“Of course,” I agree. “Your generosity should be recognized.”
He nods once, almost dismissively, then reaches for another cookie. “Now, tell me about that brother of yours. I hear Samuel’s latest project is in Alaska?”
We make chitchat about Sam and his career, segueing to my older brothers and their various endeavors and investments.
My brothers capitalized on the opportunities going to Saint Michael’s had provided us. Hendrix had moved into tech, becoming a leader in ethical artificial intelligence and sustainable, accessible app design. Thom and Joe had started a boutique liquor label catering to the wealthy. While Sam had moved into film, chasing his dream of telling stories.
Meanwhile, I attempted to coerce my contacts to part with their hard-earned cash. A surprisingly difficult feat.
I’d started my career as a teacher, following in my father’s footsteps, but quickly found that the school systems, while well funded, didn’t quite meet the needs of the children we taught.
Following a charity event with Brad’s mother, I’d floated the idea of establishing my own charity—one that partnered with not-for-profits to support their fundraising endeavors. And so the Archer House had been born.
Twice a week I used Hendrix’s meeting room to host donors and convince them to part with their money, and the other three days I split between charity admin, writing grant proposals, and teaching a remedial afterschool class or two as required.
I missed being in the classroom, but I loved the difference our programs made in areas that desperately needed them.
As I escort him out, Duncan raises the one topic I’ve managed to avoid. “And I hear that Peter Greenfeld is getting married.”
I nod. “Yes, to Bess Kirkson.”
He pauses at the elevator, waiting for the car to arrive. “Shame. Always thought you’d be marrying into the family.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
The doors slide open, and he steps through, hitting the ground floor button. “Always thought it would be between you and one of the Greenfelds. It made sense.” He shakes his head. “But then you married that no-good sham and, well. That’s that.” He eyes me. “Such a shame. Until next time.”
The elevator doors slide closed, leaving me standing in the office reception, staring at my reflection in the stainless-steel.
What the hell was that?
“Molly?”
I shake off my confusion and turn to Vivian, my brother’s receptionist. She gives me a small, grandmotherly smile. “Did you get it?”
“He signed on the dotted line.” I hold up my clipboard with his check clipped safely to the front. “Now we just have to deliver.”
Vivian, claps her hands, bouncing on her heels and sending her silver corkscrew curls flying. “I knew it! Just think of those beautiful children we’ll help.”
“What’s next on the agenda?” I ask, handing the clipboard over. She tucks it under her arm and checks her tablet.
“For the charity? Nothing. But you’re tutoring at the community center at two. And you have a wedding dress lunch date with Miss Kirkson first.”
I nod, suppressing a sigh. “I’d better get a move on.”
“Shall I call you a car?”
I check my watch. “No, I’ll walk. It’s a beautiful day.” I glance down the office corridor. “I should say goodbye to Hendrix first.”
“He’s in a planning meeting until five. I’ll pass on your regards.”
I nod. “Thanks, Vivian. If I haven’t said it lately, you’re awesome.”
She chuckles, brushing me off. “Go enjoy your day.”
Chars in spring reminds me of a song—beautiful one day, a muddy slush the next. But the stroll through Romisah Park where the leaves are budding and the birds are singing and the sun is shining and couples are frolicking is just what the doctor ordered to snap me out of my funk.
Apologies, my cynicism is showing.
