Tara blinked and then smiled at Al, who grinned at Lucinda. Frank smoothed his pearl gray tie under his black jacket. Ben Marshallton, Lucinda remembered fondly, couldn’t coordinate a brown tie with a white shirt and always looked rumpled, although comfortable, in his forty shades of brown from fawn to espresso.
“The plan,” Frank said slowly, standing and leaning on his fingertips over his desk, “is this. The Board is still fine with the Master Plan for expansion.” Does he always enunciate like this to make a point, or have I pissed him off big time? “But,” Frank continued, eyes on Lucinda, “since we’re going to university status sooner, certain Board members think now is the time to revamp parts of the business school, including the west façade, and fix the outdoor athletic facilities. The field house dates from when men wore trousers to play tennis.”
Al straightened his spine against his chair, adding two inches to his sitting height. He’d already gotten a new swimming pool, hockey rink, and a bigger basketball stadium when P-H went co-ed. Now his fields needed upgrading.
“Yeah, I can’t get good coaches with those fields,” Al said. “They come here to interview and laugh. It’s an absolute must now that we’re co-ed. Proper drainage, bleachers, scoreboards — the works.”
“But athletic field upgrades are already in the plan,” Lucinda said. “In — ”
“We have a chance for corporate sponsorship to redo the whole outdoor athletic complex — if we’re willing to compress our timetable a bit. Corporate sponsors is the way to go, fewer restrictions. We just need to toot their horns,” Frank said.
“Compress which parts of the timetable?” Lucinda asked, trying to keep her voice low, making herself breathe deeply and slow down. But her heart pounded uncomfortably, like a live animal trying to burst out of her chest wall, and her ears canals throbbed. She had gifts pending by eager alums based on the timetable they’d already set, mostly on endowed chairs and for programs in the humanities and hard sciences that could be totally disrupted by a new president, never mind an institutional swing to emphasizing athletics.
“Move the athletic facilities revamp to the front of the line, breaking ground fall term next year,” Frank said. “We’ll juggle some of the other deadlines, need be.”
Al leaned forward. It was like tiny light bulbs switched on inside of his face.
“Down!” Tara said, grinning.
“We’re not going to be prepared to raise that much by then for that purpose given the projections,” Lucinda said, looking between Frank and Al. “What does the Executive Committee say?”
Frank sat back in his swivel chair.
“You don’t think you can raise it? Or you don’t think the money is there?” Frank asked, putting his hands together in a tent shape.
“Oh, the money is there. It’s a matter of what the donors want to support considering what we’ve told them we’re going to do in the next three years. Remember, we already had the Strategic Plan debut with top-tier donors last winter. We need to spread out the larger multiyear gifts to get the most — ”
“I decide… the Board decides what to spend it on. The donors won’t care what order we do it in,” Frank replied.
Lucinda felt her throat start to close right above the base of her neck. She got up and went to the water cooler, reminding herself she had to accomplish only what the Board had signed off on. When she tilted back a cup, the rush of cold water down her throat reopened it, and as she prepared to tell Frank why he was full of shit, although in carefully selected words, Frank continued.
“Warren thinks the donors are there, and there’s more if we dig deeper. I — ”
Frank’s phone, lying alone on the glass-scape in front of him, belted out Beacons of Knowledge. He checked the caller ID and snatched it up.
“Honor! Yes, no problem. What do you need?”
Tara resumed her paperwork, and Al checked email on his phone.
I hate meetings, Lucinda thought. Especially these days when every phone caller has precedence over what’s going on in front of you, and people bring paperwork to fill in waiting time. It wasn’t like this when she started at P-H. Ben didn’t carry a mobile phone, even at the end.
Frank lowered his phone.
“Let’s continue this Wednesday,” he said. “I’m going into a huddle with the Board ASAP. Lucinda, redo the donor projections based on what we discussed last week and what Warren is working on. This won’t be a problem.” His gaze bored right into her, daring her to object.
