“I for one would like to hear what Lucinda has to say,” Jennifer said. She tossed her black hair, cut in a bang-less, angled bob, out of her eyes.
“Warren, if you please.” Lucinda stood up and moved to the window.
Warren made a zipping motion over his lips. On her way past him, Lucinda again noticed that Warren’s hair shown like an oiled mink, yet it also looked crunchy, each hair encased in a clear shell. What did he put in it?
“The Board has explored the issue in several Executive Committee meetings this year and is bringing in a consulting team to draw up requirements,” she said.
“That means it’s a done deal,” said Aden. He scowled at the top of Warren’s shiny crystallized fur. Jennifer suppressed a giggle. Warren, oblivious, fingered his smartphone.
“I think you’re right,” Lucinda said. “So we need, I need, to present at the next meeting about the effects on development overall. Specifically, the effects on the major gift campaigns, projections on revenue from current foundations, and resources for the proposed new graduate programs. And for the overall endowment campaign — or what’s left of it,” she added, less buoyantly, letting slip a bit of the irritation she felt toward the Board’s pullback on their endowment commitment.
“We can roll everything together neatly. All of it,” Warren said. He peered into the empty muffin bag, crumpled it in disappointment, and tossed it onto Lucinda’s desk.
“Only one muffin per customer,” Jennifer said. She snatched up the bag and tossed it into the waste basket.
“Well, from my ivy-covered neck of campus,” Aden started in, “there’s a great outcry over all the faculty who are either mysteriously retiring or not getting tenure. It’s like some kind of Legionnaire’s disease for professors. Some of my best donors, the five-, six-figure folks, are only giving because of what specific professors meant to them, not because P-H is so great.”
Jennifer poked Aden’s right shoulder.
“Not that it’s not great, but — ”
“We know what you meant, Aden. Go on,” Lucinda said, suppressing a smile. She was pleased her staff could speak freely. Let their hair down behind Development’s closed doors.
“But when those professors retire early or bolt for somewhere else, my donors pull back. And it’s not like a piece of software. I can’t just go out and replace donors at that level, it takes months — ”
“Bullshit,” said Warren. “If we’d continued with that data mining we started when I came on board last winter we’d have thirty prospects for every one of your Hamilton-Boultons who’ve jumped ship. And we’ve gotta focus on the new money, the kids, the metro bucks — plus do more traveling around to the alums in their thirties who’ve already made it and moved to bigger ponds. I — ”
“Look,” said Lucinda. She walked from the window to stand directly in front of Warren. “We’re going to do both. Everything. It’s not an either-or thing. It’s trying to keep all the donors happy. But it’s priorities.”
Warren stood up to face her. They were the same height. He leaned toward Lucinda slightly, moving into her personal space.
“Yes, but we should keep our priorities front and center,” he said. “I can help us do that.”
She had suspected this early on, but now she was certain. The disrespect. The cocksure attitude. Warren was after her job. She wondered why Frank hadn’t replaced her already, as he might have chosen to do at the start of his term. Sweep onto the scene and sweep out the old VPs. But would he have picked Warren to take over? Had there been some agreement with the Board to keep her on? Is that why she had been included in Frank’s final interview? If she had been fired during the transition, there would have been massive blowback from Honor Fullerton, the new Board chair, and everyone would have gotten an earful from Chester Mulholland. Is Frank planning to ease me out more slowly?
Warren looked directly into her eyes and hesitated, Lucinda thought, as if weighing the risk in going further across this line he shouldn’t have crossed.
“Do you have something to add, Warren?’ she asked. “About priorities?” She folded her arms across the front of her cobalt blue suit jacket and leaned toward him.
“No. Just pitching in,” he said. He glanced at her chest, smiled, rocked back onto his heels, and then sat down.
“There are graveyards full of fundraisers who’ve failed trying to keep all the donors happy,” Jennifer said. Jennifer was careful, methodical even, in her approach to development. Never overpromise. She was fantastic in getting National Science Foundation support and with alumni for specific projects, but really relied on her major gift officer for the touchy-feeling, endless gaping-hole-filling part of the job for operating expenses and scholarships. At this point Aden and Warren did not have major gift officers and were filling that role themselves while the hiring process proceeded.
