by Costa, Bella
"Is that even legal?" I glance at Grant.
"There are ways to maintain anonymity, complex admittedly but I assure you that the organisation operates well within the law." Mr. Willow announces sternly before Grant can respond.
"Forgive me, Mr. Willow. Please continue," I smile apologetically.
"I have already given Mr. Bardon a full copy of the proposal, to sift through the legalities and advise you accordingly, although I doubt he would have had enough time to go through it properly yet.” He glances at Grant for confirmation and Grant nods.
"The crux of the proposal, Ms. Ward, is that Liberal Brotherhood will absorb Broken Haven into its own. Broken Haven will in effect become a project of Liberal Brotherhood."
"Mr. Willow," I lean forward. "This much Grant has told me. What I fail to understand is how this will benefit either Broken Haven or Liberal Brotherhood." I try not to smile as those last two words slip strangely off my tongue for the first time.
"Well, Liberal Brotherhood has a long list of respected, established charitable organisations operating as projects. Once Broken Haven's affiliation to these charities is known, in the philanthropic circles, the charity's public profile will be boosted overnight - raising awareness not only of the Charity, but of the cause as well.
"Furthermore, you will no longer need to solicit funding for Broken Haven. Those duties will be taken care of along with public administration, licensing and accounting by Liberal Brotherhood."
Well there goes my job then!
I gaze at the small man, hoping my expression is as neutral as I am trying to make it. My mind is juggling everything he has just told me. I do not have to worry about fund-raising, red tape and accounts. Could it really be this easy?
"I'm sure there is more to it than that, Mr. Willow. What is in this for Liberal Brotherhood?"
"Well under normal circumstances, your board of members would become a committee so to speak; taking care of the day to day running of the charity. Any needs, ideas, etcetera would then be put forward by a spokesperson of the committee, to the Board of Liberal Brotherhood for final approval."
He is not answering my question and I purse my lips into a hard line, but hold my tongue and allow him to continue.
"In this case however, Liberal Brotherhood would expect your board to continue with the decision making forward planning for the charity. You will be given a budget of one hundred thousand dollars per month to cover daily running expenses, salaries, legal counsel...yes Mr. Bardon, you will finally get paid to represent the charity and its beneficiaries..."
Hmmm, is this why Grant seemed so keen for me to hear Mr. Willow out? And one hundred thousand dollars a month? Holy shit! We are just about managing on twenty now. However, he still has not answered my question. I wait for the small man to continue.
"The budget will be reviewed annually and more is available of course for expansion, vehicles and such, but approval would be needed for that."
"So let me understand. We continue to operate on the surface as if nothing really has changed, except we no longer have to battle through red tape, tedious accounts and administration. We get an enormous budget to spend on the charity as the charity sees fit, and if things go wrong we have no legal responsibility. And Liberal Brotherhood gets what?” I ask again.
"Actually Ms Ward, while the charity has no direct responsibility, and its committee controls the spending, measures will be put in place to safeguard Liberal Brotherhood and the funds."
I frown and tilt my head slightly.
"What I mean is," he looks slightly uncomfortable now. "We will be able to detect fraudulent activities by any board members of Broken Haven and those individuals will be subject to prosecution."
Grant glances quickly at me and I catch the warning in his eyes. Robert's accusations continue to haunt me. Oddly, even though I am completely innocent of any fraudulent activities, Robert's accusations and the media's support of those accusations have done much to erode my certitude and I actually feel guilty when I am regarded with suspicion. I quickly compose myself, hoping Mr. Willow has not caught the momentary flush on my face.
"I'm still not seeing what Liberal Brotherhood has to gain from this." I struggle to keep my voice neutral.
"Ms. Ward," he sighs patiently. "Liberal Brotherhood is a multipurpose charity, which has varying interests and more resources than any one charity could ever need. Understandably, with a board so large, twenty-five members in total, Liberal Brotherhood does not have a singular interest or sympathy to an individual cause. So, rather than support one interest with more resources than one charity could ever need, it helps many smaller charities support themselves."
