Chapter 13 July 1995 Felicity Jenner—Volunteer
Felicity Jenner—volunteer
As usual, I arose at six, did three sun salutations, and fixed my hair and makeup before frying bacon and eggs for Franklin, which he ate while perusing the business section.
I poured myself a tea and joined him at the dining room table, where I read the culture pages.
At seven, he gave me a distracted peck on the cheek and left.
He hadn’t looked at me in a long time. Given his long hours at the office, one might suspect an affair, but I knew he preferred pursuing accounts to chasing women.
To him, I was a steady client he no longer had to woo.
Ellen got up, and over grapefruit, she recounted the plot of the book she was reading and its funny French vocabulary like the word pamplemousse. I held these moments close to my heart.
Tokyo, Toronto, Manchester, and now Paris. Every few years, we started over in a new home in a different country. Struggling—with culture shock, with making friends, with French—had brought Ellen and me even closer.
Three years ago, after ten years abroad, our family had returned to England. Franklin promised that we’d stay until Ellen’s graduation. Yet the minute he got a plum job offer, we moved countries again. She and I both felt foolish for having believed him.
This morning, when she left to meet up with friends, the flat became unbearably quiet. I cranked “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves before assembling my portfolio of PR campaigns and changing into a pantsuit for my appointment at the ALP.
At the library entrance, Meg greeted me with a cheery hello and asked after Ellen.
So often in Paris, I felt invisible; Meg’s kindness made all the difference and was certainly why I’d chosen to volunteer here.
She escorted me to the director’s office, where Quentin Hayes III and Jennifer de Narp sat side by side, heads bowed over their work.
She verified numbers in a ledger, while the director copyedited the newsletter.
He struck a sentence with his Sharpie; I was impressed by this diligence—no task was too small.
However, the pair resembled opposing counsel who refused to acknowledge each other until the judge arrived.
“Nice to see a young woman in the role of trustee,” I whispered to Meg.
With one last comment in the margins, Mr. Hayes set aside the newsletter. “There’s so much to do that every second counts,” he said apologetically.
“Lovely to meet you.” Ms. de Narp closed the ledger. “We’re thankful that Meg encouraged you to share your expertise. She has a nose for talent.”
Meg blushed. “I think you’ll find you have a lot in common,” she told us before taking her leave. “You’re both lawyers.”
Ms. de Narp gave a nod of respect, and I saw that I rose in her esteem; Mr. Hayes stiffened as if I were about to serve him with divorce papers.
“No one’s perfect,” he joked. At least, I hope he was joking.
He scanned my volunteer information sheet. “Why don’t you work in your field, then?”
I explained that when my family relocated for my husband’s job, Franklin was awarded a work visa; as a trailing spouse, I was not. Jennifer de Narp nodded sympathetically, which made me think she understood how painful it had been to give up my career.
I slid my portfolio across the table and outlined my experience in publicity and fundraising. “It’s volunteer work, but I’ve become quite good at convincing people to donate.”
Mr. Hayes pored over the images and wording I’d used to convey the work of a nature conservancy as well as the vital role of individual donors.
“You’ve highlighted the history,” he said. “That’s something we don’t do enough.”
“Tasteful.” Ms. de Narp perused the brochure for a theater that included a range of recommended giving and a rundown of how donations were used—everything from playbills to costumes.
“Your interview with the director there was very insightful. Wonderful photo.” Mr. Hayes straightened his retro tie. “I’d like to see the same spotlight on staff here.”
Easy to see that he imagined a glossy eight-by-ten of himself in the ALP fundraising packet. Ms. de Narp and I exchanged knowing glances.
She explained that members’ fees barely covered payroll, insurance, the heating bill, utilities, and taxes. Suddenly, she and the director resembled lawyers with an unwinnable case. I couldn’t believe the situation was so dire.
“How has the library lasted this long?” I asked.
“Constant begging,” Mr. Hayes replied.
“Prayers and sporadic donations,” Ms. de Narp said. “We’d love your help, if you have any ideas.”
