Her brow somehow arches higher. I swear, she must have practiced it in the mirror.

“T-shirts, tote bags, stickers, coffee mugs with rescued cats’ photos. People love supporting animal causes that come with perks.” I speak with confidence. “I’ve projected revenue streams based on current donation patterns and comparable sanctuaries in similar-sized communities.”

Beatrix carefully sets the tablet down on her cluttered desk. “All of this is impressive, but you’ve been here all of two minutes. Most volunteers are still figuring out where we keep the litter scoops at that point. Why you?”

“Because there’s a community gap, and I have the skills to make this happen.”

I think of Leo, sitting cross-legged outside a kennel, reading patiently to a frightened kitten. I think of Meredith, fearlessly approaching the largest dogs with complete confidence they’ll recognize her good intentions. I think of my own hands, once manicured and adorned with a wedding ring that marked me as someone’s possession, now callused from building scratching posts and non-stop writing.

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” I finish quietly.

Beatrix studies me a moment longer, then gives me a ghost of a smile. “Show me the budget projection again.”

I swipe back to the spreadsheet, hiding my relief. For the next twenty minutes, we go through my proposal line by line. This shelter is her life’s work, and she won’t risk it on someone’s half-baked idea. But my idea isn’t half-baked; it’s researched, calculated, vetted against comparable programs in other cities. For every question she raises, I either have an answer ready, or it’s something I’m able to think critically about to find a solution.

“The vet costs alone would sink us,” she argues, pointing to a line item.

“I’ve already spoken with Dr. Waffle at the Tacoma Animal Hospital. She’s willing to provide discounted services if we commit to a certain volume. And her new associate is interested in volunteering one Saturday a month.”

“And who exactly would run this sanctuary day-to-day? You?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. I’ve been careful not to position myself as the leader of this initiative, knowing it might appear as a new volunteer swooping in with grand plans to take over.

“That would be your decision,” I say carefully. “I’m happy to help develop the proposal and assist with implementation, but ultimately, the sanctuary would be part of your organization.”

She makes a noncommittal noise and continues reviewing the numbers. I sit quietly, letting her process. Finally, Beatrix sets the tablet down and looks at me directly. “This isn’t the worst idea I’ve heard,” she says, which, from her, is praise. “But it’s a long shot. Grants like this are competitive.”

“I know.”

“Fine. Draft the full proposal. We’ll see what you come up with.”

It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. “I’ll have the proposal ready soon,” I say, already mapping out the hours after the children’s bedtime when I can work uninterrupted. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

Beatrix waves away my gratitude with an impatient hand. “Don’t thank me yet.”

Beatrix’s office door bangs open with enough force to make us both jump. Sarah stands in the doorway, her expression a theatrical mask of disgust. In her arms she carries an enormous flower arrangement of roses, wildflowers, lilies, orchids, and other blooms I can’t immediately identify.

“Special delivery,” she announces, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “for ElowenPlaza.” She emphasizes my married name like it’s a swear word. “From your husband.”

The flowers are undoubtedly exquisite—Julian has impeccable taste, and that flows into grand gestures—but Sarah holds them like she’s carrying radioactive waste. Without waiting for my reaction, Sarah marches to the trash bin near Beatrix’s desk and upends the entire arrangement. Flowers and water tumble into the bin with a wet crash.

Beatrix gasps, looking from Sarah to me, then back to Sarah, clearly waiting for an explanation that neither of us offers.

“Oh, wow, Sarah,” I say, glancing into the trash bin from my chair. “Thank you for delivering them to me. They’re lovely.” I then give her a flat expression. I’m only half teasing; I love the lady.

“There’s a card,” Sarah continues, pulling a small envelope from her pocket. “Want me to read it? Or should I add it to the collection?” She gestures toward the trash bin.

“I’ll take it,” I say quietly.

Sarah slides the envelope onto the table, which I then slide into my purse at my feet. She then gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be in the intake room if you need me.”