I ponder this for a moment. I have a feeling I would be mad not to give this some serious consideration. I am still worried about conceding control at some point.
"Mr. Willow, the proposal is certainly an interesting one. I am sure you can appreciate our need to make a thorough examination of the small print and time to confer with the rest of our board. I hope you are not expecting a declaration of interest at this time."
"Of course not, Ms. Ward, there is one small thing though; the proposal expires this coming Tuesday."
"Tuesday?" I gasp. "Today is Friday!"
"Yes Ms. Ward, Tuesday. You had better get reading Mr. Bardon."
The goblin from Gringott's rises, somewhat stylishly for his physical stature and shakes our hands before leaving. Grant and I slump in our chairs feeling shell-shocked.
"Don't worry Acacia," Grant finally murmurs. "I had no plans for this weekend, other than a preliminary visit with your newest tenants. I'll call you when I've gone through it and we can set up a board meeting."
"Email me a copy as soon as you can, so I can have a read please." It should make some interesting bedtime reading tonight, if my cousin ever lets me get to bed.
"No problem," he mutters.
"Keep me up to date with the investigation as well please." If they are investigating Robert again, they will be investigating me as well. I have a right to be kept informed.
"I'm not sure how much the investigators will tell me, but I'll let you know anything I hear," he agrees quietly.
I nod numbly, rising to leave. Could this day – no, this week - get any weirder? Possibly - I am off to spend twenty-four hours with Bridezilla, supreme!
~.~
23rd of March
I peer through the Beast's flat windscreen, at the darkening afternoon sky; eerily reflecting my own downward-sliding mood. An unseasonably late, spring snowstorm has been forecast. Fat, purple clouds are rolling over the top of the mountains in thick, oppressive blankets, heavy with snow. My concern grows by the minute. I check the fuel gauge again, desperately tapping the glass cover with a long painted fingernail. That wrong turn earlier, cost me dearly, in both fuel and time and I haven't seen a gas-pad, in over an hour. I check my watch for the umpteenth time. Would it be too much to ask the hands to move in the opposite direction?
"Arrrrrgh! Not now!” The Beast stutters and jerks, finally dying. I shift her out of gear then freewheeling, I guide the Beast onto the verge of the road, thankful for the lack of power steering. I am also grateful, that the dizzying drop down the side of the mountain is on the other side of the road. Engaging the handbrake and turning off the ignition, I wonder how much more could possibly go wrong.
Leaning forward on the large steering wheel, I peer up at the sky again, spying the first fat flakes of snow, tumbling and swirling toward me. Suddenly possessed, I fumble for my Blackberry, hoping to find some charge in its drained batteries. Some charge that I had not noticed the last five times I checked. I hold the power button, chewing my lip in desperation. Frustrated I give it up for dead.
With the Beast's engine now off, the cold is starting to seep in and I can feel its icy tendrils seeping through my thin clothes. I cannot afford to spend the night here with temperatures are set to drop below freezing. On a remote mountain road, on a Saturday evening, rescue seems a li
ttle uncertain. I quickly take stock of what I have with me. A borrowed clutch purse, my dead Blackberry, a short coat - more suited to autumn or spring than deep winter - and the Beast's small tool kit.
I wrap the coat around me, buttoning it up all the way to my throat. My nylon-clad legs will just have to brave the cold. My bridesmaid shoes lay abandoned on the floor. The needle thin, towering heels are not made for roadside hiking, but barefoot doesn't seem like much of an option either, so I slip them on.
The snow is already blanketing all the windows, muting, the already dim, March evening light and obscuring the world outside. Grabbing my clutch purse, I climb onto the ground, blinking as the wind drives the snowflakes into my face. If I stay on the road and walk briskly, I am sure I will find help soon enough. The walk should help keep my body temperature up - theoretically!
The wet snow, has already found its way inside my shoes and I can feel the first icy trickle, sneak under the collar of my coat. My knees and face, are already burning in the cold wind. I try to ignore my discomfort, focusing on pressing ahead, picking up my pace as much as the towering stilettos will allow. It is getting harder to see where I am going, as the wind strength increases. The snowflakes are now mixed with sleet, driving hard into my face and eyes. It stings. I think I have been walking five minutes or so. With my head bowed so low, I can barely make out the ground directly in front of me.
