Page 87 of Sweet Caroline
Dad pulls the reading glasses off the end of his nose as he sits back in his chair. “Caroline. Come in.”
“Mom said you wanted to see me?” I take the seat across from him and smooth the fabric of my pleated linen skirt. The setup feels strangely formal, like a job interview.
“I spoke with Michael this week,” he says, returning his gaze to the papers on his desk.
“Okay…” I say slowly, trying to work out what my father’s financial advisor has to do with me.
“He’s done an analysis of my charitable contributions and he recommended I make some adjustments to my portfolio.”
An icy sensation spreads over the back of my neck. “What kind of adjustments?”
He spins one of the papers around to face me and slides it across the desk. “This will be the last year I’ll make my annual contribution to Found Family.”
“Wait. What?” My eyes jump between my father and the paper in front of me, which I’m not really digesting. He’s threatened this before but never gone through with it. Panic needles my stomach, knowing Dad’s substantial yearly donations are crucial to Found Family’s operational budget.
How did I screw this up?
Pretending to date Miles was supposed to avoid this—supposed to appease my dad and keep Found Family afloat. I thought I’d done enough: I’d followed his directives, been on my best behavior.
“Why?” I ask, bewildered.
“Return on investment, mainly.” He collects the remaining documents into a neat pile, then reaches for a paper clip from the caddy of office supplies near his computer.
I frown.
That’s not how charity donations work. You aren’t supposed to expect anything in return.
“Michael suggested some other philanthropic strategies that may…alignbetter.”
“Align better with what?” My expression falls when I realize what he means. “The campaign? But this is a personal donation. These aren’t campaign funds.”
“Of course not,” Dad agrees. “Look, I’ve supported your little project since day one, sweetheart.”
My little project?
I sit back in my seat. “And so, what, you’re just done now?”
“It’s a business decision, Caroline,” he says. “Nothing more. With you no longer at the helm, it’s a natural time for this to happen.”
“And what’s Adrian supposed to do?”
“Adrian will find another donor.” He says it as if it’ll be easy. An afterthought. “He’s a charming young man. I hear he has no trouble getting what he wants. From womenandmen, apparently.”
My brows draw together. I’ve never known Dad to be biphobic. “Are you making a dig at Adrian’s sexuality?”
“Don’t be dramatic.” He drops his gaze to his paperwork, avoiding the topic.
Attempting to shelve my frustration is getting challenging; at this point, the shelves are full-to-bursting.
“So, let me get this straight: you’re pulling a substantial donation from a small charity that relies on it, all because it’s no longermy little project, and supporting underprivileged youth isn’t winning you any points with voters? Have I got that right?”
He shakes his head. “Caroline?—”
“Wow.” I search his face, trying to make sense of this. Dad’s been trailing slightly in recent polls. This has got to be a strategic attempt to sway voters. Free up funds to make promises to the right people.
Gross.
“Don’t make this out to be something bigger than it is,” he says. “It’s simply a restructuring of my finances.”
