“And where are you now?” I asked.
“Just before the Revolution.”
That’s what Marty had said. “Marty was looking for some correspondence between Major Jonathan and George Washington-have you gotten to that yet?”
He looked nonplussed. “No. You know, she said something about that the last time she was working on the papers, but like I told her, I haven’t gotten up to the war years yet.”
“Hey, don’t panic, Rich. I know you’re doing a good job. But Marty’s got clout, and she says they were there the last time she looked and that they’re not there now, so I told her we could all go look for them together. Okay?”
“Sure. Maybe they’re just misfiled. Heck, maybe she put them back in the wrong place-she’s always poking around in there.” He was all too right: Marty seemed to continue to regard the collection as her personal property rather than the Society’s. While the Society’s stacks were in theory off-limits to the public, there were some people like Marty-a triple threat board member, donor, and researcher-who felt quite free to come and go in the stacks as they chose. How many other people might have had the same idea? Did we have a list somewhere, and how up-to-date was it?
“You may be right. Let’s hope so.” I sent him on his way. I didn’t really think he had been careless, but I had to check. “We’ll meet her in the lobby at nine tomorrow morning, okay?”
“I’ll be there,” Rich said, and ambled out.
CHAPTER 3
Nothing is going to go wrong! I told myself firmly. I hoped I was listening to myself.
I stood at the top of the grand staircase and surveyed the scene of organized chaos below me. Standing on the handsome staircase with its massive mahogany rails and slate stair treads, I gauged the mob below. A newly installed exhibit on Philadelphia ’s theater history adorned the display cases in the catalog room-which was also the location of the open bar. Dinner would be served in the main reading room, with its soaring ceilings and brass railings, the usual massive reading tables lugged to the bowels of the basement in order to allow circular dining tables to take over for the night.
From my elevated vantage point, I could see that the flower arrangements looked handsome, the coat-check system seemed to be functioning, and the pile of name tags had dwindled nicely as arriving people picked them up. Senior staff members had all received a memo from the president commanding their presence at this important event, to help if and as needed, and they had turned out in force-and were actually talking to guests, not just to each other. A few board members had even managed to remember the date-several were lawyers whose offices were nearby or academics whose time was flexible. I counted the members of the press, including the ladies from the suburban newspapers who were hovering near the doors hoping to catch any of their local stars for photos to appear in the next weekly, as well as a reporter from the Philadelphia Inquirer who kept looking at her watch.
All was going according to plan. Even the weather had cooperated, the October evening crisp and cool and blessedly dry. It was time to jump into the water and get my feet wet.
I continued my descent of the staircase, largely unnoticed, even though I’d made time to put on a dress and heels. I’m used to not being noticed: I waved good-bye to thirty-five a few years ago, but am fighting forty; I’m carrying ten extra pounds (all right, fifteen) that I would gladly give to someone who deserved them; and my features could best be described as pleasant, and apparently easy to forget. But I like my job, and I’m good at it, so I don’t worry if people’s eyes pass right over me-as long as they sign their checks.
The Society was a good place to work, especially now that our previous president had been pried out, kicking and screaming, by a board that felt that her priorities were “not consistent with the board’s long-term vision for the institution” (according to one highly confidential memo). Three years ago she had retreated with what dignity she could muster after her termination, to write a book about her experiences. Then the board had turned around and, after a highly publicized search, hired a person as diametrically opposite as they could find: Charles Elliott Worthington.
Where our late unlamented president had been plain and dumpy, Charles was tall, suave, and elegant; where his predecessor had had all the tact of a bulldozer and refused to listen to any idea that was not her own, Charles oozed charm from every pore (if he even had pores) and when speaking to you one-on-one, possessed the ability to make you believe that you were the only other person in the world. He radiated charisma, and his indefinable moneyed accent-British? Old New England?-didn’t hurt. Those of us who had seen his résumé knew he’d actually grown up in Ohio, but why quibble? He was photogenic and had made himself a highly visible part of the Philadelphia historical scene in short order, if the society pages in the Inquirer were any indication. Exactly what the Society needed, and I for one was thrilled, since that charm translated directly to dollars for us.
Charles had used that charm to win over the staff as well as donors. The budget deficit was in the double-digit range, and the staff turnover had been approaching fifty percent per year. Starting salaries were laughable; most of the new hires were innocent babes struggling to find the restrooms, never mind the collections. Charles hadn’t been able to turn the financial picture around yet, but he made it known that he was working on it, with the implicit promise of salary adjustments (there hadn’t been any for years), more specialized staffing, educational programs, and improved health care benefits. If I really thought about it, I had to admit that it would be a long time before all of these things materialized-if ever-but somehow he convinced people to stay on and keep working.
