Read Online Happily Ever After? by Debra Kent - Free Book Online Page B

never cease? C.J. Patterson called me to apologize. She admitted that I was right about Big Head Johansen and
     begged my forgiveness. She told me that the coach had quit the team, quit his job, and moved with his family to Wyoming. Then
     she invited me to herhouse for tea Wednesday afternoon. I accepted the invitation, then wondered what the hell I could possibly talk to C.J. Patterson
     about for two hours.
    ’Til next time,
    V
June 19
    I met with Nancy Cooperman, a financial advisor with Barlowe Associates. Omar had recommended her, said that her clients include
     Bruce and Babs Alexander (they own half the county), Elgin Wiley (he owns the other half), and Marcus Osten (owns most of
     the McDonald’s franchises in this part of the country). I still can’t believe that I’m now part of this elite club. Nancy
     sketched out an elaborate but sensible plan, and all but guaranteed that she would double my money in eight to ten years.
    I told her I wanted to buy a summer house and she suggested Figure Eight Island on Cape Fear in Wilmington, North Carolina.
     I never heard of it. Nancy said she’d have a realty directory sent to me at once. What service!
    Saw Michael Avila at the bagel place. He was leaving as I walked in. He awkwardly apologized for not calling, said he’s been
     swamped with work. He told me again how much he loved my short hair. I did not believe him this time.
    ’Til next time,
    V
June 20
    C.J. Patterson doesn’t really want to be my friend.
    I figured this out after I had started on my second chocolate chip scone. She asked if I’d consider making a twenty-five-thousand-dollar
     donation to the hospital foundation. She said that my name would appear on a brass plaque by the reception area. “It’s an
     investment in our community,” C.J. intoned, “an expression of your commitment to the health and well-being of our precious
     community. It’s a legacy that will live on forever, a legacy for your children, and your children’s children.”
    I’d done enough fund-raising for the Center to know that you don’t just flat-out ask someone to donate $25,000. You cultivate
     them. You shmooze them. You ask them to join the board, or a committee. This kind of cultivation can take months, even years.
     And when the moment is right, you absolutely do not send someone like C.J. Patterson to “make the ask.” It’s an art, a science,
     as profound as a marriage proposal, as delicate as a butterfly wing. Two weeks ago, C.J. Patterson was calling me names. She
     wasn’t a friend. She wasn’t even someone I respected. And once I realized that it wasn’t my company she wanted but my money,
     I knew I had to leave. I stuffed the rest of the scone into my mouth and washed it down with lukewarm strawberry tea.
    “Thanks for having me, C.J.,” I told her as I gatheredmy jacket and bag. “Delicious scones. You’ll have to give me the recipe.” I didn’t say anything about a donation. I left the
     hospital brochure on her coffee table. When I told my mother what had happened, she said I’d better get used to it.
    Michael left a message on my machine. He has two tickets for the ballet this Saturday and wondered whether I’d like to join
     him. I called back and left a message on his machine. “Absolutely!” I said, a little too enthusiastically, I fear.
    ’Til next time,
    V
June 21
    I was just getting into the shower when the phone rang.
    “Don’t hang up.” The voice was small, thin, male.
    “Who is this?”
    “You’ve forgotten me already, have you?”
    It was Roger. His voice was so choked and shrunken I would have never guessed it belonged to my arrogant ex-husband.
    “What do you want?”
    “I wouldn’t be asking you this if I weren’t desperate,” he began, and I knew the rest.
    “No, Roger,” I interrupted. “I won’t bail you out.”
    “Wait! Hear me out. Please. I beg you.”
    Anger rose like bile in the back of my throat. Therewas so much I wanted to say. Instead, I