Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Antonia
“Of all the days for Julian to be sick…” I mutter.
Clara pours dark, strong coffee into my mug, the one I was given by my ex-husband for my eighteenth birthday. It’s cracked and worn but still intact. Most things don’t survive that long. She pulls a small silver hip flask from her pocket, unscrews the top, and pours in a generous blob.
“Liquid interest,” she says with a giggle. “Next pitcher is ready when you are.”
“Give me five minutes, please.”
The last person had to be escorted out sobbing after barely telling me the charitable cause they were pitching for.
She’d fallen in a heap on the floor, tights ripped, body heaving.
I told Julian to find causes with heart, but I need someone who can actually operate in day-to-day life.
Local can’t mean haphazard, grief can’t be worn as a badge.
I don’t display mine.
I use it.
Every day since I lost him.
That’s the whole reason Opengate exists.
I don’t fund instability. Emotion without structure collapses. I won’t take that risk for my company.
“I’ve a good feeling about the next one,” Clara whispers. She cocks her head to one side. “He’s different.”
“Different how?” That could mean so many damn things. I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever it is skips into my office, playing a banjo, wanting funding to take abandoned dogs to Mars. That is how successful today’s search has been so far—completely ludicrous.
She shrugs. “He didn’t ask about media coverage.”
“So, he’s just after my money.”
“Re-read the proposal." She slides it from the pile on my desk. "I’ll give you five minutes, then send him in.”
She doesn’t wait for my approval. Clara turns and walks out, closing the door behind her softly.
Bex Corrigan-Jones Retreat Center.
A place of escape for families battling the unknown.
The proposal is slick, professional, and to the point.
Whoever wrote it isn’t here to sell themselves; they’ve put together an overview of what they want to do, what they have in place, and what they need to execute it.
Again, there’s no mention of media. No hook about what’s in it for us. Which is quite refreshing.
Most others have mentioned a father’s, friend’s, second-cousin removed, who works at some obscure radio station or TV studio.
How linking with them could boost our profile.
This exercise isn’t about that. Sure, improved public perception would be good, especially in the current circumstances, but this will pass.
Most people need us more than we need them. People always fall ill. Medical supply lines always collapse. That’s where we excel.
I don’t need someone with media connections. I need someone to control the narrative about what we’re involved with. Paint a picture that Opengate cares. And I do. I always have.
As I read on, it turns out the proposer is the husband of the lady the center is named after.
He’s an oncologist who lost his wife after a long battle with cancer.
Through his work, he’s seen the impact cancer diagnosis has on families, as well as experiencing it himself.
I’m moving on to the numbers when there’s a knock at my door.
I straighten the files, smooth my jacket, and decide to hear him out.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and Clara struts in first. Chin up and chest full. She’s smiling, almost bordering on a schoolgirl, when he steps in behind her. I rise and step out from behind my desk, hand outstretched. He takes it and shakes firmly.
“Thank you for seeing me,” he says, tone professional. “I’m Dr. Ben Jones.”
“Lovely to meet you, Doctor.”
“Please, call me Ben.”
Clara scuttles past, taking a seat beside my desk. She hasn’t done that for any other pitch. It’s then I notice the notebook and pen poised in her hands. She’s planning on staying.
“Please take a seat,” I say, signaling to the leather chair opposite. “Clara, coffee?”
She blows out through her nose, then moves over to the coffee machine.
Ben lowers himself into the chair, polite but relaxed.
He’s dressed well in a simple white shirt and dark suit that fits better than it should.
Nothing over the top, just professional.
I shouldn’t be paying attention to that. It’s not relevant.
“Coffee, Ben?” Clara practically sings. His bright-blue eyes slide over his shoulder to her, and he smiles. Her cheeks pinken.
I sigh internally. Pretty eyes don’t equal a good work ethic, and that’s what I’m interested in.
“Please. Black, no sugar.”
I take my own seat as Clara bustles about, clinking mugs with a spoon. Once she’s delivered everyone’s drink and readied herself with her notepad, I begin. Or think I will until he beats me to it.
“As I said, thank you for taking the time to meet me.” He twists the band on his ring finger. I don’t do widowers. They can be emotional, unpredictable, and a liability, from my experience in both hiring and limited dating. “The retreat is a new but positive project.”
“Positive is an interesting choice of words,” I remark, tone dry. “Most people lead with exciting…”
He smirks. “There’s not much exciting about terminal illness. It’s exhausting, terrifying, and barbaric. This isn’t about excitement, it’s about finding a glimpse of relief through the pain.”
He doesn’t flinch when he says it. It’s not dramatic. It’s not a plea. It’s simply the facts.
“That sounds… grounded.” Momentarily unsettled by how contained he is, I pull out his proposal again. The pause gives me a few seconds to decide which direction to take the conversation. I push. “So, the name…”
“Non-negotiable,” he replies instantly. “I wouldn’t be doing this without Bex. That’s something I won’t change—for anyone.”
I take a sip of my coffee. “Understood.”
My blue pen glides in a circle around the name once, and I scribble non-negotiable beside it. Memorials rarely build anything sustainable. And I definitely don’t fund men who haven’t learned to put away their grief.
Another wasted meeting. I could’ve done so much more with the past ten minutes. I’m getting ready to wrap it up, suggest I have another appointment, until Clara has other ideas.
