3. Victoria
Chapter 3
Victoria
M y anxiety was raging,
Charles Huxley did not strike me as the type of man who enjoyed the presence of a loud woman, and I was too frazzled and exhausted to do even a decent impression of a quiet, well-mannered person today.
Fuck it.
I pushed open the door to Huxley Industries. The office took up the entire top floor of a pretty brick building near one end of downtown. Despite the frigid temperatures, each window was decorated with window boxes filled with blooming flowers. The interior was spotless, with recessed lighting and dark wood furniture. A large fireplace took up one end of the foyer.
I plastered a smile onto my face as I approached the receptionist. Before I could introduce myself, though, Charles Huxley was striding across the space.
He was tall and slim, with thick white hair. His blue suit, without a tie, made him look like he should be sailing his yacht rather than meeting with me.
“It’s a pleasure to see you.”
His teeth were impossibly white and perfectly straight. Being this close to them made me regret not being more vigilant with my retainer in high school.
He shook my hand a little too vigorously, then ushered me into a large office with a bay window and a massive mahogany desk.
As we settled, him behind his desk, and me in the guest seat across from him, I took out my portfolio.
“How is Louise?” He rested his forearms casually on the surface in front of him. “She has always been such a dear friend.”
I had to bite back a laugh at that statement. To avoid giving away how ridiculous I thought the statement was, I ducked my head and pretended to hunt in my purse for a pen.
Aunt Louise loathed politicians and hated rich, entitled people like the Huxleys. One of the biggest reasons the food pantry had struggled so much over the years was that she was constitutionally incapable of sucking up to wealthy people.
Thankfully, I was better at it. I’d encountered plenty of self-important pricks in my lifetime. Hell, I’d married one. So I had a long résumé of experience to draw from.
With a forced smile, I finally focused on him. Charles Huxley was harmless, and I needed to get on his good side. He owned several companies and controlled a lot of the local real estate. He had money and access.
He was a former lieutenant governor and knew a lot of important people in Augusta.
In the past few years, he’d shifted his business interests to the area and would be a great partner for the food pantry. He could bring in donations and help with grants and political stuff. There were so many opportunities to help build up this community if I could only get my hands on the funds and connections.
Needless to say, this meeting was critical.
“Here is our prospectus.” I held out the glossy booklet I’d spent a fortune having printed at the Staples in Orono. “As you can see, the area is facing record food insecurity, and on page seven, we detail the regional assets that have closed or reduced their impact since the pandemic.”
With his lips pressed together, he flipped through, skimming the pages.
“We’re looking at unprecedented increases in need in the region and state, and locally, we’re outpacing them.”
He nodded.
“We truly have more clients than we can handle, and those numbers are only growing.” I was veering off my prepared script and starting to sweat. I had been hopeful that the stats about childhood hunger were all I’d need to hook him in.
He continued his perusal of the prospectus, casually flipping through the pages.
All my data, costs, and projections were laid out.
And this man was barely glancing at any of it.
“You know,” he said. “My son would be the perfect person to help you with this. Give you some great ideas for improvement.”
His son? I almost vomited in my mouth.
“Give me one second.” He held up an elegant finger and picked up his phone.
Dammit. I didn’t need “help” or “ideas” with the food pantry. I needed money. Donations, philanthropy, call it what you want. I was good at this. I attended national calls and trainings. I put in the work to do my best. And we were pushing every single day to help every person in need. I needed money, time, and the ability to clone myself to get all the work done. Not a meeting with failson Denis Huxley.
I shifted uncomfortably. The last thing I wanted was the Huxleys to mansplain nonprofit management to me.
When Denis entered the room, I stood and forced a smile. If I made all this sound mundane, was it possible they would cut me a check and leave me to it?
“Victoria,” he said, taking my outstretched hand and pulling me into a hug. I was not a hugger. Physical contact with strangers and even acquaintances was one of the things I avoided most in life. The way my body stiffened didn’t deter him, though.
Denis Huxley was the worst. As a kid, he was a little shit, and from what I could tell, not much had changed.
Charles urged us both to sit, and while he talked, I pretended to take notes, hoping I could extract myself sooner rather than later.
When Denis put his hand on my shoulder, it took all my willpower not to shrug him off. “I think Victoria and I could work well together, Dad.” He beamed at me. “Establish a true partnership.”
I had to contain my revulsion. Instead, I mentally recited statistics, reminding myself of all the good we could do.
I would not fail. I could not fail.
The community needed me.
“Yes.” My tone was a little too bright, but it was the best I could do. “Though there isn’t much to partner on. We’re looking for sustained philanthropic commitments. If you look at page ten, there is a list of fundraisers we’re considering. We’d love to have the Huxley name on board as a sponsor.”
The men gave me identical noncommittal nods. Clearly Charles had worked hard to groom Denis.
This meeting would go one of two ways. Either they’d be willing to donate and tell me now, or they wouldn’t. They’d give me the “this is outside the scope of our giving this year” spiel. Or the “we’re focusing our charitable portfolio on animal issues this year.”
I could usually tell whether I’d walk out with a check within the first few minutes.
But these guys were stringing me along. Batting me around like a cat with a mouse.
Frustrated but holding it in, I stood. “I’ve already taken up so much of your time.” With a fake smile in place once more, I lifted my chin. “Let’s put a follow-up on our calendars.”
“No need,” Denis said. “You and I can meet personally. I’ll work up a proposal for you.”
Brow raised, I scrutinized him. Proposal? Shit. What I was asking for was fairly straightforward, but I’d heard the rumors. Apparently they were true. When it came to the Huxleys, things were never straightforward.
“Of course,” I said, backing out of the office. “And thanks again.”