Lucinda glanced briefly at Aden before she sat at her desk. She was really going to need his help, especially in Frank’s transition period and to keep Warren in check. Aden’s return gaze reassured her that they could shoulder whatever hurdles presented themselves.
“Well, we’re keeping it as a goal, our Emerald City? So, there will be a lot of work done on the university designation this semester and the capital campaign for the athletic facilities. And, as usual, our always growing annual fund. And now with the Strategic Plan done, we can go back to some of those business-minded folks with a more up-to-date blueprint on where P-H is going and specifics on the funding needs.”
“That’s essential if we’re going to play in the majors,” Warren added.
“We’re already playing in the majors,” Aden said.
“Yes, we are,” Lucinda confirmed. “Now we’re going to the World Series. I know this all sounds Herculean, but it’ll all get done by working together. Thank God the Board approved fundraising staff expansion or who knows how we’d have enough hands on deck.”
She turned on her computer.
“So work on those priority lists for this next fiscal year — we need more detailed written plans for each of the campaigns because there’s going to be a lot of folks trying to pull us in a lot of conflicting directions. I’ll shield you all from that as best I can. But the more ammo, specifics, you can give me the better. Questions?”
Warren’s phone buzzed a reminder alarm for his next appointment.
“No problem. Hey, I have to meet with Sitwell,” Warren said, switching off the alarm. “Like now.”
“Ok. Go to it,” Lucinda said. “For the stakeholder interviews?”
“Yes,” Warren said. She guessed there was probably much more he wasn’t going to tell.
After Warren left, Jennifer said, “We’re looking forward to your father’s retirement bash. There’s an army of students coming back for it.”
“A veritable forest,” Aden said.
Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Can we fine him? A buck a pun? It’ll be a good fundraiser.”
“Sure, but it’ll go to my school. And Dr. Forrest Tyne will die of embarrassment at all the attention, won’t he?” Aden asked, turning to Lucinda.
“He’ll pretend to, but he’ll love it,” she said.
“Was he planning to retire this year, Lucinda?” Aden continued. “I thought he’d stay on until they hauled him away. Or chopped him down and turned him into mulch.”
Jennifer made a sour face. She held out her hand for payment. Aden shook her fingertips playfully.
“Actually, he’s really psyched about some boreal lichen research project on Mt. Washington, and they won’t give him any time or grad students to do it. The University of New Hampshire is offering him — ”
“Hel-lo,” Aden jumped in. “Like I said! It’s just like the history and art professors in my college. They haven’t hired a studio art professor in five years, and there are at least three humanities profs on the verge of leaving for other schools. They started grumbling about it after Frank was hired. I wouldn’t say it with Warren here. I’m getting the suspicion
he’s Frank’s hired wire.”
He thumped the Chronicle on the edge of Lucinda’s desk, then stood up and walked to the window. After turning around to face Lucinda, he leaned against the windowsill.
Lucinda frowned. “What makes you think so?”
“Well, you know how you have the development strategy? You know? There’s the party line — the nice, pretty stuff — you tell the other departments, the Board, the president? And then there’s what’s really going to happen that’s just for Development Department consumption? You know, what you gotta do with alums, foundations, Board members to raise the money? Which is absolutely not to be discussed with anyone outside Development? The stuff that if you call it ‘spin’ you get crucified?”
“Yes. And?” Lucinda didn’t suppress a smile this time.
“Well, I can’t prove it. Yet,” Aden said. “But I think Warren’s going to help Frank poach some of your biggies, based on the few nuts-and-bolts donor strategy discussions that Warren’s been in on. I mean the folks you were targeting in the millions range for capital, endowment, and some of the graduate programs. In addition to what I’m thinking is some funky re-jiggering of restricted gifts going on in finance.”
“How do you know?” Lucinda hadn’t realized Aden was this concerned about the big picture. She leaned back in her executive chair, keeping her face neutral.
