Right from the Start

by Jeanie London

  There was no missing the cracked plaster molding that hinted at foundation instability or the discolored patches on the ceiling, water damage from roof leaks.

  As a contractor, Will noticed it all.

  Sinking into a chair, he loosened the tie that suddenly choked him. “You have the final numbers from the golf classic?”

  Deanne clasped her hands on the desk, mouth pursed, gaze leveled, an expression Will had come to recognize as her we’ll-forge-ahead-and-figure-out-how-to-make-it-happen look. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”

  “Good news always.” At least there actually was some.

  “I have a lead on an agency that sounds as if it was custom made to fit the criteria for Family Foundations.”

  “Unexpected, but very good news.”

  She nodded. “And I got the numbers. Not so good.”

  “How long?” Not how much. The amount they raised only translated into how long they could remain operating.

  “Enough to cover expenses until December.”

  “With or without the projection from the festival?”

  “With.”

  “Damn.” They faced each other without speaking because there was nothing to say. They’d hoped the revenue would cover operating expenses until at least next April, giving Will time to put the last pieces in place on their miracle. They could get one more school year out of this location.

  No such luck. He hated how this always happened. Every quarter they projected costs for the upcoming quarter and decided whether or not they could keep the doors open. Then he got to go home to his son, knowing he had no way to provide everything Sam needed. Not without Angel House.

  Living hand to mouth, his mother had always called it, and she would know since she’d reared three boys with no help from a deadbeat dad. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. That was another way to phrase what boiled down to plain not having enough money.

  “Any possibility of squeezing another event into the calendar?” he asked. “Something big enough to tie us over until the McKay money gets here? That’ll carry us through to the apple festival in September. Everything will be in place by then.”

  “I don’t see what else our parents can do,” she admitted. “The schedule is crammed already, and you know how labor intensive the festival is. There aren’t enough hours in the day. Not without sacrificing all our time at home with the kids, and they’re the whole point of everything we’re doing. I don’t know how we accomplish what we do already. It’s not as if we get nights and weekends off.”

  That much was true. Sam’s learning wasn’t confined to a classroom during a normal school day. He didn’t get to come home, do homework then spend the rest of his night being a kid. No, the learning was an ongoing process that took up every waking second of every minute of every day, and Will was Sam’s teacher when he wasn’t in school.

  Even the simplest things, such as getting Sam to brush his teeth, required an action plan and consistent reinforcement. It had taken months for him to brush after breakfast without a meltdown that made it impossible to get out the door. Now Sam brushed before bed, too. The ultimate goal was to brush after each meal. Then they could move on to learning the next skill.

  Slow progress, perhaps, but progress nonetheless.

  Will was grateful for every move in a positive direction. And grateful that he only had Sam to worry about, and work. He wasn’t the norm. Most parents juggled marriages and siblings in addition to their jobs and kid’s special needs. As a parent with less on his plate than most, he’d felt obligated to help Angel House get on solid financial footing.

  “What did the accountant say? Can’t he pinpoint where the problem is?” That’s exactly what Will’s financial officer did for his contracting company, and those projections were hugely instrumental in sidestepping trouble.

  “It’s the economy, plain and simple,” Deanne said somberly. “We’re devoting more time to fund-raising for a lot less money. That’s never a winning combination.”

  Will sighed. No arguing that. Even his company felt the pinch. New construction was down, and with so many people struggling to pay mortgages, renovations were a luxury many couldn’t afford.

  Or maybe Will had been so involved trying to solve Angel House’s problems that he hadn’t been focusing enough on his business. That was also a possibility.

  “Whatever happens, Will, you should be at peace. You’ve gone above and beyond to help us qualify for this grant. Even if we can’t apply with the Ramsey Foundation, you’ll find some way to raise awareness about autism. I know you will, and we have no way of determining what good might come from that.”

  “Not after all this work.” He’d won a seat on the city council to make this miracle happen—one more job he didn’t have time for. “I’m not going to let a few months take away our chances. That’s really all it amounts to. The deadline for the annual walk-through isn’t until August thirty-one—”

  “August thirtieth, remember? The thirty-first falls on a Saturday.”

  Great. Not even the calendar was on board with the plan. “One day isn’t going to matter. If we can’t keep operating here until next summer, then we have no choice but to move up the timetable and make this year’s deadline.”

  Deanne sank back in her chair and stared at him. “Is that even possible?”

  Not without a real miracle because the manufactured kind didn’t seem to be cutting it.