Why was I still here, when I could probably be making better money somewhere else, especially with the musical-chairs scene among Philadelphia fundraising staff? Curiosity, at least: I wanted to see how this played out, see if Charles really could turn things around (with a little help from me, of course). Most of the people on the staff were great and really cared about what they were doing. Plus, I loved the solidity of the 1900 building, the heady scent of the old leather and paper in the stacks, the incredible wealth of history in this one building. I’d always been a bookworm and a history nut, so I put up with a lot of garbage for the opportunity to sneak off into the stacks during my lunch hour and actually hold something that had once belonged to Ben Franklin, or to attend a meeting with my (very respectful) elbow on the same mantelpiece that Thomas Jefferson had leaned on while writing the Declaration of Independence. Heady stuff.
And it didn’t hurt, either, that Charles and I had been seeing each other socially since shortly after his arrival.
It was time to get down to business and start working the crowd. As I came down the stairs, careful not to trip in the stiletto heels I wasn’t used to wearing, I again scanned the gathering below me. In a corner a delightful if superannuated city council member, an ex officio board member, had snagged our youngest, blondest female employee and was spinning tales while leaning over to enjoy her cleavage. I spotted Membership Coordinator Carrie Drexel smiling up at another board member, chatting brightly, and Rich hovering nearby. And out of the corner of my eye I saw Alfred slink into the room, looking uncomfortable-I wondered briefly what had changed his mind. Our venerable head librarian, Felicity Soames, headed for him quickly and started talking to him, gently leading him out of the corner where he had scuttled. I wondered briefly if Alfred was looking for me, but whatever it was could wait. I had other fish to fry.
I reached the bottom of the stairs, took a deep breath, and pasted my social smile on my face. Here we go, I thought, as I waded into the fray. From the volume of chatter, things were going well, helped by the generous free drinks that the bartender was pouring. I nodded encouragement at our newest staff member, a shelving assistant who was taking coats from the latecomers. Then I forged my way through the crowd into the catalog room, which was even more packed. I’d been on the job long enough that I no longer needed to read name tags-I recogni
zed the major players. It was a good turnout, not only in numbers, but the right people, the ones we needed the most. The ones whom we were courting, flattering, cajoling, wheedling, massaging-you name it, we had tried it on each and every one of them. And it seemed to be working. I finally spied Charles at the far end of the room, surrounded by a fawning crowd. I stopped to study him in action.
He looked every inch the distinguished leader of an important institution: tall, slender, with discreet touches of grey at his temples. His three-piece suit had clearly been made for him, and he always wore the vest. His shoes gleamed with polish. An antique signet ring glinted on one hand. His tie was a marvel of luxurious restraint. He cocked his aristocratic head to listen patiently to an anecdote from a doddering lady in dirty diamonds; he laid a firm and manly hand on the arm of a tweedy academic type standing next to him, who I happened to know had just published a critically acclaimed book; he made a self-deprecating joke that had the circle around him laughing.
Oh, he was good. Though it remained to be seen whether his obvious skills would translate into long-term help for the Society. Based on what I had seen in my years here, the place seemed to chew up and spit out directors: the most recent disaster had been exiled; her predecessor had fled to Vermont and refused to answer any communications, written or oral; the one before that had apparently succumbed to a lengthy wasting illness attributed to the stress of the position-or maybe some evil fungus that lurked among the old books. But I had a feeling that Charles was going to put them all to shame, and what was more, he seemed to enjoy his role.
Time to remind him to make his formal welcome. I wove through the crowd and touched his arm. He turned quickly, and seeing me, unleashed one of his high-voltage smiles. Sorry, Charlie, I don’t have any money to give you, I thought. Save it for the paying guests.
I leaned close to speak, savoring his subtle after-shave. “Charles, you should welcome our guests now. I’ll tell the caterer to start serving in fifteen minutes, but it’s going to take some time to move everyone in to dinner.”
“Of course,” he responded, sotto voce. He made his apologies to the group he’d been speaking with, then moved toward the center of the main wall to pose against the array of portraits of past presidents and board members, cleared his throat, and waited for the din to subside. Which it did promptly. Not for the first time, I wondered just how he did that.
“Ladies, gentlemen, I am delighted to welcome you this evening to celebrate the first hundred and twenty-five years for the Pennsylvania Antiquarian Society, as we take our first step toward a greatly enhanced future. It is gratifying to see so many old friends and supporters here, because we face some daunting challenges in the days ahead. But with the assistance of our able board and the valuable input from our architects and planners, we have developed a strategy to meet the challenges of the future, all the while preserving the best of the past. For that is our mission: to preserve and to protect our treasures, so that future generations may benefit from them.
“As you know well, our primary goals continue to be: to create the best possible physical environment in order to maintain our world-renowned collections; and at the same time, to create a place that welcomes scholars and visitors, that provides a suitable setting in which to learn and explore. We strive to marry these two goals, and we must work together to forge an institution that will be a credit to this wonderful city. Please help us both to honor our past and to celebrate our future.”
I had to admire the way the words rolled off his tongue as though they were spontaneous, which I knew they weren’t, because I had written them for him. And of course that last line was a delicate hint to those present that they should take out their checkbooks.
I sneaked a quick look at the audience, which appeared well lubricated. Time to begin herding people toward their tables-no easy task, even though elegantly hand-lettered place cards had been carefully distributed by Carrie, after days of soul-searching over seating charts. With my eyes I gathered the junior staff’s attention: they moved promptly to the double doors into the reading-slash-dining room, armed with fresh copies of the seating charts so that they could steer the guests in the right direction. I joined Charles at the dais and addressed the throng.
