Chapter 19
Elowen
When Julian visited my apartment, I’ll admit, I noticed small differences in his behavior.
He followed my instructions to only speak about the children and didn’t pull away when Meredith and Leo threw their arms around him.
He kept his decorating criticisms largely to himself, and actually listened to me when I told him I would not be accepting extra money for an oversized house I don’t need.
For a moment, I saw a version of him that was trying, but it wasn’t enough to bridge the distance he had created. I spent eight years making him comfortable because I loved him. Though I still do, I am finally ready to put myself first.
Which is why I’m at the shelter the next day.
I’d already made a few phone calls about an idea I had, and I’m ready to present my idea to Beatrix.
Each time I step around a stack of empty cat carriers, I’m reminded how the shelter isn’t designed for so many animals.
It creates frantic energy with too many creatures in too small a place.
A harried volunteer squeezes past me with two food bowls balanced precariously in each hand. We do an awkward dance in the narrow aisle between kennels, both of us twisting to avoid collision. She offers an apologetic smile before hurrying on.
I pause at a kennel where three adult cats share a space meant for one. The calico in the corner watches me with suspicious yellow eyes while her companions sleep in a tangled heap of fur on a small bed.
“If you’re thinking about bringing in that stray from your apartment complex, forget it.”
Beatrix’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She’s standing behind me, clipboard clutched against her worn SKCAS sweatshirt. When I give her a questioning look, she explains, “I saw your post.” She taps a pen against her clipboard. “Orange tabby on the bench. Missing part of one ear.”
I nod. Though she doesn’t post or comment, Beatrix follows the shelter’s social media accounts with the same attention she applies to medication schedules and feeding routines.
“I wasn’t planning to bring him in today,” I say carefully.
“Good. Because we’re turning away three cats for every one we take.” She gestures at the packed kennels lining both sides of the narrow walkway. “There’s no room at the inn. Though, I suppose I shouldn’t complain too loudly today.”
She pauses, her sharp eyes fixing on me with a newfound layer of respect. “I checked the new digital donation portal you set up. Shane Archer and Harley Thompson both made substantial donations this morning. Along with three others I don’t recognize.”
The gala. It actually worked. “I spoke with them at the children’s hospital benefit. They just needed to know the shelter existed, and the stories of the animals did the rest.”
“Well,” Beatrix grunts, tapping her pen against the clipboard, “you bought us breathing room in the budget, Fallinger, I’ll give you that. Unfortunately, that won’t buy us physical square footage.”
I pull my tablet from my bag, the screen already open to the spreadsheet I’ve been building. “That’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Can we sit for a minute?”
Beatrix gives me a wary look. She’s suspicious of new volunteers with big ideas, especially those who’ve only been around for a few weeks. I’ve heard her grumble about “weekend do-gooders” who propose grand schemes, only to disappear when the real work begins.
I’m not going to disappear, and luckily—thanks, in part, to the gala’s success—I think she’s starting to believe that.
She eyes the tablet like it’s a feral cat with sharpened claws but nods in the direction of her office. I follow her through the treatment room, where Sarah is patiently showing a new volunteer how to administer eye drops to a reluctant kitten.
Once we’re seated, I hand her my tablet.
“I’ve been tracking the intake numbers compared to available space,” I explain as she squints at the screen. “The current facility is operating at 150% capacity. Even if we stacked crates on top of one another, that’s not sustainable.”
Beatrix scrolls through my data, her expression unchanged. “Tell me something I don’t know, Fallinger.”
I reach over and swipe to the next screen. “Here’s what I’m proposing: a dedicated stray cat and special needs sanctuary.”
Her head snaps up. “A what now?”
“A separate facility focused on feline rescue.” My voice remains steady despite the glare she’s leveling at me.
“The current shelter could focus on dogs, small mammals, reptiles, and adoptable cats, while the sanctuary would handle all feral, stray, and special-needs cat intake, socialization, and adoption.”
Beatrix crosses her arms, the tablet balanced precariously on her knee. “And where exactly would this magical cat paradise exist? Who would staff it? How would we afford the rent on a second location when we can barely cover this one?”
I’d anticipated these questions by spending the night researching while the children slept.
“There’s an abandoned veterinary clinic on 33rd Ave.” I swipe to the next screen, showing the property listing. “It’s been vacant for three years. The owner is willing to lease it below market rate as a tax write-off.”
Beatrix’s brows rise. “And you know this how?”
“I called him. Yesterday.” I don’t mention that I used skills honed over a decade of making business calls for Julian.
How easily I slipped into the professional voice that opened doors and secured meetings with people who would otherwise ignore someone like me.
“The basic layout is already there, with exam rooms that could become socialization spaces and built-in kennel areas.”
“Staffing?” Beatrix fires back, her expression still skeptical, but her eyes showing a tiny glimmer of interest.
“A combination of current volunteers who prefer working with cats and new recruits.” I swipe to another screen showing a staffing chart.
“I’ve already spoken with Nora, who says she’d be interested in shifting her hours to the new facility.
Sarah also knows two vet tech students looking for experience. ”
“And money?” Beatrix’s voice softens just slightly, her test losing some of its edge. “This little dream of yours won’t come cheap, Fallinger.”
“That’s where this comes in.” I take the tablet back, opening a draft grant proposal. “The Trixie J Foundation has a specific program for animal welfare. Their next funding cycle opens in three weeks. With your permission, I’d like to submit a proposal.”
“The Trixie J Foundation doesn’t fund startups. You need an established track record and corporate sponsorships.”