The heel of my left shoe wobbles, on something unseen under the snow and my ankle buckles. Pain shoots through the tendons. Tenderly, I test my weight on the injured foot. It hurts, but holds. It dawns on me now. I've left the road!
Frantically, I turn my back on the driving sleet and snow, trying to get my bearings. I sweep my surroundings through snow-dusted lashes and try to pick out shapes through the wall of white. It's hopeless. I cannot see a damn thing; not even my own foot prints. I try to visualise what I last saw of my surroundings, before the snow blanked everything out. I remember a dense growth of forest, a short distance above the road. The inclination was steep, but not as steep as the almost sheer drop on the other side of the road. If I could reach the trees, I might be able to find protection from the driving wind. I find the steep incline and claw my way up, wincing in pain. I look for someone to blame for this predicament. My cousin? Why not? Who in their right mind, makes their bridesmaids dress like this, with summer still so far away? And she lost my weekend bag with my charger, maps and proper clothes. Certainly cause for blame there.
I guess it would be too much to expect an apology, not staying to the end of her wedding is almost unforgivable.
"Arrrgh, shit!" I grind my teeth as a stab of pain shoots through my ankle again. Shit, Acacia you are all kinds of first rate stupid! The Beasts battery still had power! I could have flashed the lights to try to get attention. Now I'm not even sure where the Beast is. It would have at least been dry and out of the wind. Idiot! Ignoramus, injudicious twit!
Finally, the bank of trees looms darkly through the snow. Panting from exertion, I limp until I am at least five trees deep into the forest and the wind and snow eases dramatically. I spy a fallen trunk, with snow packed up against it on the windward side and make my way to the shelter on its other side. This is as good as it's going to get, and sink down onto the cold surface. My muscles are aching from violent spasms, as my body tries to shiver itself warm. Some of the spasms are so brutal; they threaten to jolt me clear off the mountain.
I allow my thoughts to drift back to the hot African bush, where I spent my childhood. Africa had its own dangers and challenges, all of which my father had taught me how to respect and deal with. Unfortunately surviving in the snow, scantily dressed and in sky-high heels, had not been among the many survival skills he had passed on, before he and my mother had been so violently take away from me. Although it had gotten easier with time, I still missed my family and my home. Perhaps it would have been easier if I had siblings to share the memories with. My mother's sister - Susanne's mother -, who took me in, has never left the States and cannot relate to my memories of the place.
With fumbling fingers, I unbutton my short coat, tucking my knees up to my chest. I wrap the flaps of the coat around my almost bare legs. The tailored coat does not cover much but it will have to do.
~.~
I am warm and toasty. Cautiously I open my eyes. A blanket is tucked tightly around me, the top edge resting on my cheek. The only light in the room comes from a small fire, flickering gently, in a small stone fireplace where a large coppery animal lies sleeping.
Odd pieces of mismatched furniture lie scattered around the cosy space. Equally, mismatched rugs, pictures, cushions and ornaments fill the gaps in between. Exposed beams cast long shadows on the ceiling. The whole effect is old-worldly and comforting.
As a forcibly retired, albeit originally reluctant, interior decorator; I should be appalled, but I actually really like it. I shift slightly on the overstuffed sofa.
Nice! I have been stripped down to my underwear. Even my nylons have disappeared! Quietly, I lift myself onto one elbow and scan the room again.
"You're up!" A soft voice rumbles from somewhere behind the sofa.
I bolt upright, making sure I take the blankets with me. I had not realised how large the room was before. Behind the sofa, the room extends, doubling the rooms size, incorporating a small open plan kitchenette on the far side. The space in between is filled with a rough wood table, flanked by two long wooden benches. Then I see him.
Suddenly the room is not large enough. Dumbstruck, I take in the strong angles of his face, and square, stubble covered jaw. Waves of thick, dark hair tumble loosely, over his strong forehead. Just above a deeply cleft chin, his lips curl in a lazy, lopsided smile. My pulse quickens, as his dark eyes gleam and flicker, the light from the fire reflecting on their glossy surface. His gaze searches my face with, what looks to be more than just curiosity.