  But what was Will supposed to do—let Angel House close its doors? Sam needed more help than the government offered with all their special services, and the insurance company fought him every step of the way on additional therapies. But without the extra help, Sam wouldn’t be accepted into a regular school. He’d be labeled “intensive needs” and sent to an exceptional center that still didn’t have the services he needed.

  Angel House filled that gap. It provided the extra training necessary to help Sam become higher functioning so he could get by with the level of special services the school system provided and continue to progress in the least restrictive classroom environment.

  That’s what Will wanted for Sam. He wasn’t going to accept anything less. Period.

  “We’ve got everything else in place, Deanne. All we need is a permanent location that fits specs for the grant. We’ve found that, too. We just need to move in.”

  She frowned. “You’re talking about extensive renovations on a building that covers nearly an entire city block.”

  “Did I mention I own a construction company?”

  Of course, he couldn’t start the renovations until he had a partner to share the space and offset the private status of Angel House, thereby fulfilling the last requirement for tenancy.

  “Tell me about this agency. Give me something to work with here.” Stretching his legs in front of him, Will rubbed his temples. A tension headache on the way. What was new?

  Deanne must have recognized the symptoms or was getting a headache of her own because she shoved away from the desk and stood. “You want coffee? I need a cup.”

  “Please.” Maybe caffeine would constrict the blood vessels and cut off the throbbing before it worsened.

  She headed off to the nearby staff room then returned with two foam cups.

  “Here you go.” She handed him one. “Judge Parrish sits on the board for the Young Leaders Camp Initiative. I presented to the board this week about developing more opportunities for our lower-functioning kids.” She took a tentative sip as sh
e sat. “After the meeting we talked about our potential involvement in Family Foundations, and Judge Parrish mentioned a divorce mediator who has an independent agency based here in Hendersonville.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Positive Partings.”

  “Why does that sound familiar?”

  Deanne shrugged. “Maybe you read about it? Apparently the owner has been active lobbying for divorce reform.”

  “Maybe.” Not that he read much anymore. Not unless an issue involved the City of Hendersonville. For those issues he stayed tuned to the local radio station whenever he was in his truck and pored through council briefings in any spare moment. There weren’t many of those.

  “The agency fits the criteria for both Family Foundations and the Ramsey Foundation?” he asked. That was critical, and so far they hadn’t had much luck.

  “Looks like Positive Partings might be the answer to our prayers. Judge Parrish spoke highly of the owner and said they’d worked together with the family court. I did some research. The agency opened two years ago and serves a huge network of professionals from all over the state.”

  “Does it need more space?”

  “Possibly. The owner teaches divorcing parent classes for the court. Apparently that’s a part of all the lobbying she does—she’s trying to standardize the system of court-ordered education.”

  “Those classes need reform. I attended one with some guy who managed to make four hours feel like two lifetimes of completely wasted time.”

  Deanne chuckled. “Yeah, well, it was probably good for you to sit down and relax for a change.”

  “Right back at you. But the coffee wasn’t too bad if memory serves. Not as good as this, of course.” He took another swig of brew that could have rusted a galvanized nail.

  “It was good a few hours ago.” She thoughtfully swirled the dregs in the bottom of her own cup. “Besides, I never argue with free. Smile and be grateful.”

  The coffee was a donation from the café on Main Street and demonstrated exactly the sort of community spirit and generosity that made Hendersonville special. A city small enough so people didn’t get lost in the crowd, yet infused with new blood because of tourism and some-timers who kept vacation homes in the mountains. This sort of community was largely responsible for bringing Angel House into existence and keeping it going.

  Until December, anyway.

  “So Positive Partings might need more classrooms,” he said. “And you think the owner might be interested in a historic building the city’s willing to cut her a break on rent for?”

  Once he renovated it, of course.

  “That’s what Judge Parrish said. She thinks a location close to the courthouse would be attractive. And no question Main Street would be visible for folks who come to those classes. We’ve got a lot to offer. The low-rent lease. The location. Positive Partings would be crazy not to at least consider a move.”

  “Is the owner from around here?” Why else would anyone set up shop in Hendersonville? He could think of a lot of places in North Carolina with better access to the state capital.

  “Hendersonville born and bred, according to the website.” Deanne reached for her laptop. “Take a look for yourself. You won’t believe the list of professionals the agency serves. Would be great exposure for Angel House.”

  Will tossed his cup in the trash before heading to Deanne’s side of the desk. He half sat on the edge and waited while she called up the site. “Can’t get much more public service than family court.”

  “I know, right.”

  Given the demographic it served, Angel House would have been a shoo-in to benefit from the Family Foundations Project, which targeted five areas of focus for revitalization of Hendersonville. There was only one problem with Angel House: its affiliation with a Roman Catholic Church.