“Well, it’s a gut thing right now. But I just don’t trust Warren,” Aden said.
“Why? Well, why beyond the obvious?” Lucinda said. “You’ve got to have more than just a troubled gut if we’re going to be able to do something about it.”
“His hair’s too crunchy,” Jennifer said. She picked up her briefcase and stood, smiling uncomfortably.
“No. I’m really serious,” said Aden. “One thing is some weird codes in RaiseSmart that weren’t there last fall before he came.”
“Anything concrete I can look at?”
“I’ll e-mail you the names of the records to look at, after I recheck. Some of them had the codes changed back late last spring.”
“What about the user tracking ID?” Lucinda suggested.
“That’s just it. It’s either Jennifer doing this or they’re using her log-in.”
Jennifer’s smile vanished. “I never mess with those codes! Amanda’s my coder and note keeper extraordinaire.” She leaned over Lucinda’s desk. “You know it’s not me.” Her hair slid forward and re-covered her face. She flipped it back impatiently. When it slid right back, she tilted her head so she could see Lucinda’s expression.
“Aden, text me the names you’re referring to, and I’ll check it out. Calm down, Jennifer. You know I trust you two.” Lucinda poked a few keys on the computer, and two dozen new emails landed in her inbox. When she looked up, Aden and Jennifer were back in their chairs.
“Look, is there anything else we need to discuss? I have this report to the Executive Committee to finish.”
Aden and Jennifer exchanged quick glances.
“We wanted to know if you were all right. With Bart and all? It’s absolutely none of our business,” Aden said.
Frowning, Lucinda scanned the list of boldface e-mail subject headings.
“No, it isn’t,” Jennifer said. “We apologize for being such jerks.” She stood up. “Let’s go, Aden.”
“Thanks for the concern, guys, but it is what it is. I’m ok. Thanks,” Lucinda said, addressing her computer monitor.
“She is not.” Lucinda heard Aden say going away down the hall. “Did you see those dark circles?”
“Shussshhh.”
“Ouch!”
They must have started down the stairwell because she heard no more. Lucinda logged into the RaiseSmart fundraising software to get a few donor phone numbers for thank you/catch-up calls. She hadn’t done this for a while — her assistant Beverly usually ran the reports. Today Beverly was overseeing a print job, and it was a good break to fish around in the constituent records, except the number of ticklers that kept popping up telling Lucinda what needed to be done was alarming. Beverly usually e-mailed her a neat list of every call, visit, meeting, and letter she had to do every day so Lucinda hardly ever had to use the system.
Poking around in the software was like slipping on a favorite well-worn boot. Lucinda had started her career building annual fund for three years, and this tracking system had been her bread and butter, these cleverly arranged fields of names, contacts, likes, quirks, donation amounts, spouses, and, in some cases, ex-spouses and alimony commitments (all coded discreetly). She’d outdone her predecessor in the annual fund by fifty percent and was soon promoted.
Lucinda had forgotten how to turn the tickler function off. She leaned back in her tilting chair and glanced out the window. People have only just begun asking about Bart, she realized. As the fall semester started a year ago she’d never even heard of Jay Parnell and never imagined anyone getting between Bart and herself. But there he was, giving her riding lessons in that Irish accent, casting some kind of Gaelic spell over her.
Warren must have been the one who told Bart about the affair. At Ben’s retirement party.
Tori sent Lucinda to Jay, knowing she wanted to get back into riding, not knowing the threadbare state of her marriage. Jay, in this country only two years, had built a reputation for developing horses and riders in show jumping that couldn’t be matched. He also didn’t mind spending time reorienting adults, almost all women in their thirties and forties, to the riding they’d left behind in their teens — it usually led to horse-buying commissions and sometimes much more. Tori had joked that Jay was a charmshark who’d been married three times already, but Lucinda had found this exotic rather than troublesome. And besides, she was married, and, even if Bart had been remote the last few years, she certainly wasn’t looking for a lover. If she could have stepped back for a minute, she could have… no, she wouldn’t have.
As if you really decide to have an affair, as if it doesn’t decide to have you.
