Chapter 21
Elowen
Aweek has gone by since I first brought up the dedicated cat sanctuary, and the Trixie J Foundation has opened applications for grants. My days have revolved around putting together the grant application and my children. I’ve had no time for anything else.
Thankfully, it’s done. I’m currently in Beatrix’s office, double-checking everything.
I sit across from her, perched on the edge of my seat while she reads my proposal.
My vision. Beatrix’s face gives nothing away, but I notice she’s lingering on the budget section, her eyes narrowing slightly at the numbers I’ve triple-checked since our last review.
“Your renovation estimates are optimistic,” she finally says, tapping a chipped nail against the screen. “Contractors always go over budget.”
“I’ve built in a fifteen percent contingency,” I reply, not defensively but with quiet confidence. “And the quotes came from Connor’s brother-in-law, who’s willing to do some of the work at cost.”
Beatrix makes that noise in the back of her throat. “And if the brother-in-law backs out?”
“Then we use that contingency to hire someone else. I’ve identified a handful of other contractors, and their estimates are included in the footnotes.”
“Fair enough, but what about your staffing model? It assumes a lot of volunteer hours.”
“It’s based on our current retention rates and the interest survey I circulated online.
Sixty-two percent of our current cat volunteers indicated they’d prefer a dedicated feline facility or would be willing to split their time between the two.
And I’ve already received thirteen new volunteer applications since we started posting about the potential sanctuary on social media. ”
“The grant reviewers will ask about these merchandise sale projections,” she says, moving to the five-year projection section.
“They’re actually conservative. I’ve compared them with similar-sized sanctuaries in comparable markets. The Wayward Kitty-Cat Alliance actually generates thirty percent more annual revenue from merchandise, but I didn’t want to overstate our potential, especially since we’ll be new.”
“You’ve really done your homework on this, haven’t you?”
It’s not quite praise, but coming from Beatrix, it’s close enough to make something warm bloom in my chest. “Yes,” I say simply. “This matters to me.”
She returns to the proposal, scrolling through the community impact section where I’ve outlined the specialized programs the sanctuary would offer: the reading program Leo loves, a senior cat therapy initiative for local nursing homes, a workplace stress-reduction program where corporate employees could spend lunch breaks socializing cats for adoption.
“This corporate program,” Beatrix says. “You really think businesses would pay for that?”
“I do.” I pull out printed examples from my folder.
“Similar programs in other cities have waiting lists. I found one sanctuary that partners with a local prison, and others that partner with senior centers and classrooms. Companies are looking for innovative wellness benefits, and this offers measurable stress-reduction outcomes while helping our cats. I’ve already spoken with the HR directors at two local firms who expressed interest.”
She hands me back my printouts and returns to the tablet, scrolling through the final sections. Meanwhile, I listen to distant food bowls clanking, a dog barking excitedly.
Finally, Beatrix sets the tablet down. “It’s decent enough to submit.”
Decent. I actually chuckle. I know she means well. From her, this is equivalent to a standing ovation.
“We’ll need to address the reviewer questions promptly when they come,” she continues. “The Trixie J Foundation has a reputation for aggressive follow-up.”
“We?” I repeat. Truthfully, I was worried Beatrix would want to take over. She’d have every right to, but I’m glad that she’s not.
“Thank you.”
She waves away my gratitude with an impatient hand. “Just submit it before the deadline. And don’t get your hopes up. These things are extremely competitive.”
“I know.” I slide my tablet and notes into my bag, a smile tugging at my lips. The proposal is strong, and we both know it.
As Beatrix shuffles papers on her desk, I pull out my phone.
Sarah’s contact info has been sitting in my favorites list for a week, added after she insisted we should “hang out sometime without feline chaperones or heartbreak.” I’ve composed and deleted at least a dozen messages since then.
And since she’s not here today, I’ll actually send a text.
The old Elowen didn’t have friends outside of her husband’s approved social circle. Didn’t make plans without checking his calendar first. Didn’t have coffee dates just to talk and laugh and exist in spaces.
Still, I stare at the blank message field, thumbs hovering uncertainly over the keyboard.
“Problem?” Beatrix asks, noticing my hesitation.
“No,” I say, but then decide to be truthful. “Maybe. I want to ask Sarah to meet for coffee tomorrow.”
Beatrix looks at me over the reading glasses perched on her nose. “And?”
“And it feels strange,” I admit. “I haven’t made social plans in years.”