"Um, hi!" My voice doesn't sound like my own and I try to clear my throat. He closes the gap between us, extending an arm. His long fingers are curled seductively around a mug, steam curling in ghostly tendrils from the top.
"Careful it's hot, but I want you to finish it." His eyes do not leave my face. His voice is still soft, but commanding, sending vibrations down my spine to pool warmly in my middle. I take the offered mug sniffing the black liquid. Mmm. Black coffee laced with whiskey. I take a tentative sip and cough as the heated fumes from the whiskey, fill my lungs and burn my throat. I take another longer sip, feeling the fiery liquid seep into my veins.
"Thank you," I murmur.
"You need it. If Dog hadn't found you tonight, you might not have made it." His tone is edged with disapproval maybe even anger? I cannot be sure. I choose to ignore the negative vibes suddenly hanging in the air. It's probably just my imagination or the alcohol.
"Dog?" I ask instead, sounding a little steadier.
"The mutt on the floor," he answers blandly, moving toward the kitchen area and effectively ending the conversation.
I study the animal on the floor again. As if it knows I'm watching, the giant dog turns its head and regards me quietly with droopy eyes, then contently lowers its head onto its front paws. Its face spills out on either side, melting onto the floor. It kind of looks like a St. Bernard - but not a St. Bernard. A cross maybe?
Whatever he is, he is a true gentle giant, who probably saved my life.
"Dog's a New Foundland,” the stranger says, returning to stand behind the sofa.
"He is huge," I whisper, keeping my eyes on the dog. "Why do you call him ‘Dog’?"
"He has never been kind enough to give me his name. Which reminds me," he pauses. "What's yours?"
"Oh, um - Acacia. Acacia Ward."
"Nice to meet you Acacia; I'm Chayton."
"Did you undress me?"
"Someone had to. You were soaked through." I glare at him and his face splits into a wide smile, perfect white teeth glinting. "Don't worry - it wasn't a difficult or unpleasant process!"
; I'm gaping now, dimly aware that I must look a sight, with my mouth working like a fish and my ears glowing like red-hot coals. He must notice my distress because his expression softens.
"Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. There is a bathroom through there, if you want to take a bath or just wash up." He indicates to a doorway hidden in the shadows, in the far corner of the room behind him.
"Thank you." I could use a private place where I can pull myself back together again. I am not comfortable being this flustered. It short-circuits my brain to mouth functioning. I drain the contents of the mug for fortification and place it on a small table next to me. I swivel my body into a normal sitting position, spinning the blanket around my chest and under my arms, to wrap it around me sarong style. I stand and forgotten pain shoots through my ankle. Wincing in surprise, I sit back down. Right, the sprained ankle! I'll have to take it easy on that foot.
I am preparing to stand again, when two warm hands firmly clamp down on my bare shoulders, halting my progress. The unexpected touch on my exposed skin, jolts me.
"Where are you hurt?" He skirts the sofa, bending down on one knee in front of me. The room has suddenly shrunk again, air becoming scarce. His eyes search my face, a small dent forming at the junction between his eyebrows. His mouth is pressed into a tight line and a small muscle twitches along his jaw. It is getting harder to breath. I must not look at his face, but it is hard to avoid.
Christ, what is happening? I must be getting ill. Or maybe that was whiskey laced with coffee and not coffee laced with whiskey. I am vaguely aware of the aroma of pine needles, soap and warm summer sun. I jerk back in reflex, as his unseen thumb brushes my cheek and I draw a surprised hiss of air.
"If you're not going to tell me," he threatens softly, "then I'll just have to search every inch of your body until I find the injury myself."
My chest feels tight and my whiskey-fuelled bravado nearly cries out a plea to start searching, but instead my mouth expels a torrent of jumbled words. "Ankle! It is just a sprain; it's not that bad really. I forgot it was there and it surprised me - that's all." I clamp my mouth shut, mentally slapping a palm against my forehead.
