Chapter 11 #3
I surveyed the room with satisfaction that felt earned after months of planning, dozens of phone calls, and coordination with caterers and club staff.
We'd produced exactly what we'd hoped for.
A gathering of people with money and social conscience, ready to support literacy programs that would make a real difference in children's lives while providing them with charitable tax deductions they needed for their year-end financial planning.
"The silent auction is doing well too," Margaret continued, consulting her clipboard. "The Napa Valley weekend package already has five bidders, and we haven't even opened the written bidding yet. The jewelry donation from Tiffany has people fighting over bid sheets."
I spotted Renee Henley across the room arranging donated items on the silent auction table with the same care she brought to her legendary dinner parties.
She looked up and waved when she saw me, mouthing "This is amazing!
" while holding up what appeared to be a spa package worth several thousand dollars.
"Wonderful," I said to Margaret. This was work that mattered, regardless of what was happening in my personal life.
These funds would buy books and educational supplies for kids who didn't have access to well-stocked libraries and reading programs, children whose parents worked multiple jobs and couldn't afford educational advantages we took for granted.
That had to count for something, even if everything else in my life was falling apart.
Diane Murray appeared at my other elbow, looking more put-together than she had at our last committee meeting. Her husband's affair with his assistant was old news now, or maybe she'd found better medication for dealing with the humiliation of everyone knowing her marriage was a public disaster.
"This is exactly what we hoped for," she said, scanning the room with appreciation. "Look at Susan over there wrestling with the Martinsons over that wine collection. When people fight over auction items, you know you've priced them correctly."
Susan Hartley was indeed engaged in what appeared to be a serious negotiation with a couple I recognized from previous fundraisers but couldn't name. People who attended every charity event in a fifty-mile radius, building their social reputation one tax-deductible contribution at a time.
I spotted Robin across the room talking to Claire Morrison about something that was making them both laugh in a way that happened when women found humor in situations that weren't actually funny.
Claire looked different somehow, like she'd stopped trying so hard to appear younger than her fifty-eight years.
Her face was more relaxed, less artificially taut, though I couldn't tell if that was better skincare or the absence of constant Botox injections.
I made my way through clusters of conversations that all sounded vaguely similar.
Vacation homes in Aspen and Martha's Vineyard, private school applications for children who were already attending private schools, and whether the new golf pro was an improvement over the previous one who'd been caught embezzling from the club's equipment budget.
Problems that sounded serious until you remembered that real problems involved things like hunger and homelessness and not being able to afford medical care.
"There you are," Robin said, wrapping me in a hug. "This is amazing, Lauren. You should be so proud. The energy in here is incredible."
"It's a team effort," I said, though I was proud.
Organizing events like this required coordination skills and social connections and the ability to convince busy people that childhood literacy was worth their time and money.
Looking around the room at the results of months of planning, I could see Margaret directing traffic at the registration table, Renee managing the silent auction with military precision, and Diane charming potential donors with stories about the children who would benefit from their generosity. "Everyone stepped up."
"Amy sends her regrets," Robin continued, lowering her tone slightly. "She's under the weather, but she already sent her donation. One thousand dollars, generous as always. That woman has the biggest heart, even when Richard is making her life miserable."
We found a relatively quiet corner near the windows overlooking the golf course, where we could talk without being overheard by people who might consider our personal conversation more interesting than discussions about property taxes and private school admissions committees.
The view was beautiful in that well-maintained way.
"I've been apartment hunting online," Robin said, lowering her voice even though no one was paying attention to us.
"Manhattan. Some incredible places, but the prices are absolutely insane.
Three thousand for a studio apartment that's smaller than my walk-in closet.
Four thousand for a one-bedroom that doesn't include parking or laundry facilities. "
"Have you talked to David about any of this?" I asked, watching her face for signs of the resolution I'd seen building over the past few weeks. Robin had been moving toward some decision about her marriage, and I was curious whether she'd found the courage to act on it.
"Not yet. I want to have a real plan first, you know?
Find a place, figure out the logistics, research neighborhoods and transportation options, then present it as something that's happening rather than something we need to discuss.
" She paused, stirring her coffee with the concentration of someone working through complicated emotions.
"If I ask permission, he'll find ways to talk me out of it.
David's very good at making reasonable arguments for why my ideas are impractical or expensive or poorly timed.
If I present it as a decision I've already made, he'll have to take it seriously. "
"Separation, not divorce?"