Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
FRANKIE
Now
The moms were waiting for Frankie again after lunch on Monday. Both Mrs. Nolan and Mrs. Weaver were in athletic wear, though their hair and make-up suggested a morning spent at the salon rather than in downward dog, and they pounced on Frankie as soon as she got out of her car by the school.
“Ms. Kayla told us you were on your way,” Mrs. Nolan said as if to explain the ambush. “We have a few things to run by you if you have time.”
“What sort of things?” Frankie asked, making a mental note to give Kayla grief later for revealing her comings and goings so offhandedly.
Mrs. Nolan had a green folder tucked under her arm that she pulled out and opened. “We had a think about this auction you were mentioning and jotted down some ideas. Obviously, you’ll have final say-so, but as your committee, we’re here to help.”
Committee? Auction ideas? Frankie’s mind blanked out briefly before she remembered the off-handed request she’d made to wrap up their conversation the other day. “Right,” she said, taking the folder from the other woman. “Very good.”
The document in the folder was a three-page-long spreadsheet with color-coded columns and bolded lines.
“Wow,” Frankie said, skimming the information. “You’ve been busy.”
“So glad you like it,” Mrs. Weaver said. “I just love a good spreadsheet, don’t you?”
“What’s all this?” Frankie pointed to a column full of numbers.
Mrs. Nolan leaned closer. “Those are the estimated costs. Obviously, we’ll get donors to cover most of these, but this gives you a ballpark at least.”
“Eight thousand for food.” Frankie stifled a gasp. “Three thousand for tent rental. Um, volunteer T-shirts?” She looked up.
“Don’t worry about that,” Mrs. Nolan said. “Julie Boswell said her husband can print us some for free at work.”
That’s all better then. Frankie kept reading, her heartrate increasing with each line item.
“Exactly how much of this do you estimate being covered by donations?” she asked when she was done. Maybe she hadn’t been clear that the event was meant to boost the school, not drain it.
“Well, that’ll depend on how generous the community wants to be,” Mrs. Weaver said. “But everyone loved Estelle, so I imagine you won’t have much difficulty convincing them.”
Frankie’s eyes flew up. “Me?”
“We’ll help of course,” Mrs. Weaver said. “We’ll be spreading the word at book club tomorrow, and my guess is the moms will cover most of the marketing and decor.”
“And don’t you think between us and our friends, we’ll be able to put together several smaller baskets for the silent auction too?
” Mrs. Nolan asked her fellow committee leader.
“Maybe a dog-themed one that could include Lorilynn’s handmade collars and treats.
And Felicity makes those beautiful watercolor paintings. ”
“Oh—we should ask Lilliana if she’ll donate a free service at the spa,” Mrs. Weaver added. “And I’d be happy to offer a complimentary spin class.”
Frankie’s head moved back and forth like she was watching a ping-pong match as they brainstormed who of their friends would be best to ask and for what. Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad idea to involve them after all.
“As you can see, we’re more than happy to help,” Mrs. Weaver said finally.
“But when it comes to approaching businesses that may have had dealings with Estelle, we believe it’s best if you make the plea as her daughter.
Whether for raffle prizes like gift cards and other merchandise, or sponsorship donations in exchange for ad placement and the like, your name will lend legitimacy to the ask. ”
The two women looked at Frankie expectantly, and because their engagement already eclipsed Frankie’s own to a shameful degree, she could only nod numbly.
She’d had no idea what it would take to put together this kind of event, but now with the color-coded key in her hand, reality had come crashing down in organized grid format.
She could either magically conjure funds to pay for all these things, though if she’d had that kind of cash, the auction wouldn’t be necessary in the first place, or she could get out of her comfort zone and hit the phones.
“Oh, and some great news,” Mrs. Nolan said, beaming.
“I’ve arranged for some press coverage leading up to the event.
I chatted with a lovely woman at the funeral reception who’s well connected and used to be a reporter, and when I reached out to her after our talk Thursday, she agreed to interview you.
Thinks The Charlotte Times will be interested.
Her name is Orla Monroe. Isn’t it wonderful? ”
Frankie went rigid. On some level, she’d known Orla wasn’t going to disappear, but an interview? “No,” Frankie said. She could practically hear Estelle lose it with rants of What happened to privacy? and Some people just don’t know how to mind their own business.
