14. Victoria
Chapter 14
Victoria
S ince I’d gotten nowhere with the Huxleys so far, I focused all my energy on planning the summer fundraiser. Last year, we’d done a wood chopping competition where I’d pitted the Gagnons against the Heberts. In a town that was home to two large timber companies, a town where a large percentage of the citizens worked in the timber industry or a related field, we liked to honor our traditions. Gagnon Lumber and Hebert Timber had been business rivals for generations, and the families were just as competitive. The feud between them had been going for as long as either company had been in business, so it made sense to let them duke it out with axes. We’d raised a good chunk of money during the event, and this year I planned to step it up a notch.
Since begging the most well-connected businesspeople in town hadn’t been as successful as I’d hoped, I’d have to rely on the power of lumberjacks to push past the fundraising finish line. Despite how much help I had, I was still nervous about the turnout.
When I was a kid, the people of Lovewell hosted festivals every other weekend. Tourists came from all over to sample our blueberry pie, race canoes in our lake, and hike to the myriad of hidden jewels in our mountains.
But the past decade had been hard on the town, and when the inn closed, the rest of the tourism businesses had folded.
Last year, our outlook had begun to improve. RiverFest, a fun fall-themed event that brought people from the entire region together, had been revived. Several new businesses had opened in the past couple of years. The salon was newer, as was the coffee shop, and the pizzeria would be open any day now.
The inn had recently been sold at auction. With any luck, the new owners would remodel and reopen. That property was exquisite. A facility like that could change things for this town.
We’d all worked hard to boost the local economy, and I was doing my part by providing opportunities to ogle muscular men with axes. All for a good cause, of course.
As I walked into the diner, Denis Huxley, dressed in a sky-blue polo and sharply pressed chinos, stood and waved. I had to suppress a shiver. For hours, I’d been reminding myself that I needed his help. A big grant from the Huxleys would go a long way. They hadn’t explicitly said no, so there was a chance. But it felt as though they weren’t taking me seriously. Denis was like a bored cat, tossing me around like a toy.
He’d called me in twice for meetings and asked me for data, only to admit that he hadn’t even looked at my prospectus. Now he was demanding we meet for lunch. I had actual work to do, and these bozos were only causing me to fall behind.
Still, I couldn’t alienate the richest people in town. I pasted a smile on my face and forced myself to think of the folks who were currently waiting for the Monday produce delivery to arrive. Our clients were mostly seniors, single parents, and babies who needed formula. I couldn’t let them down.
So I swallowed my pride and slid into the booth.
Bernice greeted me immediately, handing me a menu and pouring coffee into the mug on the table. “Here you are, sweetie. Heard about you and the mystery Hebert. So exciting. He’s quite handsome.”
The smile that spread across my face this time was genuine. Our morning run had done the trick. News of Noah and I had spread through the town quickly, along with details of our romantic weekend getaway to Kennebunkport. The knitting club was already taking bets on when we’d be engaged.
My phone had been going off all morning, lighting up with texts, which I studiously ignored. I wouldn’t set the record straight. Not when, for once, the town rumor mill was working in my favor.
As Bernice shuffled away, Denis rubbed his hands together. “I’m so pleased about our partnership.”
Partnership? What was he yammering on about?
With a flourish, he produced a spiral-bound packet. The front page was laminated and said “Huxley Industries and Lovewell Food Pantry Partnership proposal.”
I flipped it open and thumbed through it, finding page upon page of charts and tables. What the hell was this?
He was talking, likely explaining the details, but all that registered were buzzwords here and there. Terms like “Collaboration” and “synergy” He went on for a few minutes, a corporate word salad, each phrase making a bigger jumble of my thoughts.
“Sorry,” I said, stirring the milk into my coffee. “I’m confused about what you’re proposing. We’re a nonprofit. A partnership with us wouldn’t be beneficial for your business.” The Huxleys owned a construction company and controlled a ton of real estate. They were the kind of shady rich people who had offshore accounts. I wasn’t sure how they made their millions, and I probably didn’t want to know.
“My accountant pulled your 990s so we could see the tax records, and between that and the fact sheets you sent over, it seems the food pantry generates a great deal of waste.”
I sat up straighter, my hackles raising. He was pulling our tax records? Yes, they were public, but what the fuck was he playing at?
“The reporting available from the IRS is from two years ago.” I did my best to keep my tone even, though I was flush with anger. “So the records you reviewed were from before I took over. Furthermore, we’ve met multiple times. You’ve had ample opportunity to ask me questions, yet you’re relying on documentation you’ve dug up? I could have provided you with up-to-date numbers.”
Unbothered by my annoyance, he took a large bite of his club sandwich.
My food sat untouched. I’d lost my appetite. This was nothing but a game to him.
“Turn to page seven,” he said through a mouthful of food. “I went through your filings and made some improvements.”
Improvements? He had no idea how a food pantry operated. I highly doubted he could so easily come up with ways to optimize our use of funding.
If this wasn’t the definition of the audacity of a spoiled rich kid, I didn’t know what was.
Teeth gritted, I squinted at the pages, trying to make sense of what he was proposing.
“Tell me, how is it possible that you receive so much donated food, yet you still struggle to meet demand?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Since the pandemic, food insecurity is at an all-time high.” My pitch was a little too high, my tone a little too sharp, but there was no helping it now. I was far too close to the edge. “And while the state food bank provides us with nonperishables and some additional items, our produce, meat, eggs, and milk come from local farms and grocery stores. Most of which are products that cannot be sold. In turn, that means a large percentage of it is unusable.”
The first time I volunteered with Aunt Lou at the food pantry when I was probably ten or eleven was a memorable experience, mostly because while I went through crates of apples, bagging them for clients, I pulled out one that was so rotten it exploded in my hand, covering my face and arm in moldy mush.
