“You could save people,”
“I do too much saving as it is,” he said, absently. “Beverley was one of them, and you saw how successful that was.”
A man in his mid thirties, tall and lanky with a mild manner about him, headed towards us. He held a tray, which was an encouraging sign.
“It was an accident, remember? You weren’t there, remember?” I said through my smile. “And by the way, you don’t have to save me.” I said confidently. I lie, he’s already saved me, twice. We are not even.
“Not in the same way, no.” He agreed. “Still, I think I’ll stick to art.” He glanced at my cleavage, anything I wear produces cleavage, I don’t have to try that hard.
“I think I’ll stick with you.” He added after a second or two.
“I couldn’t help seeing you were talking with Martha.” The man greeted both of us. “She’s our membership chair. Shrimp?” The man was nice looking in an academic kind of way, but thin. He made Norton, my music professor client, look like our former state governor on a particularly bulked up day.
I glanced at the pretty shrimp he offered, and took one.
“Yes, we were.” Ben took a turn carrying the sophisticated conversation load.
“She was telling us about the shelters. Are you familiar with their work?” I asked.
“Familiar?” The thin man balked for a moment, then glanced down at the shrimp, as if shrimp tails forecast the future or the present.
“Oh, well, yes. Sorry. I’m not a waiter, well, I’m acting the part of a waiter for tonight. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Harold Meyer, Vice President for Development for the HPL.”
“Yet, you’re serving shrimp.” I had to point it out, in case he had forgotten he was shelping a large tray of curled crustaceans. He also carried a handful of cocktail napkins. I took one, emblazoned with the Hyatt logo.
“More cost effective for an event such as this. The staff pitches in to save the organization money.” His voice conveyed a little conviction, but not enough. At least, I wasn’t convinced. I didn’t think he was either, but he put up a good front.
He took my silence as agreement and took advantage of the opportunity to address the former Mr. Weiss, presumably because Dame Anderson already warmed him up. Ben, not Harold.
“So, did Mrs. Anderson tell you about the thirty two movable shelters we maintain to great success and with very little overhead?”
“Yes,” Ben said weakly. Oh, man, he was a sitting duck. I have never seen the will sucked right out of him before. This Vice President wasn’t even that impressive, I’ve fended off worse at Chamber mixers.
Harold nodded, encouraged that Ben already was so well informed. “We have a vigorous and devoted staff. We accomplish a great deal considering our narrow margins. Ninety cents of every dollar goes to direct service, which is better than the industry standard. Our donors demand efficiency, so we have only three paid staff members: the President and CEO, and a staff of two.” He nodded to a man in his late fifties standing across the room from us.
The president possessed all his hair. It was white and elegantly brushed back from his high forehead. He wore a custom made tuxedo and was accompanied by a custom made blonde, the same blonde who took Beverley’s old clothes earlier this morning. Tonight she was swathed in a vintage Bob Mackie made during his sequin period. It was completely inappropriate for Sonoma County, but it looked great on her.
“He looks very, efficient.” With his looks, the CEO could be a symphony conductor, or an elegant actor who only takes character parts.
“The woman with him is his secretary, but she only works part time,” Harold explained. “We don’t pay her nearly enough for everything she does.”
“I don’t imagine you do.” I said neutrally. Perhaps, she was a cost effective perk, although she did not look cost effective. Judging from her blond highlights, I’d guess that she was not cost effective in the least. I made a mental note ask Carrie what she knew.
“And our only other paid staff is Anne, over there.”
“Serving the baked brie?” I asked. I love baked brie.
Anne was cute in a mousy, why-Miss-Magillicudy- I- had –no- idea –you – were – so - beautiful –without – your - glasses kind of way. She was small boned and not very pre-possessing, but then again, she was attending a formal dinner dressed in a rented tuxedo and serving food. How confident could the girl be?
“Your bottom line is all about efficiency?” I repeated.
