by Teddy Hester
“I can’t do this, Tony,” Tom says under his breath. “I have no idea how to do this.”
I have to think fast. “What’s your favorite part of the project?”
“Preserving the Regal’s history.”
“I haven’t had time to familiarize myself with its history. Tell me a couple of the most interesting things.”
He tells me an anecdote about an early run of The Little Foxes and another about an inebriated painter and a figure on a specific corbel that’s still intact. His shoulders loosen as he gets more into his stories.
I see Mom and Dad nearby and jerk my chin at him to get his attention. “That’s all you need to say to people, Tom. Let me show you.” We head over to Adam and Evie and get the ball—and hopefully plenty of money—rolling.
*****
Once Tom gets in the swing of things, he’s a natural. He’s friendly and outgoing, and once he practices his spiel on my parents, he understands his role and how to play it. Grabbing another glass of water from a passing tray and switching it for Tom’s empty, I leave him to go check on the accountant who’ll be collecting contributions tonight.
Eldon set him up with an open cubicle, table and chair on the opposite wall from the screen that will be showing the virtual tour soon. He is unobtrusively but strategically placed beside the cloakroom. Juliette even positioned two lovely young ladies at the door to funnel guests to the cloakroom. No one can come or go without passing by the contributions desk.
“Hey, Mike. You clean up pretty good. Nice tux. Have everything you need?” I ask the man tucked inside the cubicle.
He’s about my age, lean and hungry for success. When I was considering which accountant to assign to the project, he volunteered, and I decided to let him stretch his wings. “It’s all covered. Wifi’s working for the laptop and the card swipe, reports are already set up and ready to cough up lots of data. I even have a strong box,” he adds, stroking it. “Nice party.”
“It is, I agree. Juliette Samson organized it.”
His face lights up. “Is she single?”
I laugh at his infatuation. “I don’t know. Ask Ms. Waiteberry. They’re good friends.”
“Oh, there’s another fine woman. She’s killing it in that pink number tonight. Is she single?”
“No.” Mike’s beginning to look less impressive.
The piker has the audacity to look crestfallen. As if he had a chance with her in the first place.
*****
I catch up with Cleo right before the virtual tour presentation. She looks happy and, to most people, relaxed. But I see the nervous finger-dance on one hand, and the way her gown’s skirt shimmies lightly at the hem, I’d say she’s got a foot going, too.
When she sees me, her smile goes wide, and her shoulders drop a good three inches. My girl is tense.
“Come with me,” I whisper, catching her by the wrist and leading the way to a storage closet off a dark hallway I cased earlier, away from the gala. There’s even a switch connected to a tiny, dim light.
“What are we doing?” she asks.
My reply is the unzipping of my pants.
“Tony. We can’t,” she hisses.
I pick her up by the back of her thighs, and she automatically wraps them around my waist. I check for her readiness, then push her little scrap of thong to one side and thrust. It feels so damn good, we both let out a hum of pleasure. Holding her by the nape so her back doesn’t scrape on the wall, and pulling her onto me with my other hand on her hip, I slide in and out a couple of times to make sure we’re well enough lubed. Then I piston into her with short jabs, circling her clit with my thumb at the same time. When she starts to moan, I cover her mouth with mine, and we race to a photo finish.
My only regret is we don’t have enough time to do it again.
Damn that man knows how to fuck. And that’s exactly what I needed right now to take the edge off. A hard, fast fuck. Bare.
He lifts me off his semi-hard cock and sets my feet back on the floor. He’s so wonderfully attentive after sex. He even wipes me gently with his handkerchief and repositions my panties before smoothing my skirts. Hopefully it won’t be obvious to anyone.
Quickly and efficiently, he cleans himself up, zips, and straightens everything. His hair sort of has that freshly fucked look, but on him it just looks sexy, not licentious. He smooths my hair in back, clicks off the sad little light that witnessed our debauchery, and opens the closet door a crack to make sure the coast is clear.
Holding hands, we trot back to the lobby. Since they’re just getting people seated for the presentation, Tony and I stop at the Contributions desk to check on progress. When Mike tells us the current totals, we exchange concerned glances.
“The big rush will happen after the presentation,” Tony says.
“It better. Or we’re all in big trouble.”
We sit in the front row with the rest of the team and their partners. Juliette, as regal as the theater in her Champagne-colored peau de soie gown and upswept platinum hair, welcomes everyone. Ordinarily cool and somewhat aloof, she has a warm professionalism that translates well at weddings and formal affairs such as this event. Guests know they’re in good hands. Wealthy guests recognize her quality. It’s why her business is so successful.
Before she sits, she introduces Tom and Sally, who thank guests for coming and explain what they’re going to see. Lights dim and the screen lights up with the virtual tour Eldon, the architect and I put together. It’s good. Janelle’s photos are just right as we give the audience a view of the current condition of the Regal, and what’s envisioned for its renovation.
Behind me, I can hear whispered comments and expressions of surprise or dismay—a range of human reaction to Tom’s stories and his information. He tries to get Eldon to join him at the mic, but I’m not surprised when that urging is refused. I’m amazed he’s here at all, and I’m really amazed he’s in a tux.