“When did you lose her?” she chimes in.
I glare at her for opening Pandora’s box. Emotion has little place in business. And asking a widower for specifics only leads to details we don’t need.
“Four years this past March,” he says, almost clinical.
He doesn’t expand. Doesn’t take the opportunity to talk about his late wife, the way so many of those bereaved do. He answered and is now waiting for the next challenge. That’s refreshing. Endearing even. I don’t like being interested.
“So, why now?” I ask. “Has this been an ongoing project since her death?”
His attention, which had moved to Clara, returns to me. He’s completely unruffled by my direct questions, the personal interrogation not destabilizing him in the slightest.
“My kids are all away for the summer. Two teenage boys in Chicago. My girls are grown up and living their own lives.” His eyes flick to his ring again. “I find myself with an empty house and a sister-in-law nagging me to do something outside of work. So, here I am.”
“Empty homes make you think,” Clara says to him, but she’s looking at me. I shiver. “Too much time to be spent doing nothing.”
“That’s what Amy, my sister-in-law, tells me.”
They both chuckle softly under their breath. This is not how these meetings usually go. It’s a complete contrast to any of the other funding requests I’ve heard today. He’s not mentioned the money yet. That’s usually the first thing out of a requester’s mouth.
“Anyway,” he continues. It’s then I notice the dark circles beneath his eyes. A tiredness hidden beneath the perfect polish. “You didn’t invite me here to discuss my family. I assume you want to know my plans and what’s in it for Opengate?”
Just then, the heckles of a few protesters float in through the open window. I wince. Even though I’d never admit it, the chants sting. Deep down, part of me is embarrassed this is where we’ve ended up.
“Maybe I should ask why you’d consider working with us?” I say.
Ben pauses, twisting his ring again. Usually, a tell like that would annoy me—it’s a giveaway of nerves—but he doesn’t seem nervous. It’s more like a habit or a reassurance that it’s still there.
“You understand the constraints of the medical world.” He squares himself. “We’ve both seen patients lose their lives because medicine can’t be accessed.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
Clara jots down notes as we speak. I have no idea what she’s writing, but she seems enthralled.
“This isn’t about treatment,” he says. “We lose some. Not everyone can be saved. This is about how families live between diagnosis and death. And both of us have seen how hard that is in our professional careers. I was hoping this would be a project Opengate could understand.”
“We do,” Clara blurts. I narrow my eyes at her outburst.
“And being connected to ourselves with the current media fiasco doesn’t bother you?” I ask him. He cocks his head to one side, as shrewd eyes run over my face. For once, I feel under scrutiny. He’s not rude; he’s curious.
“Let me be frank. I need funding to unlock a land grant.” He gestures to the proposal on my desk.
“All the figures are in there. What the retreat will do, how it will operate. You’re looking for something to brighten your public profile.
I’m happy for Opengate to bleed every last drop of PR from this if you fund it. ”
He’s direct. I like that. That’s the kind of person I can work with. “Okay, any stipulations?”
“I won’t deviate from the name or the purpose.” He rises to his feet. “Other than that, I’ll discuss whatever you want to.”
I’m up out of my seat, hand outstretched before I realize it. Clara steps up by my side, notebook clutched to her chest, a wide grin on her lips.
“I think it sounds wonderful,” she says turning to me. “If this existed back then, would it have changed anything for you?”
Silence falls.
For a split second, I’m not in my office. I’m back in the consultant’s room as he closed the treatment file. As he told me there was no more they could do. We’d reached the end of the treatment pathway.
I remember signing the forms without reading them. I remember thinking if one more person said, “I’m sorry,” I’d burn the whole damn hospital down.
The memory recedes as quickly as it came.
My jaw snaps shut. “That’s not up for discussion.”
Ben clears his throat.
“Thank you,” he says again. “Do let me know if you need any further information. I’ll let you get on with your day.”
He shakes my hand again, then Clara’s. She visibly wilts.
“I’ll be in touch,” I tell him. And with a small nod, Dr. Ben Jones walks out of my office as calmly as he arrived. And I look at the empty doorway for a few seconds longer than I should.
Later, after two further demoralizing pitches, I’m sitting at my desk, every proposal obliterated by red lines except one.
Clara appears as she always does, once the day is near done.
She places another cup of coffee next to me.
She knows I’m not going home yet, and I’m not in the mood to be told otherwise.
“You liked him,” she says quietly.
“He was believable.”
She nods, her lips thin but turned upward. “Good night, Antonia.”
After she’s gone, I return to the Bex Corrigan-Jones Retreat proposal. The meeting didn’t go the way I expected. There was no begging, no theatrics. It was simple, clear fact-finding and honest answers.
I hadn’t controlled that meeting. Every challenge thrown at him was absorbed, redirected, then answered. It was nice to speak to someone who knows what they want and understands the industry limitations.
When Ben stepped through my door, he wasn’t looking for sympathy. He was looking for fuel. I can respect that. That was me two decades ago, outside pharmaceutical offices demanding to speak to the CEO.
I’d forgotten what that felt like.
My goal was clear; I just wasn’t sure how to get there.
I circle one figure on his proposal.
It’s not the funding total. The capacity limit.
Six families at a time.
He isn’t trying to save everyone. Just some.
Just offering what he can in a world where not everyone who should survive does.