“Sure. What’s up?”
“I was talking to my friend,” he informs me. “The one I was telling you about who works for the nonprofit.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Anyway, they’re hiring.”
My interest piques. “Oh?”
“Do you want to meet with him? It doesn’t have to be anything formal. Maybe you can pick his brain, see if nonprofit work is something you’d be interested in.”
I consider his question. I’m notnotinterested. “What was the name of the company?”
“The company’s called The Hope Foundation.”
“Does a nonprofit have the budget for a finance person? I thought they’d outsource that or something.”
“I’m not too sure,” he answers. “But I think Thad mentioned he’s putting some feelers out. I guess the organization is growing, and they need someone with experience to manage the budgeting and financing end.”
Buster tugs at his leash as we reach the main entrance to Grace’s building. “Thad?”
“Yeah, that’s my friend’s name,” he explains. “I’ve known him a long time. Since college. He’s good. Nothing like that boss of yours.”
I cringe at the mention of Mr. Sheridan. A reminder of how badly I want out from under his reign. “Okay. Just text me his info, and I guess I’ll give him a call.”
“I’m going to send you his email,” he informs me. “Send over your résumé. I’ll give him a heads up.”
“Okay, thanks.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Grace
I’ve been toldI have a bleeding heart many times. At seven when I wanted to bring home the stranded cat lying half-dead at the end of our street. At nineteen when I wanted nothing more than to give some cash to the weary man sitting outside a McDonald’s asking for some spare change. And now, after almost four decades of life, when I see three sisters huddled over their mother’s gurney, wondering where they go from here as they’re handed a terminal diagnosis. I can’t help but watch as my heart oozes and trickles while they tell me they’ll take the hospice referrals with a heavy heart. It comes with the job, and I shouldn’t let it cut into my empathy with such a daunting burden, but sometimes I can’t help it.
In an attempt to wash away the tearful thank you my client’s daughter extended to me as I let the nurses take over, I’m having Jayne take the next referral and heading down to the cafeteria for some coffee. As I wait for my flimsy paper cup to fill, I reach for my phone from my back pocket and dial Andrew’s number.
“Hey.”
A smile replaces the heartbroken frown I’ve been wearing. “Hey,” I respond quietly.
“You okay? What’s wrong?”
I shake my head, brushing off his gentle concern. “It’s nothing,” I tell him. “Just a bad day at work. I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“I know,” I admit. “I will be.”
“How about something to cheer you up?”
“What did you have in mind?” I ask, my mood effectively lifted just the tiniest bit.
“I’ll pick up some of the hazelnut waffles and bring them over, and you can tell me all about your bad day. Or, if you don’t feel like doing that, you can put on another movie you can fall asleep to.”
“Okay, I don’t do that witheverymovie.”
“No, just the ones you choose.” He laughs, and I feel like my heart is going to be okay. The tourniquet I tied around it to temporarily stop the bleeding can slowly come off with Andrew’s reassuring words and distraction tactics. “So? Waffles for dinner?”