The tour goes smoothly, and Tom ends with his sales pitch. Tony joins him to talk about the financial aspects of the project, while Tom appeals to guests’ civic duty with the Regal’s historical and social importance for the community.
I think it sounds very well-thought-out, and of course it’s sincere. Now all we can do is hope and pray we get enough to finish the electrical and get the city off our backs so we can complete the project.
The next hour will decide our futures.
CHAPTER 13
The Regal empties by ten o’clock, and the team gathers at the Contributions desk. They all pull up chairs and stare at Mike as his fingers fly over computer keys. I’m sitting right beside him, flipping through checks and receipts, feeding him information and double-checking as we go.
“I’m dying here,” my hummingbird complains.
Oh, the dulcet tones of my sweet warbler. Always pushing buttons.
Ordinarily a comment like that would piss the hell out of me, but the tension’s so thick around the cubicle, oxygen can barely pass through it. Her comment makes people laugh, breaking some of the stress.
Mike leans back and looks at me. “Ready?”
I glance at Tom. He’s about to pass out, waiting to hear. “That’s everything? Checks, credit cards, Internet?”
“Yep, and even some cash. This is it, man.”
“Let ‘er rip.”
One little click, a few seconds of waiting, and the final determination is staring back at me.
Out of habit, my face goes to neutral. I glance over and see that Mike’s has, too. Good man.
Can’t put it off any longer. “One million, seven hundred twenty-three thousand dollars.”
“Two hundred, seventy-seven thousand dollars below goal,” Mike supplies.
We didn’t make it.
We didn’t fucking make it.
Now we get to go through the seven stages of grief before we can come up with a new plan.
Tom’s first with shock and denial. “No. It’s not possible. The presentation was good. The part
y was good. We invited the right people. No. Count it again.”
“Right,” Sally says. “I saw a check for one hundred-fifty thousand with my own eyes. Did the total include that check?”
I sift through the stack and pull it out. “It’s here, Sally. It was counted.”
“Could the website tally be off?” Eldon’s wife asks. As Tom’s sister, she has a big stake in the family legacy he’s trying to establish and preserve for future generations.
Mike says, “I’ll total them individually on the calculator and see if it matches the app’s total. Will you read them to me, Tony?” I do, and the totals check out.
Juliette, who’s been sitting still as a statue through all this, brings us into the second stage—pain and guilt. “I practically guaranteed you we’d be able to raise two million with this event. I’m very sorry.”
“No, Jules,” Cleo says. “It isn’t your fault. This was a beautiful, well-organized party. You did what you do best, and you did it flawlessly.”
“That’s right, Juliette,” Sally says. “It’s not on you. It’s nobody’s fault.”
I’m fighting guilt, too. Cleo calls me the “money-man,” and as such, I could have taken a chunk of Tom’s money and made some quick, high-risk investments, gambled for instant big profit. But only people who can afford to lose the money should take a gamble. If my gamble hadn’t paid off, Tom would have been worse off than he is now, and I would be completely to blame due to sheer irresponsibility. It would have killed my career, and rightfully so. But I still have an irrational niggling of guilt.
“It was the cheapskates who couldn’t be bothered to cough up a decent contribution. Didn’t they see the work that needed to be done in the virtual tour?” And Tom just catapulted us into stage three—anger and bargaining.
“If we could have announced the big contribution amounts, or showed it on one of those thermometer boards, shame the others into giving more.” I’m surprised at that outburst from Eldon. This really must have gotten to him, worse than I would ever expect from that taciturn man.
“They don’t believe in the project,” Tom says softly. “Or they don’t believe I can pull it off. I don’t have enough clout to be a threat, and I don’t travel in their circles. It isn’t important to them. I get it.” Sally pats his arm.
Okay, that’s stage four—depression, reflection, loneliness. The last three stages should see the team begin to pull out of the bad place they’re cycling in right now.
“Mike, can you compare the guest list with the donor list and get me the names, addresses, emails, phone numbers, etc, of those who didn’t make a contribution?” Juliette asks.
Yep, we’re sliding into stage five—the upward turn.
“Uh…think so, yes. Give me a minute.” He starts flipping through screens.
“Good, Jules! I can create an email in under an hour to grab their attention and give them easy payment access. We may make this yet!” My girl just hurtled through stage six—reconstruction and working through and into stage seven—acceptance and hope.
“But this is Tuesday night, and we have to have the money by payroll on Friday night,” Tom reminds the group.
“How much do you need again?” Cleo asks.
“That whole amount,” says Tom. “A little over two hundred seventy-five thousand.”
She inhales deeply. “I can loan you that amount, Tom.”
“Cleo!” It comes out more sharply than I intend, and she startles, but doesn’t look at me.
Tom jumps in. “No, thank you, Cleo. If anyone uses personal funds, I should, because it’s my family’s project.”
As a financial counselor and planner, I can’t let this very risky idea go unchallenged. “I would counsel all of you not to tie up personal funds—sorry, Tom. If for some reason Tom’s not able to recoup the money, you’ll never be repaid.”