“They do fund startups through their innovation partnership program if the initiative is connected to an existing organization with at least five years of operation.” I tap the relevant section of the grant guidelines.
“You’ve done your homework.”
It’s not quite praise, but it’s not a dismissal, either.
I continue, warming to my subject. “The grant would cover renovation and up-front costs. Adoption fees, donations, and merchandise sales would fund everything moving forward. And with plenty of time until the sponsorships are due, I’m confident I can use my connections to secure them. ”
“Wait…did you say merchandise?” Her brow somehow arches higher. I swear, she must have practiced it in the mirror.
“T-shirts, tote bags, stickers, coffee mugs with rescued cats’ photos. People love supporting animal causes that come with perks.” I speak with confidence. “I’ve projected revenue streams based on current donation patterns and comparable sanctuaries in similar-sized communities.”
Beatrix carefully sets the tablet down on her cluttered desk. “All of this is impressive, but you’ve been here all of two minutes. Most volunteers are still figuring out where we keep the litter scoops at that point. Why you?”
“Because there’s a community gap, and I have the skills to make this happen.”
I think of Leo, sitting cross-legged outside a kennel, reading patiently to a frightened kitten.
I think of Meredith, fearlessly approaching the largest dogs with complete confidence they’ll recognize her good intentions.
I think of my own hands, once manicured and adorned with a wedding ring that marked me as someone’s possession, now callused from building scratching posts and non-stop writing.
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” I finish quietly.
Beatrix studies me a moment longer, then gives me a ghost of a smile. “Show me the budget projection again.”
I swipe back to the spreadsheet, hiding my relief.
For the next twenty minutes, we go through my proposal line by line.
This shelter is her life’s work, and she won’t risk it on someone’s half-baked idea.
But my idea isn’t half-baked; it’s researched, calculated, vetted against comparable programs in other cities.
For every question she raises, I either have an answer ready, or it’s something I’m able to think critically about to find a solution.
“The vet costs alone would sink us,” she argues, pointing to a line item.
“I’ve already spoken with Dr. Waffle at the Tacoma Animal Hospital. She’s willing to provide discounted services if we commit to a certain volume. And her new associate is interested in volunteering one Saturday a month.”
“And who exactly would run this sanctuary day-to-day? You?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implications. I’ve been careful not to position myself as the leader of this initiative, knowing it might appear as a new volunteer swooping in with grand plans to take over.
“That would be your decision,” I say carefully. “I’m happy to help develop the proposal and assist with implementation, but ultimately, the sanctuary would be part of your organization.”
She makes a noncommittal noise and continues reviewing the numbers.
I sit quietly, letting her process. Finally, Beatrix sets the tablet down and looks at me directly.
“This isn’t the worst idea I’ve heard,” she says, which, from her, is praise.
“But it’s a long shot. Grants like this are competitive. ”
“I know.”
“Fine. Draft the full proposal. We’ll see what you come up with.”
It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. “I’ll have the proposal ready soon,” I say, already mapping out the hours after the children’s bedtime when I can work uninterrupted. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
Beatrix waves away my gratitude with an impatient hand. “Don’t thank me yet.”
Beatrix’s office door bangs open with enough force to make us both jump. Sarah stands in the doorway, her expression a theatrical mask of disgust. In her arms she carries an enormous flower arrangement of roses, wildflowers, lilies, orchids, and other blooms I can’t immediately identify.
“Special delivery,” she announces, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “for Elowen Plaza.” She emphasizes my married name like it’s a swear word. “From your husband.”
The flowers are undoubtedly exquisite—Julian has impeccable taste, and that flows into grand gestures—but Sarah holds them like she’s carrying radioactive waste.
Without waiting for my reaction, Sarah marches to the trash bin near Beatrix’s desk and upends the entire arrangement.
Flowers and water tumble into the bin with a wet crash.
Beatrix gasps, looking from Sarah to me, then back to Sarah, clearly waiting for an explanation that neither of us offers.
“Oh, wow, Sarah,” I say, glancing into the trash bin from my chair. “Thank you for delivering them to me. They’re lovely.” I then give her a flat expression. I’m only half teasing; I love the lady.
“There’s a card,” Sarah continues, pulling a small envelope from her pocket. “Want me to read it? Or should I add it to the collection?” She gestures toward the trash bin.
“I’ll take it,” I say quietly.
Sarah slides the envelope onto the table, which I then slide into my purse at my feet. She then gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be in the intake room if you need me.”
“I should get started, too,” I say to Beatrix once Sarah leaves.
“One more thing,” Beatrix says as I turn to leave. “Those fancy flowers…”
My stomach tightens, preparing for personal questions. “Yes?”
“Next time, have Sarah put them somewhere nicer than a trash can. The reception desk or break room could use some color, and there’s no sense in wasting perfectly good flowers.”
As I walk through the shelter toward the cat room where I know Leo will be finishing his reading session, I feel the weight of the unread card in my bag. Later, in the privacy of my apartment, I’ll read it.
For now, I have more pressing matters. There’s a grant to write, and a future to build that has nothing to do with expensive flowers or crystal vases, or the man who still thinks he can buy his way back into my life with grand gestures.
I find Leo where I expected, sitting cross-legged outside a bottom kennel, reading the final pages of Charlotte’s Web to a small gray kitten who now sits directly against the cage door, listening intently. My son looks up as I approach, his serious face breaking into a rare, unguarded smile.
“Mom! Buttons let me touch him for ten whole seconds!”
More pressing matters, indeed.