Page 87 of Trust Fund Baby

I managed a smile, the weight of their hope pressing into me like stone. “Not just come. You’ll be the very first in line. Matter of fact, I want you all here the first night we offer a dinner. We’ll seat as many people as we can but there will have to be a limit, and I plan to do a rolling sign-up. But I want to make sure you get the first tasting. Just speak to any of the volunteers when you get here. They’ll make sure you go to the front of the line.”

The boy’s eyes widened, his grin stretching ear to ear. He tugged at his mother’s sleeve like I’d just promised him a trip to Disneyland. She blinked fast, fighting to hold her composure, and murmured a “thank you” before steering them out the door, her voice thick with gratitude I wasn’t sure I deserved.

God knew I was far from a saint.

I stayed there a long moment after they left, crouched down on the dusty concrete floor, staring at the space that would soon become something real. Something that mattered to people.

This was something I got to be a part of. This wasn’t about my family name. It wasn’t about the societal circles that I’d grown up in. Despite hating the idea of having to attend a glittering gala where my father’s colleagues would clap me on the shoulder for being a “responsible young man,” I would manage for the evening because the result of it would benefit many other families like the one I just spoke to.

That gala wasn’t about me. It was about a mother whose shoulders sagged under the weight of needing to choose between food and rent.

And for the first time in my life, I felt like I knew exactly why I was here.

I stood, brushing the dust from my jeans, and walked the length of the space. The kitchen gleamed under fluorescent light—steel counters, new ovens, walk-in fridges. A place where meals could be cooked not just to fill stomachs, but to remind people that community still mattered.

“Mr. Whittaker?”

The foreperson jogged over, holding a clipboard. “We’re a week ahead of schedule. With any luck, we’ll be ready for the health inspection in plenty of time.”

“That’s great news. Keep me updated,” I told him, then shoved my hands into my coat pockets and slipped outside.

The late winter sun was blinding off the glass windows, the city roaring alive around me. And just like it always did, the chaos sharpened me, providing me clarity.

I pulled out my phone before I could second-guess it. Hallie answered on the third ring.

“You bailed on me this morning,” she said instead of a hello. “Do you know how many calls I had to make to find a good florist? And all I needed was your approval.”

“Book her,” I said simply.

Silence. Then, “I’m sorry?”

“Book her. Book whoever you need to. Just make it good. Make it big. I want it to be the event of the season, and I want it splashed all over the societal papers when it’s done. We’re about to bring back the Gilded Age with this one.”

Another beat of silence. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I have one favor to ask of you though,” I said.

“Anything,” Hallie replied instantly.

“I want you and Roxie to feature the food bank on your website. The restaurant too.”

Silence met me for a third time. This time, as I waited for her response, a prickly sensation crawled across my skin.

“Okay, but I’m not sure how I’m going to get Roxie on board …”

“Don’t tell her I asked,” I told her quickly. “Just let the place speak for itself. She doesn’t need to know. I don’t want her to see it because it’s mine. I want her to see it because I know she’ll love it.”

I stared back at the bold black letters being drilled into the front of the building. I knew exactly why I’d show up at that gala in a tux, smile plastered in place, shaking hands until I couldn’t feel my fingers.

For the people who would walk through those doors and never have to wonder when the next time they’d eat again would be.

And maybe it was also for the girl who once dreamed bigger than anyone I’d ever known and inspired me to do the same. The one I couldn’t stop wishing was here to see it with me.

Subject: I’ve Done It, Rox

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]