Mrs. Nolan’s smile faded. “No? But it’s free publicity. A feature.”
“Yes, you can’t turn it down,” Mrs. Weaver said. “We’ve already told everyone.”
“Everyone?” Frankie’s vision narrowed.
“The Charlotte Times is a big deal,” Mrs. Nolan continued. “I would have thought you’d jump on the opportunity. Estelle certainly would have.”
Not with Orla she wouldn’t. A number of expletives Frankie had been raised not to say out loud bubbled to the surface of her mind like it was a putrid, boiling swamp.
She was trapped. Estelle had turned Orla away once, so who knew what kind of agenda the reporter would have in this interview?
She’d already shown a predisposition for sensationalist lines of questioning by suggesting irregularities with Mom’s death.
Not to mention that Frankie did have a few things she wanted to keep under wraps for now…
No, an interview was the last thing she needed, but without sharing her real qualms about having Orla in her and Starview’s business, there was no convincing reason she could give without looking cowardly.
“Oh.” She attempted a small laugh that she hoped only sounded feeble in her mind. “What I meant to say was, ‘No way.’ As in, ‘It’s such a surprise.’”
The moms relaxed.
“You’ll do it then?” Mrs. Nolan asked.
“Of course.” Frankie’s voice was too high-pitched, but there was no reining it in. “Lovely idea. Pick a date and email me the details.” She held up the spreadsheet. “Got to go now, but can I keep this?”
“It’s yours. I have duplicates,” Mrs. Nolan said. “My number is at the top if you think of anything to add.”
“Let’s hope not,” Frankie said weakly. She started up the stairs to the school doors, but halfway there she turned.
“Thank you for doing this,” she said, trying her best to mean it.
These women didn’t know what they didn’t know, and like it or not, she needed their help. “I couldn’t do it on my own.”
Both women lit up, that genuine glow overriding the perfect make-up and taking a decade of child-rearing and house-making off them both. Suddenly, Frankie saw purpose and connectedness where before their engagement had felt invasive. This ill-fated plan with Orla aside, she’d judged them unfairly.
Estelle would never have done that.
Frankie swallowed her remorse as she headed toward her office, the spreadsheet in hand.
If she wanted to keep up Starview’s good name, she’d have to find ways to emulate her mom’s congeniality.
An easy compliment here, a listening ear there.
No issue too big or small. Now more than ever, she had to step up her game and be one with the community.
Present a united and confident front. Because now, Orla was on her case.
After spending hours Monday evening thinking of all the local places that had a connection to Estelle (and not thinking about her upcoming interview with Orla, which had now been scheduled for next week), Tuesday morning she had a list of businesses in front of her that was the stuff of nightmares.
Cold calling. Asking for favors. Talking on the phone.
All things low on Frankie’s list of enjoyable activities.
You start with hello and see where it takes you, Estelle seemed to remind her as she dialed the first number.
She could do “hello”—it was what came after she struggled with.
“Yes, hi. I’m calling for Mitchell Ross.”
“This is him.”
“Hi, Mitchell. My name is Frankie Lavigne, and I’m—”
“Estelle’s girl,” Mitchell said. “Of course!”
Huh. Maybe this was going to be easier that she’d thought.
Mitchell owned the plant nursery where Estelle had purchased whatever she needed for the garden every year, and the two had bonded over perennial choices from the get-go. It had been years since Frankie had gone there with Estelle though, so she was surprised he remembered her.
After accepting Mitchell’s condolences, Frankie told him she was putting together an auction in Estelle’s name to benefit the school and asked if he’d be interested in contributing anything garden related.
“It could be a plant of any size, or items for a garden-themed basket perhaps,” she said. “Mom loved her garden, so it would mean a lot to have that represented in whatever way you think appropriate.”
“Absolutely,” Mitchell said as soon as she finished, and after another few minutes of talking, Frankie had a promise of a large “Estelle Marie” fuchsia plus a basket with seeds and tools.
Bolstered by her success, she jumped straight to the next business on the list and then the next.
Almost everyone had something to contribute.
The bookstore offered a gift card. Estelle’s dental office agreed to raffle off a free whitening service.
Even the kayak rental place by the lake whose services Estelle had never used as far as Frankie knew agreed to include a one-hour paddleboard lesson for an outdoor recreation basket.