“Lynn has been messing with the books at the lido.”
“What? That’s not good,” Ash says, recoiling.
“No. No. You don’t understand. She’s been sneaking moneyin. Not taking it out. Donations. Like, heaps of them. Fake memberships. Real memberships she actually paid for. Overly generous things for the groups, like free coffees for the Mocha Mamas, just so they paid their gold coin entry and kept coming back.”
“But why on earth...?”
“I guess she was trying to help. But I found so many irregularities. I thought, at first, Gerry was laundering money, but I was able to trace it back to her due to the timing of the last three deposits. She has been keeping that place afloat.”
“My God, that’s a good story. Is it true?” Jackie asks, gasping again.
“I mean, I think so?”
“Good God,” Samira says, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Lynn. Oh damn, that makes me angry at Gerry, who has been pulling out almost everything she’s put in.”
“I know,” I say.
“We have one week to hit every book club, music class, gym, hiking group, beach yoga, and bingo hall in this town. Everyone needs to work the groups and tell her story. Lynn is the greatest philanthropist this town has ever known, and she’s going to use that passion and love to help lift Broadgate up,” says Samira.
“I’m not sure,” Jackie interrupts. “Is this ethical? Won’t she be angry that we’ve outed her?”
“I think this is a greater-good thing.” Ash shrugs. “If she’s really doing that, throwing her arms around our community in that way, then it’s time we did the same in return.”
“Ryan,” I say, on a roll, “we need to come up with a strategicplan of attack. We need people everywhere, telling the real story of Lynn. And we need to start at the beating heart of Broadgate’s grapevine—you, Jackie.”
“I have eighteen appointments this week,” she says.
“Excellent.”
“I’ll help too,” Ash says, and our eyes meet fleetingly, and I feel a piercing pang of sadness in my heart.
“You’re the best,” I say, staring at my toes. “Truly the best.”
I head to the coatrack and pull down my handbag. There, in the back zipper, is the tin filled with phone numbers that I’d torn down at the church notice board. Guitar lessons, choir, book groups, belly dancing, and the lady offering Russian language. Dozens of numbers of local Broadgate residents. Hundreds of potential voters.
33
I run out ofa kundalini yoga class, laughing to myself. I bolt toward the hearse, which has still not sold, and drive down the main street to pick up Samira, who is standing outside the Broadgate youth soccer training ground with a group of mothers surrounding her. She waves to me as I approach, says her good-byes, and runs up and jumps in the car.
“This has been a quite a week,” she says.
“I know,” I say. “The ladies at that kundalini yoga class were all over it. So were the choir. I couldn’t get through to anyone at paintball, but I doubt anyone there was old enough to vote.”
“It’s the fact that everyone kind of knows her, but no onereallyknows her.”
“Everyone should know her. She’s kind of a superstar.”
“Did you speak to your friend, by the way? Charlie?” she asks as the car chugs up the street.
“Not yet. But it’s okay. I’m trying not to worry too much. I’m trying to just let it breathe as you suggested.”
“And what about Ash?” she says, frowning at me.
“I don’t know. He has been avoiding me this week, and I’m not sure... ,” I say.
“Look, Mara, Ash and Kate are no more. They only really got back together for one date or so, but the word is he wasn’t feeling it.”
I gasp quietly to myself.
