We received notice of the decision through his lawyers, who detailed in fancy legal jargon why Calder's actions weren't in violation of the pledge contract his father signed two years ago. We're a small nonprofit institution. We don't have the resources to challenge the decision, even if Dad would allow it.
A pang of guilt shoots through me. My dad doesn't know the whole truth about my trip out here today. He thinks I'm in Barberville trying to scare up some corporate sponsors.
He's been adamantly against pursuing the matter with Calder Cunningham, claiming he refuses to reduce himself to begging. I hoped to avoid calling him until I had this whole Cunningham business wrapped up—better to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?—but now that it looks I'm going to be here a while, I know I need to give him a call.
I grab my phone and punch in the number for the Frazer Center. Dad's been manning the phone in the evenings after the volunteer secretary leaves.
The line rings once before he picks up.
"Frazer Center for the Arts," he says. "David speaking."
"Hey," I say.
"Hey, honey." The cheerful act of a moment ago seeps out of his voice. He sounds exhausted. "I was just thinking about you. Any luck with those leads?"
Dad founded the Frazer Center twenty years ago, back when I was five. He was a dentist before that, and he sold his very successful practice in order to secure the initial funds for the organization. My mother was still around then, too, but she didn’t stay long after he stopped bringing in the fat salary. Since then, my dad has poured his blood, sweat, and tears into the Center, building it into a cornerstone of our community.
Which is why I’ll do anything to help, even if it means lying to him for the time being.
"Nothing's settled yet," I say carefully. "But I still have a few inquiries to make." It’s not quite a lie. And technically the Cunningham estates have a Barberville address, even if I’m currently fifteen miles outside the town itself.
"What about you?" I say quickly, before Dad can ask me any more questions about my current location. "Come up with any more ideas?"
He's silent for a long time. I can practically hear him rubbing his forehead. When I left the Center this morning, he was going over the budgets and accounts for the hundredth time.
"It's not good," he says finally. "I just can't—I can't make it work. Vinny suggests raising the class prices, but we'd have to triple them, and I won't do that. He said he thinks we might be able to draw in an extra thousand at the Harvest Festival this year, but I don't think that'll be enough." He lets out a long, shaky breath.
Something tightens in my chest. I've never heard my dad sound so defeated.
"Dad, I…” What can I say that I haven't said a hundred times already? Time and again over the last few months I've reassured him that we'll get through this, that we'll find a way, but the chances of that are looking bleaker every day. I pick at a loose bit of vinyl hanging off my steering wheel.
On the other end of the line, I hear him shuffling through some papers. He gives another sigh.
"Are you sure we shouldn't call Garrett, honey?" he says. "I know it didn't end well between you two, but I just think—"
"No. Absolutely not." The loose piece of vinyl tears off beneath my nail. "Please, Dad. Anything else. But please don't call him." Once, I thought Garrett was the perfect man. I mean, come on—he was a successful journalist who spent his free time volunteering at the Center. And he was a damn good volunteer, too. When he worked for us, he managed to solicit more donations in a month than all of our other volunteers combined. It was how we met.
It took two years before I realized that “good on paper” doesn’t exactly equal “good boyfriend.” The worst part is my dad still thinks that asshole was the greatest fucking thing that has ever happened to me.
I stab at another piece of loose vinyl with my thumbnail.
"Just let me see what I can manage out here," I say. "And then we can go from there." If I never see Garrett again, it’ll be too soon. I won’t let us get that desperate.
On the other end, my dad lets out another long breath. "All right, honey. I'm just not sure what our options are anymore."
Me either, I think, but I won't tell him that.
"We'll be okay," I tell him. "I know we will. We might just have to be a little creative for a while."
"Creative," he repeats. "We can do that."
I can't tell if he believes it or not.
"I'll be in tomorrow morning," I say. "I'm not sure how much longer this will take tonight."
"Good," he says, distracted. "That sounds good, honey."
"Love you, Dad."
"Love you too, honey. Stay safe out there."
I hang up and toss the phone on the passenger's seat. I can't take this much longer. I can't stand to hear my dad sound so tired, so old, so utterly dejected. I'll do anything to save the Center and give him back that spark I miss so much—anything short of calling Garrett, at least. Bringing him into this will only make the whole situation worse.
That's why I have to convince Calder Cunningham to change his mind.
Before I can lose my nerve, I throw open the door and step back out into the rain. For kicks, I press the call button one more time.
"I don't suppose you've changed your mind?" I say into the box.
There's no response.
I look up at the camera. I need to talk to Calder. It doesn't matter how. The idea comes into my head from nowhere, and I decide to go for it before I have the chance to chicken out.
"Hey, boys," I call over the rain. I grab the bottom of my shirt, take a deep breath, and pull it up, catching the lower edge of bra as well and exposing my breasts to the security system.
One, two, three seconds of the rain pouring over my bare skin, and then I yank my shirt quickly back down. My cheeks are blazing hot, but there's a wild rush in my belly. I've just flashed the Cunningham security camera. That has to get a reaction.
I cross my arms over my chest as I wait. There's a strange, reckless feeling flowing through me, and it's kind of exciting. Maybe a little desperation is good for me.
But as the minutes tick by and no one comes out to apprehend me—or compliment my breasts and usher me inside—the exhilaration slowly seeps away.
"Seriously?" I yell up at the camera. "That got nothing?"
The intercom doesn’t even offer a taunting crackle.
Fine. I’ll just have to implement Plan B.