Halt at X: A North of Boston Novel

by Sally Ann Sims

  Cliff rose and began pacing. Lucinda was surprised he’d made it that long sitting still.

  “Will you sit down, Cliff?” Honor said. “For heaven’s sake! You drive me and probably everyone else crazy with your constant pacing.”

  Lucinda was startled by Honor’s outburst. Was the tension getting to her too? Or was their fight from this morning continuing? Honor was usually a great crusher of tension, queen of self-control.

  Cliff glared at Honor and spoke clipped and emphatically. “No. If you must know, I have nerve pain in my legs when sitting and my circulation is poor. Continue Singh.”

  Honor blinked twice and pulled out another piece of paper. “Why didn’t you ever tell me before?”

  “You never asked. Isn’t your business.”

  “Hey, folks. Everyone’s awfully tense. What is the matter?” June asked. Her question hung in the air for a few seconds, until Bomi rustled his papers.

  “Number two,” Bomi said. “There hasn’t been adequate accounting of pledge payment schedules or payments received from Fargill Technologies and Dover Industries. We have to book pledges in their entirety in the year received, or else — ”

  “I need to see specifics on these items,” Frank said. “Payments to Warren for example, I’m assuming those are donor cultivation-related expenses, but I need to know the dates, etc.”

  Bomi handed him a list.

  “I cannot recall, in my whole history on the Board, reimbursement of donor expenses of that size paid directly to an employee. Can you, Lucinda?” Honor asked.

  “No, there hasn’t been.”

  “Do you know what they’re for?” Cliff asked Lucinda.

  “No. Warren doesn’t report to me so I don’t know what expenses he’s incurring. It limits my capacity for total budget oversight having this bifurcation of the department. All of the expenses I approve for donor cultivation are paid from the college directly to the vendors.”

  “Do you ever reward employees with bonuses — commissions — that are a percentage of what comes in?” Bomi asked Lucinda. She knew he knew what her answer was going to be.

  “Absolutely not. It’s against the ethical principles of the major professional fundraising association and agreed to by P-H’s Board. Details are in the Gift Acceptance Policy. You all have the newly revised copy of that, thanks to Bomi.”

  He held up his hand. “The credit is yours.”

  Lucinda continued. “I can vouch for everyone under my supervision. Including myself. None of us works on commission or bonus or favors of any kind.”

  “Why is that?” said June. “I always thought, Hey! If a fundraiser can bag a really big gift, shouldn’t they get a cut? Wouldn’t it motivate employees?”

  Lucinda wondered whether Honor had asked June to ask that, or whether June was extremely naïve.

  “You might think that,” Lucinda said, smiling at June. “But a fundraiser’s first loyalties are to the school and the donor. If self-interest is paramount, it can blur judgment.”

  A small furrow appeared on June’s smooth forehead. “It seems to me it would be a win-win, if the fundraiser could get more money for the college?”

  Lucinda realized that June was talking for herself. She remembered how June’s husband’s association with the school — selling P-H property to expand the campus three years ago — got her on this committee, something Ben Marshallton fought Cliff over, but lost.

  “Ok. Simple example. Fundraiser A goes to Donor X with the knowledge that he must make his ‘targets,’ which are imposed by the quarter. So Fundraiser A, knowing he needs, say, another million by the end of the year, presses Donor X to give a million in the fall campaign.”

  “Fundraiser B, meanwhile, with the school and the donor foremost in her mind, knows that this is not the best time business-wise for Donor X, perhaps another kid going to college, combined with business expansion expenses for Donor X’s company in December. But Fundraiser B feels confident that Donor X would be able to make a significantly large, multiyear pledge in the next fiscal year, so Fundraiser B raises less in this quarter but ultimately more in the long run for the school by waiting until the time is right for the donor.”

  “That’s a totally subjective argument,” said Frank. “You can’t read donors’ minds with any accuracy. Plus they constantly change their minds.”

  “Or,” Lucinda continued, feeling everyone’s attention on her. “Fundraiser A ingratiates himself to Donor X and gets Donor X to rewrite her will, leaving her estate to the college, against the wishes of her family. Donor X dies, Fundraiser A gets his hefty commission and most likely something left to him personally by the deceased. Messy trouble with Donor X’s family ensues. I could go on and on with examples, but you get the gist.”

  “In other words,” said Honor, “one must walk a fine line between the true spirit of philanthropy for the common good and the natural desire organizations have to raise huge pots of money. And, of course, for people to be greedy.”

  “Well put,” said Bomi.

  “P-H has always been above reproach in that area,” said Cliff. “I don’t see that that’s changed. Frank needs time to get back to the Committee regarding these minor bookkeeping discrepancies. In terms of the company pledge payments, do you have anything to add to that, Frank?”

  “Again, I need to look at the specifics and get back to you. I believe we’ve entered an era of exponentially increasing our corporate donations — which I intend to do and have started — and we need to be flexible in terms of payment options.”

  “Flexible is good,” Bomi said. “But everything eventually needs to be spelled out clearly to keep the auditors happy.”

  Lucinda jumped in. “I think that we need to remember that the corporate donations coming in this year — which are a great new revenue source to build on — only represent about five percent of the total that thirty of us are raising in Development. Let’s not forget that in the broader — ”

  “So,” said Cliff, still pacing. “Frank reports back at next month’s Executive Committee meeting on the details. Shall we go to topic two?”

  Cliff didn’t usually interrupt Lucinda, pulling rank as a Board member. Lucinda knew she needed to make the point — whether it was heard or not — that all this focus on Frank’s corporate fundraising was taking attention away from everything her staff were doing, the same unglamorous hard work they did every year that never got enough credit. And now Frank was grabbing more credit for her department’s hard work on top of taking the glories for achievements he hadn’t yet accomplished.

