“Please, call me Ben.”
Clara scuttles past, taking a seat beside my desk. She hasn’t done that for any other pitch. It’s then I notice the notebook and pen poised in her hands. She’s planning on staying.
“Please take a seat,” I say, signaling to the leather chair opposite. “Clara, coffee?”
She blows out through her nose, then moves over to the coffee machine. Ben lowers himself into the chair, polite but relaxed. He’s dressed well in a simple white shirt and dark suit that fitsbetter than it should. Nothing over the top, just professional. I shouldn’t be paying attention to that. It’s not relevant.
“Coffee, Ben?” Clara practically sings. His bright-blue eyes slide over his shoulder to her, and he smiles. Her cheeks pinken.
I sigh internally. Pretty eyes don’t equal a good work ethic, and that’s what I’m interested in.
“Please. Black, no sugar.”
I take my own seat as Clara bustles about, clinking mugs with a spoon. Once she’s delivered everyone’s drink and readied herself with her notepad, I begin. Or think I will until he beats me to it.
“As I said, thank you for taking the time to meet me.” He twists the band on his ring finger. I don’t do widowers. They can be emotional, unpredictable, and a liability, from my experience in both hiring and limited dating. “The retreat is a new but positive project.”
“Positive is an interesting choice of words,” I remark, tone dry. “Most people lead with exciting…”
He smirks. “There’s not much exciting about terminal illness. It’s exhausting, terrifying, and barbaric. This isn’t about excitement, it’s about finding a glimpse of relief through the pain.”
He doesn’t flinch when he says it. It’s not dramatic. It’s not a plea. It’s simply the facts.
“That sounds… grounded.” Momentarily unsettled by how contained he is, I pull out his proposal again. The pause gives me a few seconds to decide which direction to take the conversation. I push. “So, the name…”
“Non-negotiable,” he replies instantly. “I wouldn’t be doing this without Bex. That’s something I won’t change—for anyone.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “Understood.”
My blue pen glides in a circle around the name once, and I scribblenon-negotiablebeside it. Memorials rarely buildanything sustainable.And I definitely don’t fund men who haven’t learned to put away their grief.
Another wasted meeting. I could’ve done so much more with the past ten minutes. I’m getting ready to wrap it up, suggest I have another appointment, until Clara has other ideas.
“When did you lose her?” she chimes in.
I glare at her for opening Pandora’s box. Emotion has little place in business. And asking a widower for specifics only leads to details we don’t need.
“Four years this past March,” he says, almost clinical.
He doesn’t expand. Doesn’t take the opportunity to talk about his late wife, the way so many of those bereaved do. He answered and is now waiting for the next challenge. That’s refreshing. Endearing even. I don’t like being interested.
“So, why now?” I ask. “Has this been an ongoing project since her death?”
His attention, which had moved to Clara, returns to me. He’s completely unruffled by my direct questions, the personal interrogation not destabilizing him in the slightest.
“My kids are all away for the summer. Two teenage boys in Chicago. My girls are grown up and living their own lives.” His eyes flick to his ring again. “I find myself with an empty house and a sister-in-law nagging me to do something outside of work. So, here I am.”
“Empty homes make you think,” Clara says to him, but she’s looking at me. I shiver. “Too much time to be spent doing nothing.”
“That’s what Amy, my sister-in-law, tells me.”
They both chuckle softly under their breath. This is not how these meetings usually go. It’s a complete contrast to any of the other funding requests I’ve heard today. He’s not mentioned the money yet. That’s usually the first thing out of a requester’s mouth.
“Anyway,” he continues. It’s then I notice the dark circles beneath his eyes. A tiredness hidden beneath the perfect polish. “You didn’t invite me here to discuss my family. I assume you want to know my plans and what’s in it for Opengate?”
Just then, the heckles of a few protesters float in through the open window. I wince. Even though I’d never admit it, the chants sting. Deep down, part of me is embarrassed this is where we’ve ended up.
“Maybe I should ask why you’d consider working with us?” I say.