Every week we unloaded crates of produce that farmers wouldn’t even feed their animals. How could we consider passing it out to human beings?
“I refuse to serve rotten food to my clients.” I clenched my hands together in my lap, willing myself to control my anger. “We all deserve nutritious food, and every person we interact with deserves to be treated with dignity. We compost with the co-op in Heartsborough, and a pig farm in Belfast takes some of the other stuff. Nothing is going to waste.”
He looked down his nose at me, his lips turned down, clearly unsatisfied with my explanation.
“I’ve been seeking corporate partnerships for long-term giving,” I continued, ignoring his haughty expression, “in the hopes of obtaining more buying power. With more donations coming in monthly, I can buy fresh meat, cheese, and eggs from suppliers. Diapers and formulas are gold in my world. With an influx of cash, I could even provide turkeys for Thanksgiving.”
Though I wasn’t the least bit happy, I gave him a big smile. Maybe, if I was lucky, he’d jump at the chance to be the official Thanksgiving sponsor. That would be a huge step.
“We’re committed to our charitable profile,” he said distractedly while he tapped at his phone as if he’d barely heard a word I’d said. “And I think our resources can assist with the improvements.”
A knot formed in my stomach. “Improvements?”
“Yes. My father and I would be open to using some of our construction resources to help make some capital improvements to the food pantry. We’ll charge you a reduced rate, of course.”
A wave of confusion hit me. What in the ever-loving fuck was he talking about? “We replaced our roof last year and rebuilt the garage to support all our refrigeration.” Owen Hebert had made most of that happen, and my lumberjack competition had done the rest.
Reaching across the table, he opened the proposal and pointed to a list of figures.
“We’ll make regular donations,” he said, suddenly wearing a too-bright smile. “For tax purposes. And come up with a project schedule.”
“So you’ll donate and get a big tax break. Then I’m supposed to use that money to hire your construction company to do work I don’t need?”
He tapped the portfolio. “Read it. You’ll see. What else would you do with this kind of money anyway?”
“Buy food,” I quipped, frowning.
“How much do people really need?”
My eye twitched, but I kept my mouth shut.
“What about food stamps?”
I held back a sigh. “Food stamps are great, but they don’t cover everything. And more importantly, a lot of people in need don’t qualify for food stamps. They may make too much to qualify, yet still struggle to afford regular access to nutritious food.”
He pressed his lips together, his brows lifting, as if he was vaguely amused.
My blood heated, and not in a good way. “Other people go through rough patches or get sick and can’t work. Government benefits, while great, require a lot of paperwork and take months to kick in. And that’s not accounting for those who have transportation challenges, language gaps, or health challenges. We’re a stopgap,” I explained. “A necessary and essential service that keeps people healthy and fed.”
Sure, our facility could use some updates, but it wasn’t in dire need of any repairs at the moment, thank God. I needed cash and supplies. Mrs. Miller was anemic, and Laurie’s baby was growing rapidly. It was impossible not to feel personally responsible for helping every person I could. That was why, despite the mandate from Aunt Lou and the urging of our accountant, I still wasn’t paying myself a salary.
“I think starting with rewiring would be best.” He stroked his weak chin, clearly not listening to a single word I’d said. “Maybe an addition. Surely you could use more space.”
My blood was boiling now. Of course, we could use more space. Who couldn’t? But we could get by with what we had for a long, long while.
“New windows,” he went on. “We could repave the driveway and add some landscaping. Rip out the kitchen and bring in top-of-the-line appliances.”
It sounded like he was trying to sell me a used car.
Not only was I vibrating with anger, but my head was spinning with thoughts of all the things I could be doing instead of listening to him drone on about things that were nowhere close to relevant to our needs.
“Rewiring the building would mean shutting down.” I pulled my shoulders back. “We can’t do that. Too many people need us. Our windows and wiring are fine. We need food and supplies.” Forcing myself to take several steadying breaths, I looked down at the page in front of me and assessed the figures. “I’m not going to pay you six thousand dollars for landscaping services. We’re a nonprofit trying to keep families from going hungry. We don’t need landscaping.”
“Good landscaping is essential,” he said, “and only part of what I’m offering. Keep reading.”
I didn’t keep reading. Instead, I stared at him, at a loss for words. This man was ridiculous, and every one of his suggestions was disgusting.
“We could write up proposals.” He broke into a creepy smile. “Generate some invoices. Maybe delay the work for a more”—he leaned back, lacing his fingers on over this abdomen—“convenient time.”
In moments like this, I wished I possessed a poker face. I had no doubt that a big what the fuck was written all over mine. He was talking in circles and ignoring the needs of the organization we were here to discuss. Instead of listening, he was trying to use his money to influence me to do useless construction projects.
I scoffed. “This is a waste of time.” It wasn’t until the words had left my mouth that I realized how loud they were.
Several heads turned in our direction.
Eyes narrowed, Denis leaned forward in the booth. “I’m proposing a synergistic relationship, Ms. Randolph.” He sneered. “And may I remind you that you came to us begging for money?”
His predatory tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. What was he trying to do and how on earth did I fit into his plan? This was absolutely some kind of corporate bullshit scenario he was concocting so that he could avoid paying taxes or God knew what else. His aggressive response set off every alarm in my brain.
So I stood and tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the table to cover the salad I’d refused to eat. Then I picked up the bound prospectus and shoved it into my purse. “I came to you asking for donations to help food-insecure people in our community. Instead, you’ve jerked me around and are proposing unnecessary construction projects.”
His voice, when he responded, was low and controlled, almost like a sinister whisper. “You’ll come around,” he said. “Or you won’t. And if that’s the case, you’ll be very sorry.”