10. Chapter 10
Elowen
The donation spreadsheet I’ve temporarily created tells a grim story.
For the last twelve months, there’s been a steady decline in donations.
That means the shelter will be forced to accept fewer animals for rescue, especially if they are sick.
Not to mention how many standard repairs we need.
Kennel nine needs new wiring; otherwise, smaller dogs can easily slip through and potentially hurt themselves in the process.
The roof leaks at the back of the shelter, dripping directly into Kennel twelve.
And there are several large potholes in the gravel driveway.
“Well?” Beatrix stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her faded shelter sweatshirt. Almost a full week of volunteering, and I still can’t read her. “How bad is it?”
I push my newly wavy hair behind my ears. “It’s, uh, manageable. But only if something changes.”
“Something always needs to change.” She moves into the office and drops into the chair across from me. “We’ve been ‘managing’ for years.”
“Barely,” I counter, pointing to the spreadsheet. “But unfortunately, our donor base isn’t growing…it’s actually shrinking.”
“People die. Move away. Forget us.” She shrugs like it’s inevitable. Like there’s nothing to be done.
“It doesn’t have to be that way.” I turn my laptop toward her. “I’ve been researching similar shelters in neighboring counties. The ones that thrive don’t just sit around waiting for donations. They create community relationships.”
Beatrix snorts. “Relationships with whom? The developers buying up property to build luxury apartments?”
“With everyone. Corporate sponsors looking for tax write-offs, local businesses, community residents.”
“And you know how to make these magical connections?”
The door bangs open, and Sarah breezes in with paint splatters on her jeans.
“Sorry I’m late!” She drops a canvas bag onto the floor and collapses into the third and final chair.
“Art class ran over. Those third graders are insane. I swear the kitchen staff are pouring sugar into the milk at lunchtime.” She pauses, noticing our expressions.
“What? Did someone die? Please tell me it wasn’t Cyclops. Meredith would never recover.”
“Cyclops is fine,” Beatrix says dryly. “We’re discussing the shelter’s financial situation.”
“Ah.” Sarah makes a face. “That old nightmare. Let me guess, we’re broke again?”
“Not broke,” I clarify. “But under-funded.” Thank God Sarah and I are volunteers. I don’t think the shelter can even pay Beatrix’s salary.
“Same difference when the vet bills keep coming.” Sarah pulls her legs up to sit cross-legged on her seat. “So, what’s the plan? Another bake sale? Kitty cat photo booth? Selling pictures of our feet on Craigslist?”
“Elowen thinks we need relationships,” Beatrix says, making the word sound sarcastic.
Sarah brightens. “Like corporate sponsorships? Because I’ve been saying that for years!”
“And I’ve been telling you for years that corporations don’t care about stray cats and three-legged dogs,” Beatrix counters.
“They may not,” I agree, “but they do care about their image.”
Sarah points at me triumphantly. “See? She gets it!”
A chime cuts me off as a notification slides into the top corner of my screen.
[CALENDAR] Julian Plaza: Final Reminder. Children’s Hospital Gala (Tonight, 7:00 p.m.)
Sarah, who had been reaching into her bag for a granola bar, freezes. She squints at the screen. “Julian Plaza?” She darts her eyes between me and the name. “Wait, like the Julian Plaza?”
I swipe the notification away, but the damage is already done. The browser refreshes, and for a split second, the login name at the top of my donor-tracking software is visible: Elowen Plaza (Admin).
“Elowen?” Beatrix asks, noting my trembling fingers.
“It’s an old account,” I mutter. “I haven’t moved all my files over yet.”
“Shit,” Sarah breathes, the granola bar forgotten. “You’re the wife?”
“Estranged wife.”
She doesn’t care about my correction, because she says, “You’re our in! We were literally discussing connections, and now we’ve got this gala.”
“Most of Seattle’s wealthiest donors will be there,” I say. “One night networking there could do more than a year of bake sales.”
“Perfect!” Sarah claps her hands. “We can crash it!”
Oh gosh. “If anyone associated with the shelter crashes the gala, we’ll never get invited to opportunities like these again. We’ll have to use the invitation, otherwise, they’ll never let you through the door.” The thought of walking into that ballroom alone, facing Julian, makes my stomach hurt.
“But the invitation is in your name,” Beatrix interrupts.
“The organizer knows me well. I’ll ask her to substitute my name for Sarah’s.”