“Yes. We also use one of our own recipients of our services to serve as our key note speaker for this event. It saves some cash as well. Of course we have corporate sponsorship to fund the dinner.”
Cooper Milk was one of the sponsors listed on poster board displayed on a stand at the entrance to the hotel, as was Flex Paint and Safeway.
“And what did Beverley Weiss do for you?” Come on, you wanted to find out, too. I just said it out loud.
Ben blinked. I gave him a shrimp and he obediently ate it.
“She delivered blankets and food to the moveable shelters and counseled the clients. She was convinced they weren’t reaching their full potential and was bent on helping them.” Harold handed Ben a napkin.
“Sometimes, she even found jobs for them, part time and temporary, of course. A couple of clients were good at home repairs. I think she hired them for that kind of thing.” He looked at me, seriously. I suspected that he was the kind of man who was always serious; everything was serious. I have found, recently, that the only thing in life that should be taken seriously is death. The rest is pretty trivial. I was not going to point that out to a serious man with a serious shrimp serving mission.
“She was quite a volunteer.” I offered.
“She was excellent in the field.” He said, cryptically. I took another shrimp, hoping I’d spoil my dinner. Tight budget equals dried chicken breast.
“It was lovely to meet you; enjoy the dinner.” The vice president in charge of shrimp gave me his card and marched away, bearing the hors d’ouvres to the masses.
“Good in the field.” I repeated.
“Doesn’t that mean she was a pain in the ass in the office?” Ben roused himself.
“That’s what it usually means.” I popped the last shrimp in my mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
“She wasn’t perfect, but you’ll think so, after tonight.” He remarked.
I swallowed. “If she was perfect, you’d still be together.”
“Maybe.”
I wondered what the residents of the HPL shelter units thought of Beverley’s charity? What kind of jobs does a homeless person prefer? Where did she send them to work? This was not her only project by a long shot. Ben said he had been contacted by no less than a dozen non-profits in the county, from the Girl Scouts to the Food Bank, all of whom delicately inquired about Beverley’s will.
Carrie once told me that you have to ask or you get nothing, which is what Beverley left of all these good hard working people, nothing. All her assets reverted back to Ben, which did not make Ben look very good to the police.
Ben, in turn, planned to donate to each of the organizations that Beverly helped. It was only a matter of how much. I was chagrinned to learn that he also planned to donate his own money to a couple of the art based charities to celebrate never having to pay alimony again.
I took his inert arm and steered him away from the core of the crowd. “You already gave to the De Young. Planning on more?”
“Yes, Beverley and I are founding members of the Lost Art Museum, I’m donating to them as well.”
“Founding members for the Lost Art Museum? Please, tell me someone thought that designation was ironic.”
He smiled, a little. “Yes, the donor levels are Founder, Pathfinder, Explorer, Map Reader, that kind of thing.”
“I didn’t think he had it in him.”
“The director, Fischer? He doesn’t, my mother suggested it.”
“Why do I think your mother is some kind
of superhero?”
“She is, on her own tightly controlled planet. She is the Little Prince; she lives in her own world, and so, is the queen. Since you asked, there’s an event at the Lost Art Museum. I thought we’d go, and I could ask if anyone came across pieces of Beverley’s collection.”
The word pieces was a good one. I paused for a moment to swallow my shrimp again. I remember the last time the Executive Director of the Lost Art Museum and I spent time together was during a particularly difficult period that involved controversial art, my own difficult clients, and the Executive Director’s poor - now late - father. That exchange didn’t end well, either.
“Come, we can look at our panel again.” Ben cajoled.
“And the new bathrooms you paid for.”
He nodded.
“Sure, send me the invitation.” I acquiesced.
I realized, that since we first met, I spent too many nights worrying about whether or not I could afford Ben. Despite my grandmother Prue’s insistence that I should only marry for love (that’s another story), I was still wary. Discovering that Ben could, after all, actually support himself left me feeling awkward and embarrassed about my own doubts. Did I secretly want him to need me financially? Was that my only contribution to the relationship? Nope, I was also excellent at getting him into trouble.
