Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Her success is inevitable because she works for it.
—From Remy’s Affirmations for a Badass deck of cards
Remy
“What do you mean you might have to close?” Remy covered her mouth in shock. “I thought you had funding from that grant?”
“It fell through.” Anya—the executive director, and a fierce, outwardly stern sixty-something former prosecutor who was a pile of mush on the inside—shook her head sadly. “We didn’t have sufficient ongoing funds to match it, and that was part of the deal.”
“H-how much do you need?” asked Nell Gallagher, a quiet, curvy, forty-something at-home mom with four children. Her husband worked at Evangelist. In fact, he was the midwife—accoucheur, as he referred to himself—who’d taken over Remy’s GYN care when she moved to the area.
Last year, when Remy had started volunteering here, she’d done a small fundraiser for the shelter.
Brinder had given a heartfelt endorsement for her holding the event at Evangelist. Nell had gotten involved, and the next week, had shown up to volunteer.
Their days here didn’t always match, especially if Remy was working the weekend or Nell’s youngest had a field hockey game.
But, often they ended up on the same shift, working companionably side-by-side.
Nell was painfully shy, but, over time, she’d relaxed around Remy, who appreciated her calm quiet.
“We need at least two million to cover expenses. Our rent is going up—more than doubling. The plumbing and the HVAC are on their last legs. Energy costs are skyrocketing. Food costs. Staffing. We’re in the red.
I’ve done everything I can. Leveraged everything I have.
I haven’t taken a paycheck in two months.
I’ve relentlessly sought out private donors and public funding.
” Anya’s voice grew progressively higher pitched with worry as she recited the litany of burdens facing St. D’s.
“There’s just too much need out there and not enough money.
Especially for a small-town shelter. It’s just not sexy enough for the big foundations,” Anya added, her normally implacable demeanor shattered by the visible shaking of her hands.
“I’ll probably have to close in the next four to six months. ”
“What? But you have two dozen women and children who are relying on St. D’s!” Nell launched out of the rickety office chair, hand at her throat, her unique greenish-yellow eyes filling with tears.
Anya sucked in a deep breath through her nose and held it.
As she released it, she dropped her head in her hand.
“I just don’t know what to do. This was my mission.
My life’s purpose. I’ve been running this shelter for thirty years.
It was my way of helping domestic violence survivors.
Like me. Like my mother,” she finished, tears staining her face.
As with Remy, Anya was an abuse survivor.
Anya’s mother had managed to get out of a terrifying situation, only by the grace of a shelter like St. D’s.
Remy had long ago stopped wondering what life might have been like if her own mother had been able to break the shackles of abuse.
But life was what it was. Wallowing, wondering, and worrying didn’t help anything.
Her mother was proof of that. So Remy’s M.O.
became the opposite. Charging forward, creating what meaning she could in the life she had.
She became a woman of action. Decisive. Purposeful.
Driven. Because she only had herself to depend on.
Along with her debt of honor.
Remy refocused on Anya, who was staring miserably at a pile of what looked like invoices.
“I need to show we have at least one million dollars in annual donations for the five-million-dollar renewable grant to kick in,” Anya continued.
“And we’re just nowhere close to that. Plus, now we’ve missed the window for this year, so not only do I have to find some big dollars, I also need to come up with short-term funds to keep St. D’s running. ”
Resolve filled every fiber and inch of Remy’s being. “We will figure something out. Do you hear me, Anya? We will figure it out. Short-term, I will give you every cent I have. I’ll drain my 401(k).”
“I’ll ask Nate what we have in savings,” Nell added, wringing her hands.
Remy paused, momentarily stunned that a woman in this day and age didn’t know the value of the household accounts.
Nell shrugged self-consciously. “I handle the girls. Nate handles the money.” She frowned then lifted her chin, shoulders squared.
“But it’s my money too, and we can do something to tide you over until we can create a fundraiser that will knock your socks off.
Something to fund this place for a long, long time. ”
Anya offered a wobbly smile and soft chuckle. “You two are the best. I’ve been sitting here since six in the morning, staring at my profit and loss statements. You’ve given me a glimmer of hope. Maybe we can turn this around.”
“And we will, Anya. I have some connections with deep pockets,” Remy asserted, the strength of her conviction flowing through as she pictured Honor Wheatley.
Which inevitably morphed into her brother’s grinning, frustratingly alluring face.
“We damn sure will. Even if I have to sell myself to the devil.”