Chapter seven
Antonia
“Of all the days for Julian to be sick…” I mutter.
Clara pours dark, strong coffee into my mug, the one I was given by my ex-husband for my eighteenth birthday. It’s cracked and worn but still intact. Most things don’t survive that long. She pulls a small silver hip flask from her pocket, unscrews the top, and pours in a generous blob.
“Liquid interest,” she says with a giggle. “Next pitcher is ready when you are.”
“Give me five minutes, please.”
The last person had to be escorted out sobbing after barely telling me the charitable cause they were pitching for. She’d fallen in a heap on the floor, tights ripped, body heaving. I told Julian to find causes with heart, but I need someone who can actually operate in day-to-day life. Local can’t mean haphazard, grief can’t be worn as a badge.
I don’t display mine.
I use it.
Every day since I lost him.
That’s the whole reason Opengate exists.
I don’t fund instability. Emotion without structure collapses. I won’t take that risk for my company.
“I’ve a good feeling about the next one,” Clara whispers. She cocks her head to one side. “He’s different.”
“Different how?” That could mean so many damn things. I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever it is skips into my office, playing a banjo, wanting funding to take abandoned dogs to Mars. That is how successful today’s search has been so far—completely ludicrous.
She shrugs. “He didn’t ask about media coverage.”
“So, he’s just after my money.”
“Re-read the proposal." She slides it from the pile on my desk. "I’ll give you five minutes, then send him in.”
She doesn’t wait for my approval. Clara turns and walks out, closing the door behind her softly.
Bex Corrigan-Jones Retreat Center.
A place of escape for families battling the unknown.
The proposal is slick, professional, and to the point. Whoever wrote it isn’t here to sell themselves; they’ve put together an overview of what they want to do, what they have in place, and what they need to execute it. Again, there’s no mention of media. No hook about what’s in it for us. Which is quite refreshing.
Most others have mentioned a father’s, friend’s, second-cousin removed, who works at some obscure radio station or TV studio. How linking with them could boost our profile. This exercise isn’t about that. Sure, improved public perception would be good, especially in the current circumstances, but this will pass.
Most people need us more than we need them. People always fall ill. Medical supply lines always collapse. That’s where we excel.
I don’t need someone with media connections. I need someone to control the narrative about what we’re involved with. Paint a picture that Opengate cares. And I do. I always have.
As I read on, it turns out the proposer is the husband of the lady the center is named after. He’s an oncologist who lost his wife after a long battle with cancer. Through his work, he’s seen the impact cancer diagnosis has on families, as well as experiencing it himself. I’m moving on to the numbers when there’s a knock at my door.
I straighten the files, smooth my jacket, and decide to hear him out.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and Clara struts in first. Chin up and chest full. She’s smiling, almost bordering on a schoolgirl, when he steps in behind her. I rise and step out from behind my desk, hand outstretched. He takes it and shakes firmly.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he says, tone professional. “I’m Dr. Ben Jones.”
“Lovely to meet you, Doctor.”