“Me?” Sarah laughs. “I work full-time at the elementary school. I’m teaching night classes at the community center three evenings a week. Tonight’s my only night to catch up on grading.”
“Besides,” Beatrix adds, “Sarah would tell the first condescending rich person exactly where to stick their checkbook.”
“I would not!” Sarah protests, then reconsiders. “Well, okay, I might, but only if they really deserved it.”
“What about you?” I turn to Beatrix, grasping for alternatives. “You’re the shelter director. You know these animals better than anyone.”
Beatrix gestures to her worn jeans and practical boots. “Do I look like I own anything suitable for a black-tie gala? And even if I did, I can’t leave the shelter unattended overnight. Not with Blinxy needing her medication every four hours.”
They’re right, of course. I’m the logical choice. I have the invitation, the connections, the experience. I even have a wardrobe, as I packed formal dresses when I left Julian, not because I expected to need them, but because they were mine.
“I don’t know,” I say, hearing the uncertainty in my voice. “Julian will be there.”
“So?” Sarah’s eyes flash with protective fire. “Screw him. You have every right to be there. Do it for the animals!”
She’s right, I know she is. These animals need funding.
“If I went,” I say slowly, testing the idea, “I could introduce myself as the shelter’s new community liaison. Use my existing connections to open doors.”
“Exactly!” Sarah bounces in her chair. “You’d be amazing. You’re organized, articulate, and you actually care about what happens here.”
“I wouldn’t have much time to prepare,” I continue, thinking aloud. “The gala starts at seven.”
“How much preparation do you need?” Beatrix asks. “You’ve done this before.”
“I’d need to go home and change, and then figure out what to say.”
“So go,” Beatrix stands, decision made in her typical no-nonsense way. “Take the rest of the afternoon. We’ll manage here.”
“But—”
“Elowen.” She fixes me with her direct gaze. “Those fancy people already know who you are. They’ll listen to you. That’s an advantage we can’t afford to waste.”
Sarah jumps up. “I’ll pick up the kids from school and keep them. We’ll make it a pizza and painting night, and then when they sleep, I’ll grade my students’ work.”
They’re removing my excuses one by one, leaving me with only the truth: I’m afraid.
Afraid of seeing Julian. Afraid of facing those people who’ve watched our marriage from the outside, never knowing the slow erosion happening within.
Afraid of standing on my own. But something else is growing stronger than the fear; it’s the same determination that carried me out of Julian’s house with the children and a few suitcases.
It’s the conviction that I’m more than what he made me.
“Okay,” I say, surprising myself with the firmness in my voice. “Consider me your fairy godpossum.”
Sarah whoops in celebration while Beatrix gives a satisfied nod. “Good. While you’re getting ready, think about which animals you want to highlight for the most attention.”
“Cyclops, obviously,” Sarah suggests. “Everyone loves a one-eyed pirate cat with an attitude.”
“And the beagle pair,” I add. “People respond to loyalty.”
“Rusty, too,” Beatrix says. “That three-legged shepherd has more heart than most humans I know.”
“And Buttons,” I add. “The long-haired cat with a loveable button nose.” Beatrix and Sarah coo, unaware how happy that makes me.
We spend the next fifteen minutes selecting photos and crafting brief stories for each animal. I download them to my phone, creating a subtle digital portfolio I can show to potential donors.
As we finish, Beatrix pulls a business card from her desk drawer. It’s simple, no-frills, with just the shelter’s name and contact information. “Take a stack of these. Make sure they end up in the right pockets.”
I accept the cards, tucking them into my purse. “I’ll do my best.”
“We know you will,” Sarah says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “And hey, if Julian gives you any trouble, just text me. I’ll come key his car.”
Despite my anxiety, I laugh. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
“The offer stands,” she insists with a wink.
Of course it does.
I gather my things and head for the door, my mind already racing through preparations. Which dress to wear. How to style my newly short, wavy hair. What to say when—not if—I encounter Julian.
“Elowen,” Beatrix calls as I reach the doorway.
I turn back, finding her serious, weathered face, but there’s something like respect in her eyes.
“Remember why you’re going. It’s not about him anymore.
It’s about them.” She nods toward the wall of photos, at the faces of animals waiting for someone to care enough to save them.
“I know.” And I do. This isn’t about proving something to Julian; it’s not even about proving something to myself. It’s about using the skills and connections I’ve built over the years for something I’m passionate about.