“Thank you, Charles. Let me add that I am delighted to see so many familiar faces here, and even more delighted by the new faces among you. You are the heart-and the backbone-of the Society, and none of this would be possible without you. Now, ladies and gentlemen, in a few minutes we will begin serving dinner. If you have any trouble locating your table, just ask one of the staff members stationed by the doors, and they will be happy to help you.”
I gave the assembly a bright smile, which was lost on the majority of them as they surged in the opposite direction toward the bar for a final refill.
Charles leaned forward slightly to speak softly in my ear. “Nell, you’ve done a magnificent job, as always. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” His breath was warm against my neck as I continued to beam brightly at the crowd, alert for any glitches. He went on, even more softly. “Will I be seeing you later?”
Without turning, I replied in the same low tone, “Of course-we can do our own celebrating. But I’ll have to stay until the caterer’s wrapped things up, so it’ll be late.”
“And worth waiting for, my dear.” With that, he moved purposefully toward a latecomer, a senior board member who had just come in and was wrestling with his coat. “Ah, Arthur, I’m so glad you could make it.”
I watched Charles cross the room, admiring the elegant cut of his jacket, and the elegant back it covered. Then I squared my shoulders and went to supervise the dinner seating. My staff was ready and waiting at the doors. Alfred, I noted, had not moved from where Felicity had parked him, but he had been accosted by one of the more inebriated guests, who looked to be haranguing him about something. Poor Alfred-but I didn’t have the time to rescue him now.
Those lucky souls who have never had the privilege of planning a major event such as a wedding are probably unaware of the hair-pulling and hand-wringing that goes on among the people who have to arrange seating. Since this was, for us, a major event, we had begun well in advance; unfortunately the process continued as people walked in the door. The staff scuttled around, swapping place cards, eliminating those for the no-shows, and strategizing all the while, trying to seat the right people together and keep others apart. And then, of course, the guests themselves often messed it all up by deciding that they absolutely, positively had to sit with somebody else entirely. Or they simply sat down at the first place they came to and refused to budge. Or they brought along guests of their own-usually nonpaying-and expected us to juggle everything to make room for them. Which of course we had to do, because the point of the whole game was to keep the guests (that is, the donors) happy so that they’d continue to love us and write us big checks.
Marty Terwilliger knew all this, but she still surged into my line of sight accompanied by someone I didn’t recognize. “Okay, Nell, where’d you put me? And I need a seat for Jimmy here-he’s my guest.”
I looked at Jimmy. More precisely, I looked up at Jimmy, who towered over me by several inches, despite my heels. But the height was nicely balanced by the breadth, although I might’ve said that his tweed jacket was a little casual for the occasion. However, when I made it as far as his eyes, they were anything but casual. Even in a few brief moments, I got the impression that he didn’t miss much.
“It’s a pleasure to have you here, uh, Jimmy. Marty, let me check the seating chart, but I’m sure we can work it out. Would you excuse me a minute?” Tall Jimmy nodded once, then headed for the bar, while Marty waited near the door. I snatched a seating chart from one of my minions. Luckily I usually planted a staff member or two at each table, someone who could be discreetly withdrawn under just these circumstances, to open up a table space. I ran my eye over the list and turned back to Marty. “Ah, here we are-table twelve, at that end.” I waved vaguely in
the right direction, then accompanied Marty toward the door, where she paused to wait for her companion. Dropping my voice, I said, “About that matter we discussed earlier, I’ve asked Alfred Findley to look into it.”
Marty fixed me with an odd look, but I didn’t have time to think about it as Jimmy came up beside us, his hands clamped around a pair of glasses, one of which he handed to Marty. “That’s all well and good, but I still expect to see you and Rich in the morning,” Marty said firmly. “Come on, Jimmy, we’re over there somewhere.” She grabbed his free arm, but he turned briefly to say, “Nice to meet you,” before he was hauled away.
I’d done all I could for the moment, and I had more immediate issues to attend to. While I and my elves had arranged for a truly delightful dinner menu, complemented by some outstanding wines, I didn’t expect to have the opportunity to enjoy it, since it was my job to make sure that everyone was where they were supposed to be, that the caterer was on his toes, that the glasses stayed filled, that the microphone at the head table worked, and that nobody dribbled wine (or worse, threw up) on any of the valuable collections that lined the perimeter of the room. I allowed myself a few brief seconds to admire the handsome room, filled with happy, noisy revelers. I wondered if the room had ever experienced such a noise level in its staid existence. I patted myself on the back, figuratively: Job well done, Nell-and it’ll all be over in another couple of hours. This warm glow of self-satisfaction lasted no more than half a minute: I was interrupted from my reverie by one of the caterer’s assistants, who was yammering on about a tripped circuit breaker in the kitchen, and I followed her to the back of the building to quench yet another crisis. The work of a professional fundraiser is never done.
Fundraising The Dead Page 3