Lucinda stood up, another thing Martin had suggested. “Increase your height when possible in relation to your adversary” were his exact, if slurred, words.
“Yes,” she said. “I need to see Warren’s numbers. He creates interesting numbers.”
She looked down into Frank’s face from the other side of the glass expanse. He had a tic in his right eye she’d not noticed before. He lifted the phone back to his ear and swiveled around to face the ocean. Lucinda turned around.
“Tara, will you do the pre-screens on these? I’ve got to scoot, I have another appointment.” Lucinda handed her the major gift officer resumes.
“See you, Tara, Al.”
Lucinda walked out of the office slowly, façade of composure intact. When she was out of sight of Frank’s window, she fled to The Puffy Muffin for a bracing latte to figure out what her next move should be. Fundraising only works as a team effort, but Frank was teaming with Warren and possibly Cliff for his own agenda, leaving everyone else in the dark.
Then she wondered what Bart’s take on this mess would be. He used to be a great sounding board and knew more P-H secrets than any non-staffer. But he’d left her. It’d been two weeks now. When he flashed into her mind, which was often, it jolted her like a lightning strike, like something ripped out of her, followed by an aftershock of shame.
She saw Aden buying a coffee and waved him over to her table.
“Why so glum? Bequest fall through? The person lived?” Aden quipped.
“You’re awful,” she said, not succeeding in suppressing a smile.
“Hey! Just trying to cheer you up. Someone’s gotta do it,” Aden said. He held up his tiny white cup and saucer. “A double espresso today. Just got my direct mail results.”
Lucinda watched him sip the high-steroid coffee. It felt good to have someone on her team who spoke her language after that beastly meeting. She felt her jaw muscles relax and her shoulders unclench.
“Aden, those inklings you were feeling about Warren? Is there anything you can do to poke around? I don’t want you getting into any kind of trouble, mind.”
Aden leaned in closer. “What else did you find out?”
“Nothing solid, but I think Frank is going to do something major. Like… I don’t know. I don’t know him well enough. You mentioned poaching donors. Would he do that, you think?”
“Warren would, no doubt. Frank? I’m not sure. Of course, he might direct Warren to poach for him. I don’t think he understands much about how this process should work.”
“He knows enough to have his way. Has Jennifer said anything to you about her donors?”
“No, but she’s starting to freak.”
“Why?”
“That someone’s using her RaiseSmart log-in. All these mixed signals we’re getting. Like, is Frank going to gut the non-sexy old school sciences? That’s the latest one.”
“No. The Board would absolutely not let that happen,” Lucinda said, shaking her head.
“I get the feeling Frank wants to turn us into one of those on-line universities so the only ones that need to show up on campus are the jocks,” Aden said. He tossed it off like a joke, but she could see real concern in his eyes.
“Will not happen. Look, don’t stress about this. Keep going the way we planned, but if you can talk to Abby, all the better. When I go over there, she’s all over me for a job, and people tend not to talk to me about the squishier side of things.”
Aden smiled. “Perk of the job.”
/> “There goes Margo,” Lucinda said, glancing out the window. “Tori said she’s boarding at Salt Marsh Stable now.”
Margo Flushing clipped past The Puffy Muffin heading toward “the Hill,” where Thornbough Hall and the administration offices perched over campus.
“Lucky Tori,” said Aden without a shred of sincerity. “I’ll take Abby to lunch again. She loves being taken to lunch.”
“Good.”
“How about you?”
“How about me?”
“You wouldn’t say in our meeting… about Bart?”
“He’s moved out. I can’t talk about it,” Lucinda said, eyes on at her empty mug.
“Well, when you’re ready to talk, I’m a good ear.”
“That’s what we’re counting on you for.”
Aden looked toward the takeout area for a few seconds. Then he straightened his tonal, tiny silver diamond-patterned tie, while something sobered his expression, but she thought better of pressing.
He drained his tiny cup. “I’m off,” he said. “My annual fund coordinator will be spazzing out about her mailing.”
“You told her first-round acquisitions aren’t designed to be in the black?”
