Page 3 of Second to None
Chapter 2
Emily scanned the expectant faces of the six board members seated around the chipped Formica-topped table in the Carver After-School Care Center’s dining room. She’d pushed her way into Max’s office that afternoon in a final, desperate effort not to have to deliver bad news to these enthusiastic supporters of the K-9 Angelz program.
She sighed inwardly before she spoke in a voice that projected more confidence than she felt. “My meeting with Mr. Varela did not go as well as I’d hoped. He had only a few minutes to speak with me, and I wasn’t able to pique his interest in that short period of time. Evidently, he’s in the midst of some sort of business deal, so he didn’t have the time to come see our facility.”
Horace Parks, the one and only businessman on the board, nodded. “He’s selling V-Chem Industries to a conglomerate. The deal will make him a billionaire.”
“Then you’d think he could spare a few hundred thousand dollars for the kids,” Gloria Woods said.
Emily felt compelled to defend Max. “He does a lot of good with his foundation already. Which brings me to the one piece of hopeful news: he promised to ask Shelby Laird to revisit our proposal. With his endorsement, she may change her mind.”
“If he’s endorsing our proposal, why not just approve it?” Gloria asked.
Horace shook his head. “A good manager won’t overrule the head of his foundation unless he has a very strong reason. Not to mention that people like him get asked for donations all the time by friends, even acquaintances.”
Emily winced as guilt pinched at her. She’d tried to play on their friendship and even her husband’s death, which made her feel like the worst kind of manipulator, even if it had been for the benefit of the kids. However, seven years was a long time, especially since she and Jake had lost touch with Max soon after he’d left Camp Lejeune, giving up when their e-mails and phone messages had gone unanswered. Jake had been especially upset by that, since he considered Max a friend.
She’d thought Max might contact her when Jake died, but clearly he hadn’t known about her husband’s death. That explained why he hadn’t attended the funeral.
A discouraged murmur traveled around the table.
“Does anyone have any other resources?” Gloria asked.
A leaden silence settled over the group.
“If only we had more time,” Violet Johnson said. Her voice was soft, like the halo of white hair around her head, but she could mobilize every able-bodied person in the neighborhood if there was need for a vacant lot cleanup or a bake sale.
Emily sighed in agreement. She could have cobbled together a patchwork of grants and loans if they’d had even six months. “Gloria, would you talk with Buster Morton one more time to see if he’ll tell us who the developer is? Maybe we can strike a deal with him before he starts construction.”
“Sure thing, hon,” Gloria said with a nod.
Emily knew that was a long shot, but she would go through the motions to make herself feel she’d left no stone unturned.
“Let’s move on to the final numbers for last month,” she said, picking up a printout of her spreadsheet. The Carver Center ran on a shoestring, but at least it was a long, strong shoestring, thanks to the people in this room.
When the meeting was adjourned, most of the board members stayed to have another cup of coffee and a second wedge of the homemade sweet potato pie Violet had brought. Her pies were legendary, which might explain her influence over the large, muscular men of all ages who showed up to help whenever she called for it.
Emily indulged herself in another slice of sweetness in an effort to drown her sorrow about the demise of the K-9 Angelz project.
Back at the beginning of December, she’d been excited, as usual, when the kids wrote down their requests for Santa. Every year, the Carver Center’s staff took those wish lists and worked with the local merchants to guarantee one gift for each child. It was a small miracle in these children’s lives.
But that afternoon, three kids had stared glumly at their blank papers without writing a word. When she asked them why, first Tishawn, then Mallie, and finally the huge but soft-spoken Diego had told her that all they wanted for Christmas was a dog like her collie mix, Windy.
None of them had any hope of getting one.
Tishawn’s mother worked two weekday jobs and one weekend job to keep the family housed and fed. There was no money left over for dog food or vet bills. Mallie lived with her aunt, who treated her more like a servant than a child. She slept on an air mattress on the kitchen floor, like Cinderella without the fairy godmother.
As for Diego, no one knew whether his mother was alive or dead, and his father was a loan shark who was known to beat up customers if they didn’t pay on time. When twelve-year-old Diego refused to join the family business, his father threw him out of the apartment. Now Emily broke half a dozen laws by allowing the boy to sleep in the warm, dry basement of the center, on a bed Violet had scrounged up, until they could find a stable foster home for him. Violet also dropped off clothes whenever she could find large enough sizes to fit the boy. The elderly woman never mentioned Diego’s name, but Emily accepted them, knowing who they were for.
When all three children had expressed the same wistful desire within one hour, how could Emily not take that as a sign that she was meant to find a way to make it happen? These children needed the kind of unconditional love and attention a dog would give them.
Turning to the window, she looked out onto the vacant lot beside the center’s four-story building. The lot they couldn’t afford to buy. The temperature had warmed up from its arctic levels just enough to allow a light dusting of snow to fall, coating the short brown grass of the lot in a layer of white that glowed under the streetlights. The window she stood beside painted an elongated rectangle of gold on the snow, with her silhouette at its center.
Buster Morton was a good neighbor. Unlike many absentee owners, he kept the lot tidy behind its chain-link fence, partly out of respect for the center. He approved of their mission, but he approved of money more.
Emily couldn’t blame him. He deserved to make a profit on the property he’d invested in before a slow wave of gentrification began to make South Harlem more desirable. She turned back to the dining room, where the warm cream walls were festooned with colorful paper chains, cotton-ball-bearded Santas, and cupcake-liner wreaths, the holiday decorations all handcrafted by the kids.
This was where the children ate what the staff called an afternoon snack but was often the kids’ only dinner, one as healthy and hearty as Emily’s talented chef could make it on the center’s limited budget. One that could be even better with homegrown vegetables.
