Page 12 of When You're Gone
“I know.” She gave him a sad smile, grateful she didn’t have to convince him of the severity of the problem they were facing. He got it. She knew he would understand. “Maggie said it would be $20,000 to rent the cheaper backup location for two weeks. We also lost at least $20,000 in supplies.”
“So you need $40,000?” he asked flippantly.
She held her breath at the enormity of the number. Her dad’s annual income barely hit $40,000.
She bit down on her lower lip and nodded.
He didn’t hesitate. “It’s yours. We’ll go to my house when we’re done here, and I’ll write you a check.”
Relief flooded her body, washing out every bit of hesitation and humility with it. She couldn’t believe she was asking him for this, but it wasn’t for her—not really. It was for Camp New Hope. For the dozens of kids who had already registered and booked plane tickets and were slogging through the day-to-day, counting down to the one week a year when people didn’t give them pitying side glances or avoid talking about their deceased parent altogether. She had been that kid once. She would have been crushed to have camp canceled.
“I wish I could say it was just a loan or that I could repay you, but the foundation isn’t in the position to do that.”
“Camp New Hope doesn’t have an endowment? How do they manage their yearly operating costs?”
She chuckled nervously. “I don’t really know what an endowment is, so I assume no. We hold fundraisers throughout the year, then some kids pay a sliding-scale fee to attend. Everything is donation-based, though. The only paid staff are our director, Jill, my friend Maggie, and a part time administrative assistant.”
“Yikes. It sort of sounds like you need more than $40,000.”
“Field, no,” she rushed out. “I didn’t tell you that to get more money out of you. I feel bad enough even asking, but the board is already telling us to draft day camp plans, so I knew I had to act fast…”
“What if we could earn the extra money?”
Her eyebrows shot into her hairline. “And how do you propose we do that?”
“We could put on a fundraiser.”
“We already do a spaghetti dinner and breakfast with Santa, plus the annual Mother’s Day flower sale. I’m not sure…”
Fielding swiveled in his barstool and gave her a sly smile. “Think bigger, Victoria Thompson. I mean arealfundraiser—like a gala. Like, a thousand-dollar-a-plate event. Do you have any idea how many rich pricks I know just looking to throw their money around and outbid each other on shit they don’t really want or need in the name of supporting a good cause?”
She balked at his words. “Did you saya thousand dollars a plate?”“It’s not really a big deal.” He chuckled before taking another swig of beer. “And the real money is made during the event, anyway. I bet we could raise half a million dollars in one night for a cause like Camp New Hope.”
“I don’t know if the board would be willing to wait for us to throw a fundraiser to see if they could still hold camp this year…”
“My offer still stands. No, correction. My offer is now $50,000, because I’m not gonna sit by while you have to settle on the cheaper overnight camp option. I can’t have you getting tetanus on some janky bunk beds at a second-rate camp. I’ll put up the money for the gala, too, if you like that idea. I can pay for the venue, the rentals, the entertainment, the caterer…”
She was overwhelmed by his generosity—by his ideas and the way he wanted to help her tackle this head-on. But it didn’t feel right to ask him to go above and beyond. “Field, I can’t let you do that. It’s too much.”
He gave her a pointed look. “It’s not. And you can pay me back for the fundraiser expenses if you want. But my donation is nonnegotiable, and I’d really like to help with the event, too, if you’re into that idea.”
“I mean, yes. Of course I’m into it. I just don’t know how the hell we’ll pull it off…”
“Leave that to me,” Fielding offered assuredly, finishing the rest of his beer. “I’ve gone to enough of these things over the years to know the basics. I’ll hire an event planner and start working on the guest list. I’m sure my mom will help me fill in the blanks if there’s something I’m forgetting.”
“How’s she doing?” Tori inquired at the mention of his mom. Gloria Haas had just gotten back from another stint at rehab, and Tori had been meaning to ask him for an update.
“She’s good right now. She’s still on the wagon, which shouldn’t be as impressive as it is, considering she’s only been home three weeks.”
“That’s encouraging, right?”
Fielding held her gaze for two seconds before giving her a sad smile. “It is what it is. The longer she stays sober, the harder it is on Dem when she starts up again. Rehab and sobriety are never a long-term solution for Gloria Haas. They’re just a brief reprieve for us until she relapses.”
Tori nodded in understanding, even though his hopeless assessment gutted her. It was wild to think that when she first met Fielding, she knew nothing about his mom’s drinking problems. She had no way to predict how Rhett would struggle with the same disease, and how that experience would bond her to the man sitting beside her. The difference—and she hoped to everything good in the Universe there was a difference between Fielding’s mom and her husband—was that Rhett was painstakingly aware of his problem, and he was determined not to succumb to its clutches.
She worried about Rhett’s health and his sobriety. It was a daily struggle for him to keep his head above water, but she believed his determination would be victorious in the end. In a battle of wills, Everhett Wheeler was unmatched.
As if reading her mind, Fielding asked, “What’s Wheeler think of all this?”