Off the top of my head, I suggested presenting gems from the archives to journalists in order to raise awareness; creating promotional items to distribute at school fairs and to publish in Paris Parents magazine and The Expat’s Guide to Education in France; or even a gala with a silent auction.
Ms. de Narp raised her brows. “Interesting. Tell me more about the gala.”
“It would never work.” Hayes rolled his eyes. “We don’t have the budget for a venue.”
“The library is the venue,” I continued, as if I hadn’t heard his outburst, and focused my attention on Ms. de Narp.
“Every week, you throw a literary party. Why not organize something a little more festive? Champagne instead of wine, canapés instead of baguette. Choose a date at the beginning of December, when people are feeling generous and need to organize their tax-deductible, end-of-year donations. Decorative touches such as holly are elegant—and inexpensive. Of course, the fundraising campaign would start immediately, as would the outreach for items featured in the silent auction.”
Their defeated expressions were replaced with cautious enthusiasm. We were on our way. “We”—what a lovely word.
After the meeting, to check out photo ops, Ms. de Narp and I nipped into the children’s room.
It was so homey—perfect for pictures and brochures.
What a treat to see toddlers enjoy story hour just as Ellen once had.
And with her long chestnut hair and rosy cheeks, the librarian was so photogenic!
In the back office, Ms. de Narp introduced me to Lily, the program manager, who signed me up for the Better Off Read book club and WE, the Wives of Executives, a trailing spouses’ support group.
“Do you have time for a bite?” Ms. de Narp asked me.
Lily stilled and regarded us hopefully. She wanted in on lunch. I waited for the trustee to extend an invitation, but she seemed to look right through the girl. Next time, I’d find a way to include Lily.
At the bistro, Jennifer insisted that I use her first name, since we’d be working together. She even ordered champagne. We raised our glasses. “To you,” she said. “Thank you for your time and expertise.”
When I heard her praise, a lump formed in my throat, and I guzzled the bubbly to conceal the unexpected emotion at being complimented.
Of course, I appreciated her confidence in my abilities, but more than that, this was the first champagne I’d had in Paris.
I’d expected to share a toast with Franklin.
Like many things— gratitude for how I steered our household, date nights at romantic restaurants, weekend getaways—it never happened.
Over a salade nicoise, Jennifer and I discussed everything from books (The Joy Luck Club was her favorite, Excellent Women mine) to complaints about judges (“She snored during my closing argument.” “He hit on me after every trial.”) to workaholic husbands (hers spent more time tromping around their vineyard than at home, they now lived separate lives).
“At least the vines have roots,” she said. “I can’t imagine how challenging it is to pick up and move on the whim of a husband or his company.”
“It’s been hard on my daughter. Five schools in fifteen years.”
“She has you. That’s stability.”
“Still, I’d have liked her to spend time with our family in England. I wish I could make Franklin understand.”
“Speaking of trying to get through to a man…” Jennifer frowned. “Sometimes I think Hayes’s ears don’t register women’s voices.”
I gave a bitter laugh. “I’m used to it.”
When the check came, Jennifer grabbed it. I argued, but she said, “You can treat next time.”
I flushed with happiness, and maybe champagne. “Yes, let’s make a habit of this.”
In the ALP conference room, we pored over boxes of archives to find photos for the fundraising campaign. I arrived home at 7:30, just after Franklin, who was inching out of his too-tight blazer in the foyer.
“Hello, parentals,” Ellen said from the couch.
“Why don’t I smell dinner?” Franklin demanded.
The raw pork roast was in the refrigerator. I’d expected today’s meeting to take no more than an hour. All day, I’d felt important, listened to, exhilarated—until now.
“Hello, dear,” I said pointedly.
“What time are we eating?” he replied.
“Geez, Dad,” Ellen said. “You sound like a caveman. ‘Me want food.’ You know they sell pizza in Paris, right? When you’re away on business, Mom and I order in.”
“But I’m home,” he pouted.
If it had been just Franklin and me, I’d have skipped his heaping plateful of guilt and gone straight to bed, but with Ellen there, I said, “Pizza sounds lovely, I’ll place an order now.”