  Will hadn’t been involved with Angel House back then, but he knew the story well. Deanne had been looking for help after her daughter’s autism diagnosis. Ten years ago there hadn’t been an Angel House to help a parent maneuver the minefield of information and misinformation.

  But she’d refused to settle for the meager services the government offered, which simply weren’t enough to affect any progress in her daughter’s treatment. She also refused to accept that she couldn’t help her child.

  So she traveled around the country to investigate every program that dealt with autism then approached her pastor to put her knowledge to use for her daughter and other families experiencing similar difficulties.

  Angel House had started as a ministry in some unused classrooms of the parish school. And through the generosity of caring parishioners and the dedicated involvement of parents and professionals, Angel House flourished.

  The church gifted the center with the house and land it occupied now. Deanne had reached out into the community to fund the renovations. The center had outgrown the old house, and there was no expanding. They needed to level the old structure and start from scratch and, given the costs involved, that simply wasn’t possible as a ministry of one church.

  No, for Angel House to grow and serve more kids, it needed to grow into a real not-for-profit organization. That’s when Will had conceived of letting the City of Hendersonville provide a new location through Family Foundations.

  The church affiliation was the problem.

  While Angel House served kids based on need, it was still perceived as a religious organization. If there was any better way to trigger a firestorm of controversy about how the city allocated funds, Will couldn’t think of one.

  No one wanted to hear that Will’s company would fund the building renovations, or that Angel House supported itself through donations, fund-raising and private grants that came from all over the community, and the nation, too—if they could secure the all-important Ramsey Foundation grant. But applying for that grant meant they needed a permanent location in an area that served its community.

  The chicken and egg.

  In order to make this work, Will had to couple Angel House with another organization with a strong public service affiliation in the new location to bridge the distance between the city’s private and public sectors.

  Positive Partings?

  “Here you go.” Deanne tilted the laptop his way then stopped. She placed her hand over his. “Seriously, Will. Before we go one step further, do you really think it’s possible to get all that work done? I know what renovating this place was like and we didn’t knock down walls.”

  She met his gaze with the quiet desperation and determination of a mother who took every breath to clear obstacles out of her daughter’s way and give her a chance to learn. There was no time for fear in the journey, no room for doubts, only the grinding day-to-day, minute-by-minute, steps along the path.

  And lots of hard-won triumphs to light the way.

  Deanne had helped Will see those, too, to accept that, while his journey as a parent differed from what he’d expected, the differences brought unique joys, and so much love.

  She devoted her life to helping her daughter and to paving a smoother way for others until the medical community and insurance companies and the local, state and federal governments caught up with their services.

  “I won’t lie, Deanne. Even if this agency proves to be the right one, and we can convince the owner to sign on fast, we’ll be making a leap. The building has to be updated before I can bring it up to specs for Angel House. And I won’t even know what I have to do until I ge
t inside and start taking things apart. But how can we not at least try when we’re this close?”

  All the uncertainty melted from Deanne’s expression. She understood shooting for the stars. She knew what it meant to hope against hope.

  And she went for it every time and taught others to take those insane leaps of faith, to believe in miracles because there was always hope.

  How could Will do any less for the woman who’d given him so much, for all the families who relied on Angel House?

  How could he do any less for Sam?

  CHAPTER TWO

  KENZIE SAT ON the bench across from the two-story building that occupied nearly the entire block between South Main and West Orchard Streets.

  She loved this building with its brick front and chipped white-paned windows and faded blue canopies. A few coats of paint would restore the windows to their former glory as easily as new fabric would replace faded with bright.

  Well worth the effort, Kenzie knew. No question. She’d loved this building ever since first setting eyes on it as a child when her parents had brought her to an open house to decide if she had any interest in dance lessons.

  She’d taken lessons from Madame Estelle and the other professionally trained instructors in ballet, jazz, lyrical, tap and musical theater. She’d competed and performed year after year and had even taught classes during summer technique camps.

  But that had all been before college graduation when she’d struck out to establish her career, and gotten so busy that even squeezing in dance classes as exercise proved a challenge. Before Madame Estelle had passed away and her estate had sold the building to the city.

  Once this former dance studio had symbolized dreams in Kenzie’s young mind. Now she had fond memories and an appreciation for its killer location in Hendersonville’s historic downtown.

  Kenzie thought of all those long-ago afternoons getting lost in Mast General Store with her friends, gathering at the soda shop after school functions and enjoying the various music, art and food festivals that took place in practically every season.