Carrie and Patrick arrived. Carrie, bless her heart, managed to look much better than the President/CEO’s secretary at about 1/100 of the cost. Carrie wore the same red dress she had worn to seduce Patrick. Judging from the way Patrick held her arm and casually pulled her close as they talked, the dress was still working.
Carrie accepted a flute of sparkling wine and smiled winningly at the President and CEO who hurried over to greet Patrick, who, in turn, nodded solemnly and looked official.
Patrick Sullivan, born into money, understands his place and his job. He doesn’t relax until he is far from the public eye. Carrie assures me Patrick really is great fun. She reported that he accurately mimics the full Steven Martin Wild and Crazy Guy DVD without missing a single joke. He even owns a banjo and a fake arrow that he wears on his head in the evening.
I should ask him to recite my favorite scene from Picasso at the Lapin Agile.
Ben blew in my ear. “Hey.”
His color was a bit better. When a fundraising volunteer gets too close, Ben retreats. I wondered if he contracted hives during the PBS pledge week. Maybe, he left town.
“Having fun yet?” I asked.
“How much should I give them?”
“Let’s wait until after the dinner; you still need to critic the menu.”
“Patrick.” Ben reached around me and shook Patrick’s hand. Ben, we may add here, was not wearing a tuxedo; he wore an old suit, not so old that the general population would notice, but it was old enough so that I noticed, and people such as Martha Anderson and the secretary draped in sequins, would notice. I sensed this was an old habit. I wonder if his attitude bothered Beverley, who reported always made a grand entrance, while Ben clearly enjoyed playing the role of awkward escort: wrong suit, wrong shoes, indifferent tie. Very passive aggressive.
I hadn’t the heart to point out that the old suit gambit only made every woman in the room want to take him home and reform him, or at least make him change. And watch him do it.
We fell comfortably behind Patrick and Carrie’s wake. They moved together as if they were already a royal couple. Carrie’s dark hair contrasted dramatically against the red dress. Even in her high heels, her head barely reached Patrick’s shoulder. She looked delicious. Without her rival, Carrie had clearly come into her own. Since she began her career in Rivers Bend as a secretary for the Senior Center, this must be sweet indeed.
Ben leaned into me. “They work well together.”
Carrie approached the spangley, part-time secretary. In contrast to Carrie’s simple beauty, the secretary looked contrived. She smiled carefully at Carrie but stayed focused on Patrick, the main man.
Mistake. Carrie told me time and time again, the women often have the last say in donations, especially when it came to large amounts. Even if the husband is the CEO of a large corporation, it’s the wife who often controls the funds. Carrie smiled easily at the secretary, confident that she had the upper hand. But, for how long?
I moved restlessly away from the scene and glanced at the now open doors to the ballroom.
Ben sensed my move. “Good, let’s sit down.”
“You should be working the room and making new contacts.” I mocked him. Actually, I should have been in the mood to make new contacts. In my business, every event, every chamber mixer, every party is the right opportunity for relationship marketing, for connecting, for making sure people know, love, and trust you. Sorry, know, LIKE, and trust you.
I wasn’t feeling trustworthy. I was not feeling likable. A waiter directed us to one of the head tables, and I plopped down in front of my place card. We were seated with Carrie, Patrick and a nice young man representing Flex Paint - the big donor table. Not that the donors here tonight were large people, they just had large amounts of money. I enjoyed thinking about the idea of a big donor. Donors should all be the same size as Martha Anderson, how delicious.
“And what do you do?” I leaned over, flashed my own considerable assets and managed to render the Flex VP mute for a full fifteen seconds.
Sometimes, I’m good; sometimes I’m bad.
“We donate the paint for all the mobile homeless shelters.” He blurted out after his long pause. He grabbed his water and drank. I offered to pour him wine from the bottle at the table. He gratefully accepted.