She studies me with the same gaze she uses on challenging rescue cases. “Coffee isn’t complicated, Fallinger.”
“No,” I agree. “But friendship is.”
Her eyes soften. “Sarah’s a good person. She’s direct and doesn’t play games. Aside from you, she’s my favorite volunteer.”
“Aww, Beatrix!”
“No sap. Now, text Sarah.”
“Alright, alright.” I take a breath and type: Coffee tomorrow at Brewed and Sizzle? My treat to celebrate finishing the proposal. I press send before I can overthink it further.
“Done?”
I nod, feeling oddly accomplished.
“Good.” She returns to her paperwork, then glances up again. “First friend date in a while, huh?”
Friend date sounds so adolescent, but true. “Yes,” I admit.
My phone buzzes with Sarah’s immediate reply: HELL YES. 10 a.m. sister! I’ll save us the good corner table. Followed by a string of celebratory emojis.
As I leave Beatrix’s office, my bag heavy with notes but my steps unexpectedly light, I realize I’m making progress both professionally and personally. Small victories that are adding up to something that feels suspiciously like a real life. My life. Not Julian’s. Not anyone else’s.
Just mine.
Brewed and Sizzle buzzes with morning energy.
No one gives me a second glance as I step inside, my curls slightly damp from my shower.
No one cares that my sweater is last season’s or that my boots have scuffs on the toes.
In the corporate world, these details would matter, but here, no one even gives it a second glance.
I scan the room, happy to get some adult mommy time. Meredith and Leo are with their father, leaving just me, meeting a friend for coffee. Such a simple thing that shouldn’t feel life-changing, yet somehow is.
“Elowen! Over here!”
Sarah waves enthusiastically from a corner table. She’s claimed the comfy spots with comfortable armchairs in front of the fireplace instead of wooden seats.
“I saved our spot and ordered your drink,” Sarah announces as I reach the chairs. A steaming mug waits for me on the small circular table in front of the fireplace. “Oat milk latte with raspberry syrup? Or was it almond milk you prefer? Damn, I should’ve checked.”
“Oat is perfect,” I assure her, settling into the chair and unwinding my scarf. “How did you remember?”
She grins, lifting her mug with a mountain of whipped cream. “I pay attention. Plus, I’ve overheard your order before.”
The fact that she’s noticed this small detail about me creates a gentle glow in my chest. In my former life, preferences were things to be managed, accommodated, or politely suppressed. Julian knew how I took my coffee because it was his job to know, not because he cared.
“So,” Sarah leans forward, her eyes bright with excitement, “the proposal’s officially submitted?”
I nod, cradling the warm mug between my palms. “As of midnight. Beatrix actually sent me a text this morning. ‘Good work, Fallinger,’ but from her, that’s practically a cake and a party.”
Sarah laughs. “Consider yourself blessed.” She takes a sip of her drink, leaving a whipped cream mustache that she wipes away. “You know what this means, right? We have to celebrate properly.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”
“You’re kidding. We can get coffee any random day. I’m thinking we need a real girls’ night. Drinks, maybe dancing. When was the last time you went out dancing?”
The question catches me off guard. Dancing? Knowing Sarah, she doesn’t mean the waltz.
“I can’t actually remember,” I admit.
“That settles it. We’re fixing that tragedy as soon as possible.”
“I’d need to find a sitter,” I say automatically, then pause. “Actually, Julian can handle the kids.” I hope.
“Yes! Perfect! Use the ex for childcare. That’s what they’re good for.” She winks, then sobers slightly. “How’s that going, by the way? The whole co-parenting situation?”
I shrug, surprising myself with how easily I can discuss this now, especially since Sarah is aware of Julian’s emotional distance.
“Complicated. He’s been sending flowers to the shelter, as you’re aware.
Been respecting my request to stay away.
He’s also trying with the kids by visiting here and there and calling them often. ”
“Progress,” Sarah notes. “Small, but progress.”
Our conversation flows easily after that, shifting between shelter updates, the community art project Sarah’s involved with, and her hilarious recounting of a disastrous date with a man who brought his pet hamster to dinner—“In his undershirt, Elowen. Didn’t even bring it out until I heard scratching come from his nipple. ”
It feels strange and wonderful to laugh like this. I realize I’m gesturing more freely than usual, letting my natural expressions show. My hair curls wildly in the café’s humidity, and I haven’t once reached to smooth it down.