“Absolutely,” Aden said, pushing back his chair and rising. “But the first time you really see it is a bit of a shock, after all the work that goes into it. If you can remember that far back,” he joked. “God, we’ve been at this a long time.”
“Go to it then,” she said. “You’re nothing if not a comfort for a bitter blow.”
He started to open his mouth, closed it, then turned and threaded through the sea of students trying to grab a caffeine shot before their first class of the day.
Pocket Pal
“When did madam flame thrower arrive?” Lucinda asked Tori.
They were standing in the center of the indoor riding arena when Margo jigged in on her chestnut gelding Bally Glen.
“Her money is as good as anybody else’s. Besides, she’s bound to bring me more boarders, and I’m going to need them,” Tori said, turning to Lucinda. Then Tori projected her voice toward Thea Gimball cantering past on Paz Noir. “Thea, really sit on him! Relax your lower back.”
Thea, a sophomore animal science major at P-H, was trying to down shift a black Arabian gelding into a more relaxed canter along the rail. He broke into a trot instead.
“Put your stirrups up, Thea,” Tori called out. “We’re going to get you into your tack, honey.” Lucinda smiled at the “honey” that popped out of Tori’s mouth, pegging her as someone with only shallow roots in Plumcliff’s sandy soil.
After a late Monday meeting with Frank during which he agreed enthusiastically to help cultivate Michaela Weld, wife of former P-H Trustee and prospective fine arts donor, Lucinda had walked the half mile to Salt Marsh Stable to give herself time to think. Frank’s sudden enthusiasm was curious; perhaps there was a family business connection she hadn’t dug up yet. She doubted it. Aden’s prospect researcher had e-mailed a vault of research information on the Weld family business, education, and financial holdings in Cape Tilton going back to before the Revolutionary War. Lucinda and Frank had communicated only via e-mail since their last meeting almost three weeks ago. From what Aden could pass on, she’d gathered Frank was filling his days with university status meetings and potential new corporate alliances. She and Ben had checked in with each other practically daily or, if something unexpected came up, every other day to keep coordinated.
Catching sight of the exquisite structure that was Salt Marsh Stable made the swirling thoughts of Frank Wickes and donor coordination in Lucinda’s head cease. What a long way she and Tori had come from the converted dairy barn where they took their first riding lessons. Salt Marsh Stable was located on the grounds of P-H’s original 19th century carriage house, built when faculty and staff actually got around by carriage. It was sold to a developer in the 1970s, who let it ripen in price until Martin Bentley bought the property, removed what was left of the carriage house foundation, and built a large modern home and stable complex where Tori joined him after their marriage four years ago.
The facility was a showcase of the style of equestrian barn complex that Martin’s firm — Hyperion Estates — excelled in, an equine fanatic’s eye candy of spacious loose boxes, each with outside Dutch doors, aisles of unglazed tile in a pattern that resembled a woven Italian leather shoe, large airy indoor arena with a skybox observation area, commodious wash stalls, and a common room for studying training DVDs.
“Why are you going to need more boarders?” Lucinda asked. She considered Tori oblivious to the financial part of her horse obsession.
“Let me wrap up with Thea, then let’s talk,” Tori said.
Lucinda walked toward the barn entrance, eyeing Margo. Tori approached Thea to offer a few more pointers on stirrupless riding. Margo, frowning, inspected the jumps from atop Bally Glen, her curls sprung comically out of place by her riding helmet. Lucinda smiled. Margo did not simply brush her hair; rather, she sculpted it continually through picking and pushing, like a preening duck. A riding helmet levels us all, Lucinda thought.
“Who rearranged my in-and-out?” Margo called to Tori.
As Lucinda passed in front of the chestnut gelding, he snorted, showering her with mucous.
“Good thing you took your work jacket off,” Margo said. “Would you raise that last rail one notch?”
“Gotta take a call,” Lucinda said, turning on her heels and walking out of the arena. She ascended the stairs and took a chair in the observation area. Tori arrived soon after.