“Tony’s right,” Tom says. “I couldn’t stand the idea of taking anyone else down with me if I can’t make this happen.”
Cleo shakes her head. “But I can’t live with myself if I let this project fail when I have the means to keep it afloat, at least through the electrical inspection. After that, we can mount a timed, seasoned fund-raising campaign.”
Tom looks at me. “Do I have collateral for a loan of this size?”
“We can talk in private, Tom.”
“That isn’t necessary. They might as well hear.”
It goes against every fiber to spill personal financial information to a group. I can’t imagine they want to hear it, either. “Come by the office tomorrow, and let’s see.”
He won’t let it alone, though. “Even if I have to liquidate my portfolio at a loss, if I have that money, I want to use it.”
“You’re probably talking about losing a hundred thousand to get twenty-five thousand. That doesn’t make any sense, Tom.”
“It’s my money.”
“Yes, it is. And it’s your wife and kids who need a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. You can’t leave yourself that vulnerable.”
“Though I agree with Tony in principle, I also agree with Cleo,” Juliette says. “There are five families represented on this team. If we each contribute fifty thousand, that just about covers the shortfall and spreads the risk. I’d be willing to do that.”
“So would we,” Eldon chimes in.
“Obviously, I will,” Cleo says.
All eyes turn my way. Actually, no. Only Cleo looks my way. All the others stare at their shoes, or the floor, or whatever they can to keep from looking my way.
I have the money. I could agree to this solution financially. But it’s the wrong solution and compromises me professionally. What ramifications might that have in the long run?
And then there’s Cleo. I scan the group for her, and our gazes lock. My decision will absolutely impact her and us.
This is one of those pivotal moments that arise a few times in a person’s life. A fork in the road. One path leads to a certain set of outcomes, the other to something else, maybe the opposite of what you want.
“Mike, do you have the number yet of people who weren’t here or didn’t contribute?” I ask.
“Yes. Juliette, you’re projections were spot on. There are roughly four hundred people out of the thousand who haven’t contributed.”
“Forty percent…” I muse. “That’s a big chunk of people who might agree to part with some money. Maybe enough to make up the shortfall. After all, two hundred seventy-five thousand divided between four hundred people is less than a thousand apiece. We may not need to talk about kicking in our own funds beyond what we’re already contributing.
“Tom, you don’t need the money until EOB Friday, correct? I suggest we all meet at noon on Friday and see where things stand.”
The group agrees, but Cleo still gazes at me. For once, her thoughts aren’t written on her face for me to read. I wish I knew what’s going through her mind. Is she cooking up another surprise to spring on us all?
Time to add another layer to the deliberations. “One more thing, people. I was approached several weeks ago by a developer who’s interested in obtaining ownership of the Regal.”
Cleo’s eyes flash.
“Nick Elliot?” Tom asks.
I nod. “That’s right.
“He and I already talked. I told him no.”
“He raised his offer. He’s willing to pay five million.”
Several gasps sound, and then total silence, all eyes on Tom, who returns my gaze, but says nothing.
“As your financial advisor, Tom, I think it should be in the mix to consider.”
I don’t know what to think about Tony’s handling of the team’s shortfall. His wait-and-see approach is practical. And it’s the safest plan. But it bothers me that we have no backup, no alternatives except to sell out. And by waiting until noon Friday, there’ll be no wiggle room to try anything else.
He’s adamantly opposed to risking our personal finances on this venture, and I see his poi
nt. It’s not my theater. But it is my ad agency that will benefit from being a major player on this project if it’s completed successfully. Shouldn’t I be willing to bear some of the risk if I hope to gain some of the profits? I see it as an investment in my business. In myself.
If I want to give Tom money on Friday, there’s nothing stopping me. Tony’s not my financial advisor. He doesn’t have any power or control over my finances unless I give it to him. Trouble is, I’m not so sure I want to give him that control. He says he has trouble trusting me because I’m too impulsive and manipulative. Does he realize that I have trouble trusting him because he’s too safe and stodgy?
It’s unfathomable to get involved with a financier and not have him as my advisor. If I found someone who’s financial advice more closely aligned with mine, using that person instead of Tony would be a huge insult. If Tony took his advertising business to another agency, I don’t think I’m mature enough to let go of the anger and betrayal I’d feel.
Juliette sits down beside me. “I see the wheels turning. What’s up?”
I jerk myself out of my jumbled thoughts. “Nothing. I’m fine. Tired, maybe.”
“You deserve to be. You worked hard on this event.”
“Huh. Nothing like you did. Are you exhausted??
“I’m disappointed. I wanted so much for this to be a success. Kick off the project with a bang. Speaking of that, do you have something to tell me?”
“What?”
“Are you and Tony an item?”
That makes me laugh and loosens me up a little. “An item? Are you really Doris Day in Juliette’s clothes? That’s a gorgeous dress on you, by the way.”
“Thanks, but you’re not sidetracking me that easily. Are you seeing Tony?”
“Yes. More than seeing. We’ve been together most every night for the past several weeks.”
She looks down at her hands. “You’re living with him?”