Carrie and Patrick arrived at the table, and we exchanged a flurry of polite greetings. The salads arrived, not served by the staff of the Homeless Prevention League, thank goodness.
Carrie twisted the wine bottle on the table and noted the vintner. “They donate to us as well.” She glanced around. “I wonder if there’s more.”
Our cocktail waiter, Vice President in charge of shrimp, Harold, joined us along with the other staff member, the young woman.
Carrie smiled at the woman and rose to give her a hug. “You look adorable in a tux.” Carrie said warmly. “How have you been?”
The young woman glanced at Patrick, then over at our Flex Paint representative. “Oh, we are devastated by Beverley’s death, of course; she was so young.”
Ben and I murmured something appropriate. I think I said, “so tragic”. At least, I hoped it was appropriate. I poured wine for the rest of the table and gestured to the nice professional waiter for more.
The young woman’s name was Anne. I thought it was fairly appalling that the two of them had to act the role of servants at a formal event, but I’m not conversant with the various methods of charities. Perhaps all staff members at a non-profit are treated like servants.
We worked our way through the house salad and were allowed to swallow a couple bites of our main course, dried chicken poorly disguised by blanket of white sauce, before the President and CEO commanded our attention. I was working up enough enthusiasm to talk to the Flex Paint gentleman, and he was getting up enough nerve to look me in the eyes, so I was disappointed at the interruption.
The President and CEO, Steven Baker, graciously acknowledged the major donors, who were called up in alphabetical order, to accept a tall, acrylic statue (in the shape of a flame) from the hands of the secretary who simpered like a low-rent Vanna White. She pushed an appreciation award into Patrick’s unwilling hands, he nodded to her and hurried back to his seat. He set it down and stared at it, balefully.
“Maybe, they should give you a bottle of donated wine instead.” Carrie suggested. She patted Patrick’s arm sympathetically.
Ben grinned.
The President then delivered a lengthy tribute to Beverley, listing among other attributes: her work with the homeless, her ability to find them work and things to do, her visits to their shelters, and her work on the board.
As with anyone wh
o had recently left us, the positive attributes were conflated, and any flaws were excised. Still, I shifted in my seat and played with the butter knife. Great, he had a perfect ex-wife; that always gives the current girlfriend confidence.
“As you are aware, we have an opening on the board.” The President said jovially.
Patrick glanced at Carrie, but she was politely focused on President and CEO Steven Baker. She is a good audience.
Finally, after canonizing Beverley Weiss and her many achievements, the President invited Ben to come and accept a larger size glass flame award to commemorate Beverley’s work with the League.
“Bigger than yours.” He whispered to Patrick on his way back to his seat.
Patrick smiled. “Sucks for you.”
“And now, as we have in previous dinners, it is my pleasure to introduce Professor Marcel Von Drake. He has been our program speaker for five years now, and you always ask for his return. The Professor is one of our HPL Shelter residents, and he is grateful for your continued support. He is here to tell his story. Professor?”
The professor looked the part of an aging academic, he was round and portly and barely fit into the rented tux someone had tucked around his body. But he did carry an aura of authority, as the man with all the answers. Not what I’d expect from a homeless person. I believe that was the point.
Judging from his speech, the professor had an ax to grind with most of the civilized world He did complain with panache, I will give him that.
Patrick shifted in his seat as the man spoke. He poured more wine into first Carrie’s glass, then his own. He gestured with the bottle toward the other tablemates, but they shook their heads, entranced with the vibrant message the speaker delivered.
“I can’t believe he’s not working in some college.” Carrie whispered.
“He was with a very small, liberal arts college.” Anne confirmed. “He had to leave; there was some scandal, so he can’t get a job anywhere. That’s part of his challenges.”
“He is an awfully good speaker. I wonder if he’d come to our Rotary meeting?” Our Flex man said.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 8