“So now Margo owns the cross rails?” Lucinda said.
“Leave it, Cinda. I can’t cope with her attitude and your silliness altogether. And… iced tea?”
Lucinda accepted the beverage Tori poured from a pitcher she pulled from the refrigerator in the kitchen nook along the front wall of the room.
“Sorry. She just gets to me. So entitled,” Lucinda said, surprised by Tori’s touchiness. “Hmmmm, this is good.”
They drank their sweet tea and watched Thea, stirrupless, trot Paz through serpentines, as well as she could and still dodge jumps.
“I think she’s getting it,” Lucinda said. “Sitting deeper.”
“Yes, she’s a good learner,” Tori said. “Hard worker too. I thought I’d loan her out to you for Lady Grey. Like that name for your mare! You’ll need someone to feed her and muck out when you work late, which is often. Thea would love the job.”
“You don’t have to sell me on this one,” said Lucinda. “I was actually thinking of bringing Lady Grey over here. Maybe next spring. I think it would be easier with the training. Like I tried just sitting on her the other day, and I can’t get her to stand still to mount.”
“Lesson two,” Tori said. “Racehorses aren’t trained to stand when mounted. The handler walks the horse along and the jockey pops on from above. It’s an easy fix. I’ll come over this weekend, but I wouldn’t do too much with her now. Give her some real time off.”
“What’s this about needing boarders?”
Tori’s smile disappeared from her heart-shaped face while her gaze turned from Thea, now cooling out the Arabian at a walk, back to Lucinda.
“Martin’s business. There’s something going on.”
“What something?”
“Martin’s not sure of the whole thing, but… .” Tori got up and shut the door to the observation room. “Best scenario, just straight forward embezzlement by the accountant. Worst case, bribery and coercion for an Olympic contract. He’s downtown talking to his lawyers.”
“Shit! How did this happen?” Lucinda asked.
“Martin gave finance oversight to one of the partners before he went on his last design trip to Europe,” Tori said. “He thought it was cool, but… well… it’s all conjecture at this point. We don’t know what we’re facing. Yet. He hates the business end of things anyway.”
“I don’t blame him. He misses the design side?”
> Tori nodded, watching the action in the indoor. “Looks like Thea’s done.”
“Glen’s looking good,” Lucinda said, watching the gelding cantering calmly around the fences in preparation for jumping.
“Margo’s actually improved,” Tori said. “She’s bitchy about the jumps because she brought some of her own here and thinks she can boss everyone when she’s jumping. Glen is looking good — he’s doing the three-six level now. We all ignore her imperial commands.”
Lucinda’s phone beeped notice of a text message from Honor Emerson. Confirming for tomorrow. My place. Thx.
Tori looked at her expectantly. Lucinda often tore off to meet donors at any time of day or night.
“Nothing big. Go ahead,” Lucinda said.
“Anyway, the scare of Hyperion having major money problems got me to thinking about this stable and what a spoiled brat I’ve been since I married Martin.”
“Now you realize that?” Lucinda teased. Tori’s tongue popped out of her tiny mouth.
“So,” Tori continued, rising from her cushioned folding chair and pulling herself up to her full stature of five feet two and a half inches. “I’ve decided to get serious.”
Lucinda smiled. Another Tori scheme in the works.
“No! Don’t laugh!” Tori said.
“And?”
“I’m proposing merging the stable back with the college and starting an Equine Studies Program. Martin put the stable property in my name when we married so even if there is some business implosion, they can’t touch it.”
“It’s brilliant! It practically functions as a P-H annex already, so you’re more than halfway there.”
“Dr. Camille’s helping me with the details and credentials. We have to get approvals from the higher-ups.”
“I can’t see any objections,” Lucinda said. “Especially if the flame thrower — ”
Tori glared at Lucinda. “Don’t even say that as a joke. You never know when it might pop out at work.”
“Yes, Miss Southern Manners. Especially if Margo backs the equine program. I think Frank might have taken a shine to her.”
Halt at X: A North of Boston Novel Page 5
