Bertie grimaced and turned away while his wife summoned a resigned smile. “Let me get you something to drink. I know how exhausting Alfred Pollard can be.”
Mrs. Hoover guided them into the large family room. The last time Delia was in this room, she confronted Wesley and quit her job. It felt like ages ago, and yet it was only three days earlier.
Bertie looked pensive as his wife poured lemonade. Once she joined them, he turned his troubled gaze to Finn. “I’m surprised to see you in that uniform. And with a military haircut. I expected to see you in your leather aviator’s jacket.”
“It’s pretty beaten up,” Finn said. “I didn’t think it was right to show up at a fancy business meeting looking like something the cat dragged in.”
Bertie tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Normally you’d be right, but these aren’t normal times. You’re an American hero and need to look like one. That battered-up leather jacket has panache. I suggest you wear it whenever you go out to shake the trees for donations.”
Delia sagged. It had been her advice to spiff up Finn, and her instincts had been wrong. Bertie must have noticed her dismay because he gave her knee a pat.
“Don’t take it so hard,” Bertie said. “Raising money is a difficulttask no matter who you ask. Let’s get the unpleasant business out of the way. You said Pollard’s donation didn’t amount to much. Let’s hear it.”
“The best he could do was spare us space on his steamships and his trains coming in from the Midwest.”
Bertie leaned forward. “How much space?”
“It’s spelled out in the contract,” she replied, handing him the documents.
Bertie’s brows lowered as he studied the papers, but after a moment, he looked up. “Fetch me some paper and a pencil, would you?” he asked his wife.
Mrs. Hoover disappeared into the office in search of the requested items. Bertie set aside the contract after his wife returned, and he started jotting down numbers and formulas, chewing his bottom lip as he worked.
“I hope I didn’t mess up,” Delia whispered to Finn.
“You didn’t,” Bertie assured without looking up. He continued scribbling, the scratching of his pencil the only sound in the otherwise silent room. At last, he threw down the pencil, crossed his arms, and looked straight at Delia. “Do you know what you have done?” It was impossible to tell if Bertie was furious or about to burst with glee.
“No,” Delia said, feeling mildly terrified. Even Mrs. Hoover looked confused by Bertie’s strange behavior.
“I spend a fortune leasing cargo ships to send food to Belgium. I pay for fuel, the crew’s wages, and rental fees tied to the ships. I pay port charges and for maritime insurance. You just secured generous cargo spacefor free. And boxcar spacefor free. Do you know the value of that donation?”
“No,” Delia admitted, but hope was beginning to bloom.
Bertie clapped his hands together. “I don’t either because you worded the contract to last until the end of the war, and who knows how long that will be? Delia, this is a definite victory. If the war lasts even a year longer, the value of this contract is worth millions!”
“How on earth did you make it happen?” Mrs. Hoover asked.
Elation coursed through Delia. “It was Finn’s doing,” she replied, and both Hoovers turned to look at Finn.
“Mr. Pollard wanted to know what it was like to fly,” Finn said. “And what it was like being trapped in Belgium while the Jerries were looking for me. He couldn’t get enough of it, so I just kept talking.”
“And I want you tokeeptalking,” Bertie said. “People are hungry for stories like yours. Rich folks have been hoarding cash because of the war, so ask each donor to donate a slice of his business. Get the cattlemen to donate beef. Get the millers to donate flour. The newspapermen can give us free advertising and so on.”
Delia rocked back in her chair as understanding sank in. Finn flashed her a wink and a grin, and she grinned back.
“This calls for a celebration,” Bertie said. “All over the world, humanity is sinking into darkness and despair, so we must celebrate these rare glimpses of joy. The CRB is proof that compassion knows no borders, and it shall be a beacon of light, reminding the world that goodness and mercy shall not be snuffed out by the winds of war.”
Despite their triumph with Alfred Pollard, the CRB was still millions of dollars short of their monthly goal, so Delia couldn’t afford to rest on her laurels. Most people had never even heard of the CRB, which meant they needed to drum up publicity before approaching any potential new donors.
She set up a meeting with Finn at the ice cream parlor on the first floor of her apartment building, even though she risked encountering cold shoulders from others who lived in the building. Finn loved ice cream, and this was a convenient place for them to meet. She wouldn’t let the bullies interfere with her work, including Hilde and her gang who occupied a table near the front.
Delia chose a table at the back of the shop. The air was filledwith the aroma of fresh waffle cones, and she casually read a newspaper while awaiting Finn’s arrival. She was so engrossed in the lurid story of a show girl suspected of murdering her lover that she didn’t notice Finn standing over her until he spoke.
“You really like that schlock?”
She held up the folded issue of theNew York Journal. “This is research,” she said, not at all embarrassed to be caught reading the trashy newspaper because Finn already knew she had lowbrow tastes when it came to literature. “In fact, this newspaper is going to play an important role in our fundraising.”
Finn propped his crutches against the wall beside the booth and joined her. Something about a man in uniform was universally appealing, even to a pacifist like Delia. His khaki cotton shirt fit his broad shoulders perfectly. The matching trousers were folded into the brown leather lace-up boots, and he looked frightfully attractive. Other women in the ice cream parlor noticed, sending surreptitious glances his way.