It started when they were leading their horses, after a swift canter, on the beach at Granite Point after lesson twelve, two months after they met. The sun was slipping fast behind the pines on the headland. Jay’s horse, Devil’s Play, shoved Jay into her arms with one flip of his massive Hanoverian head. Soon Jay’s arms and upper body encompassed her like a shroud, and he kissed her almost reflexively. She kissed back, thoughtless, greedy. It was the first time she’d kissed another man since she married Bart 17 years before, and there was something inside her, submerged and forgotten, that responded to his reckless soul.
After that sunset, she was stuck in Jay’s personal web, a trap spun to the exact requirements of her weaknesses, she thought now, looking back from wreck of their liaison. Left unchecked by social expectations or paying gigs, Jay’s moves were as raw and passion-driven as the stallions he bought, trained, and sold. Lucinda’s need for his attention, his touch, his sexual edge energized her some days, repelled her others, and soon became addictive. She hated deceiving Bart and knew the affair could ruin her at the college if anyone wanted to wag it in front of Honor Emerson, her Board chair, or her many socially conservative donors, but she couldn’t stop. Being with Jay was like punching out a whole universe to walk into where she was the vortex of his worship, with all the power and powerlessness that comes from that. Jay’s attention prompted her to ask what could she be now, beyond what she knew, if someone so compelling responded to her like this? It was convenient for Lucinda to ignore his previous marriages, his fast changes of work venues, his attraction to any decent-looking female. This was different. This was her.
What she ended up being was deceived.
Yet now, months later in her office, pieces of Jay still clung to her, like a shake of burrs, gathered unknowingly when passing through dense undergrowth, little bomb irritants that broke up slowly when pulled at, leaving their barbs in places she couldn’t reach, but whose presence she could feel when a memory of him pierced her consciousness. She’d been obsessed, at fi
rst, last spring, with purging them all, all the charged memories, until she realized their shadows now resided, like it or not, in each one of her cells.
As she printed out her donor list and closed the fundraising program, her desk phone rang.
“Lucinda. Frank. These revenue projections for January to June? I have new recommendations based on Warren’s contacts we should include. Do you have time to go over them now? In my office.”
Lucinda shut her eyes. They’d been over and over those numbers, and the Executive Committee signed off on them.
“I’m on my way,” Lucinda said. She plucked a three-ring binder from her cherry bookcase and glanced out the window. This night there would be no passion-colored sunset because the sky was turning a sickly yellow-gray. On the sidewalk, Dr. Forrest Tyne chatted with Jennifer Liu under an anemic ornamental pear tree. He glanced up at the scudding clouds.
Lucinda smiled, wondering what her father would say to Frank if given the chance. Forrest hated the changes P-H was going through and couldn’t wait to get back into the mountains to continue his research. As she closed her office door behind her, Lucinda appreciated how possessing a piece of her father’s nonconformist soul mixed with her own brand of assertive diplomacy had been vital to building competence in her demanding career. Would that combination work with Frank’s agenda? She couldn’t answer the question, then jumped at a clap of thunder to the west near the train station at Thornbury Crossing. When she stood outside Frank’s office about to knock, the door sprung open and Margo Flushing, Director of Admissions, appeared, fluffing out her dark red bob of mini-corkscrew curls.
“Hope you’re ready for him,” Margo said, brushing past, her eyes and smile lit in a way Lucinda had not seen under the Ben Marshallton administration.
Nanogirl
Lucinda heard crunching gravel in the driveway as she headed downstairs to silence a screaming tea kettle. Through the bay window she saw Peter and his friend Brent unloading cardboard boxes from a sport utility vehicle onto the walkway to the farmhouse. Brent hopped back in the SUV, tooted the horn twice, and sped down the driveway, launching two low arcs of crushed white stone. In response, the gray mare tore around the paddock twice at a frenzied canter. Lucinda rushed out to calm her horse, but the mare slowed to a stop when the vehicle disappeared and lowered her head to reach for grass under the bottom rung of the fence, flexing her foreleg and stretching down like a bowing circus horse.
Halt at X: A North of Boston Novel Page 3
