Allie nodded at the green file, peeking out from under the debris. “What about that? What were you planning on doing with all that third-world grant stuff?”
“Does it matter?” Monica plucked it out and dropped the folder in the trash can. “There.”
“What were you planning on doing with it?” Allie repeated.
“I thought the foundation could start branching out, make a bigger impact, have an international presence.”
“We’re not in this to make a name for ourselves. We’re in this to help people.”
“That equipment and training could help people, Allie. And you still don’t understand—foundation work is a competitive sport. If we don’t start making some big moves, we’ll get left behind.”
Allie’s brows dipped together. “You make fund-raising sound mercenary.”
Monica started cramming stuff back in her purse. “It is. For every dollar we get, some other charity goes hungry. It’s a cutthroat business. Donations have risen by seven percent this year. I worked to make that happen.”
In the last two years under Monica’s leadership, the foundation had grown. She’d added events and luncheons. She’d put together packets and presentations to get larger donors involved. Last year, they’d had their first walk-a-thon, and next year she wanted to add a bike race. It didn’t bring in very much money, but it upped their profile in the community, which was vital for survival.
Allie sat in the guest chair and crossed her legs. “You know how much money it takes for projects like that?”
“Yes,” Monica snapped. “I know exactly how much. I did a shit ton of research on it.”
“That’s not our vision,” Allie said. “We help individuals pay for treatment. That’s our purpose.”
Allie kept using “our” and “we” as if Monica had any say in the matter. She didn’t. Allie might include her in fund-raising minutiae, but Monica had no voice. “Maybe we should change our vision.”
“Monica, you probably don’t remember when Mom needed that experimental treatment—you were too young.”
“I was fifteen, Allie. I remember.”
“Dad went ass deep into debt to pay for it.”
“I know that too.” In fact, the board had hired a marketing team who had come up with brochures and ads that featured Trisha Campbell’s story, distilling their mom’s beautiful life into a thirty-second sound bite—turning her from a wife and mother into nothing more than a statistic. Monica wanted to celebrate her mother’s life, not grieve her death repeatedly. Allie always did this, made it seem like she was the only one who remembered what their mother had gone through. But Monica and Brynn had been there too.
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Monica said. “If we have no venue, we have no gala. No gala means we can’t offer more than a handful of grants next year.” Monica began gathering up all the paperclips on her desk.
“We need to get busy,” Allie said. “We have to cancel all the sponsors, the vendors, call all the attendees and the press. This is a disaster.”
What a shitty day—first her nuclear blowout with Cal, and now this. Monica had put too much of herself into this gala—she couldn’t just give up. She dropped the paperclips back on the desk. “You know what? We’re not canceling that gala. Not without trying to find another location. I’ve worked too damn hard to bring in donations. If we don’t pull this off, we’ll be out in the cold.”
When a knock sounded at the door, both Monica and Allie turned toward it. Stella tiptoed into the room, bearing two cups and a carafe of coffee. “Sorry to interrupt. Who needs caffeine?” She set the cups on the desk. Her gaze bounced between Monica and Allie. “So are we canceling?”
“Not yet.” Monica glanced at Allie as she said it.
“I’ve called an emergency board meeting for tomorrow to explain the situation,” Allie said. “Even if we do find an alternative venue, less than two weeks isn’t long enough to replan this event.”
“I disagree. I’m up to the task. Are you?”
“Fine, I’m in, but only if we find a suitable replacement site and the board agrees. But I have to tell you, Mon, I don’t think it’s going to happen. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“Have you talked to the hotel manager?” Monica poured herself a cup of coffee and added sugar. It was a three-pack kind of morning. “Does he have any rooms available?”
Allie shook her head. “No, he’s all booked up. I even had Trevor try and convince him, but it was a no-go.”
Monica turned to Stella. “Tell the staff to stop what they’re doing and call every hotel, every casino. Think outside the box on this one—museums, the Cactus Garden. Try everywhere and anywhere.”
“You got it, honey.” She took the coffeepot and marched out of the office.
Monica dropped her purse on the floor. “Are you going to stay and help, or do you need to get home?”
“I’ll stay. We should divide locations alphabetically. Do we have a white board?”
There weren’t any apologies, no postmortems on their fight. But working together on this gala thing, maybe they could call a truce. At least for now.
Monica took another sip of coffee. It was going to be one long-ass day.
* * *
Cal finally calmed down. It had taken an hour-long drive in the desert to accomplish it, but the anger he’d felt upon leaving Monica’s house dissipated.
She’d said some ugly things to him—mostly true—and kicked his ass to the curb…which he deserved.
Monica claimed he had no purpose in life, that he was running from himself, that he couldn’t confront things head-on. She was partly right.
Cal’s purpose had been cars and motors. Starting from the bottom up, he enjoyed repairing damaged machinery, bringing it back to life. He was good at it, loved it. But it didn’t consume him the way it used to.
And he wasn’t running from himself either, not exactly. He just didn’t feel at home anywhere, a misfit. Might as well have a bit of travel, see new and interesting things. But now, it sounded rather dismal. Lonely.
That bit about confronting things head-on, well, Monica was dead wrong on that score. Cal had confronted her just this morning, face to bloody face, and they’d wound up in a stonking row. Tackling it that way had been a stupid move, admittedly. Direct and honest didn’t work with Monica—she was too wrapped up in her own lies. Not that she’d ever admit it. Predictably, she’d gotten her hackles up. He couldn’t blame her, the way he’d carried on. But seeing Monica in that house, with her paper plates and her bare walls, depressed the hell out of him. No, it enraged him.
At night, he held Monica in his arms—the woman who made him smile and challenged him and asked a million questions about the world. Then every morning that woman disappeared in a puff of smoke, and Miss Prim took her place. And when Monica had become less communicative in the last week, Cal felt as though she were shutting him out.
Something or someone had forced her into the role of a drab moth. She was anything but. Monica Campbell was bright colors and loud music, and yes, she was caring and considerate too, but so terribly unhappy. He didn’t know whether it was because Allie peeked over her shoulder every five minutes or that the foundation reminded Monica of her mother—but he wanted to fix it.
Then she’d accused him of treating her like one of his battered cars. Again, she had a point. When he’d seen her that first day at Trevor’s house, Cal’s only thought had been restoring the bright, bubbly girl he’d kissed five years ago. Now Cal was invested; he’d grown to care about Monica. She wasn’t just a project.
She didn’t owe him any explanations, not really. It was her life to waste, and even so, he wanted to be part of it. Now Cal would be lucky if she ever talked to him again.
He looked down at the gift bag in his hand. She definitely couldn’t talk to him if she didn’t have a phone. So he’d bought her an upgraded one. With a bright pink case.
As he continued stalking to his car, the midmorning sun peeked over his shoulder. When he reached the Mustang, Cal’s own phone vibrated against his hip. Hoping it was Monica, he glanced at the screen with a sigh. “What is it, Paolo?”