  Honor was not smiling. Lucinda wondered what exactly she’d intended to accomplish tonight. Probably more than uncovering that Frank pretended to be ignorant of all the details surrounding his recent, rather unorthodox financial transactions.

  Bomi jumped in next. Lucinda appreciated his quiet strength, like he was waiting until everything was perfect and then he would pounce so that he was guaranteed to land his prey.

  “One more thing,” he said. “There’s a vendor listed as H. Denton that’s new. Can you enlighten us on that?”

  “I’ll get back to you on that too,” Frank said. “After I look into it.”

  Lucinda glanced at Frank’s face. He continued to evade eye contact, as if something in Lucinda’s face were extremely repulsive.

  “I was hoping we’d learn more about topic one at this meeting, but we’ll be hearing more from Frank in detail on that next month. Now topic two.” Honor nodded to Lucinda, her signal to leave. She got up and gathered her purse and slim portfolio.

  Lucinda had almost completely shut the door, but couldn’t help but listen through the crack to Cliff’s gruff voice as he approached the other side of the door, where he paused and turned.

  “I also want to remind you folks that Frank has been involved in high-level negotiations with corporations to build new, potentially huge partnerships for P-H. In addition to Fargill and Dover, he’s talking to insurance and travel industry folks. So he�
��s not going to have his fingers on all the financial details at a moment’s notice. Plus, he brought in thirty-five million dollars from Chester Mulholland just this week. That pot’s been sitting there for years right under Ben’s nose.”

  Lucinda heard June squeal.

  “I think that’s what we need to discuss as we turn to performance on the strategic initiatives,” Cliff said.

  Lucinda, stunned, stood still, hardly breathing. She slowly pulled the door the rest of the way into the frame. Frank was stealing credit for Chester’s megagift.

  Preparing to dig herself in deeper, Lucinda smiled to bolster her resolve. She knew that if Chester knew he’d set everyone straight.

  “I imagine.” Lucinda made out Honor’s confident voice through the closed door. “That Chester’s extremely generous gift was the result of a team effort and many years of planning.”

  Lucinda would let Honor know — as soon as possible — just what kind of team effort it had been. She was usually the first to give credit to her team, but she really could claim this one for herself. And for Frank to claim credit? Or not disabuse the committee of Cliff’s assignment of credit to him? That the committee ignored the fact that she was bringing in more than $150 million — even without Chester’s gift — while Frank was emphasizing how he was pulling P-H forward by leaps and bounds? And they were buying that? If she left, or were pushed out, donations would plunge. Frank had no idea how quickly or by how much.

  She’d give Frank this, he could bring in money doing his funky corporate deals, but it was nowhere near enough, nor consistent enough, to run the college. You had to deal with all the people and sources the school was naturally aligned with to make it all work. He only wanted to talk to fellow corporate movers and shakers like himself — where he knew the playing field. The kinds of businesses known to be fickle from one quarter to the next depending on their own revenue bounces and crashes.

  Worse, Frank thought he could just wave his wand over the books, moving sums from one column to another, and keep everyone happy. Perhaps he’d been able to arrange that in his other enterprises, but he’d come up against almost two centuries of tradition at P-H and one stubborn fundraiser. Not to mention Bomi. He was an answer to some prayer that she never prayed, not knowing that she’d needed to.

  She walked to her car parked on Hetherington and sat in the driver’s seat, feeling as if her brain were actually steaming. After a few minutes, the air from the open window, cool and fresh, finally reached her consciousness. She called Honor’s cell and calmly left a message about the Mulholland gift to set the record straight. Something like that if left unchallenged could push the whole Board in Frank’s favor. She’d get back to Chester soon, without Frank, to wrap up the details of the estate. She wanted the signed pledge paperwork in her hands.

  With that call taken care of she felt ravenous and headed for Superior Subs to grab something on the way home, two Italian grinders for her and Peter, plus a small tuna grinder for the cats. They had freshly made chocolate chip cookies displayed in a reach-in jar on the counter so she grabbed four of those — none for the cats. It felt great to have some configuration of a family to go home to, especially after today.

  Beach Race

  Lucinda on Lady Grey and Tori on Pogo headed out into the late summer afternoon. Their destination was the beach on the eastern edge of Lucinda’s property — better for riding than the rocky beach near Salt Marsh Stable and campus. Lucinda’s farmhouse was eight miles by the weaving coastal road to Salt Marsh Stable, but it was only three miles by the wooded network of trails between Salt Marsh Stable at the northern end of Thornbury and Lucinda’s farm at Plumcliff, all within a mile of the ocean’s edge.

  Most of the way they walked or trotted, picking their way on tree root-laced trails or loose sand, but on the hard packed sand of the beach they gave the horses their heads. Lady Grey surged alongside Pogo, letting loose with a tiny twisting buck, purely for pleasure, and pulled into the lead by a half-length. Caught by surprise at the buck, Lucinda managed to hang on.

  After the gallop, they walked the horses toward the headland north of the farm, Lucinda laughing, Pogo flipping his head. Tori dropped her stirrups and stretched her legs.

  “It’s been way too long since we’ve done that!” said Tori.

  “Yeah, like twenty years.”

  “Wasn’t she the racehorse?”

  “I swear I didn’t do anything!” Lucinda giggled. “She wanted to run, I could feel it.”

  “She pissed Pogo off. You see his ears flatten? He’s not used to being bested.”

  Lucinda stroked the mare’s neck. Lady Grey had stopped as a wave came to the edge of its journey right before her and pawed at it with her right front hoof.

  The sunshine danced on wave, sand, horse, wet stranded seaweed, and the women’s faces and arms. A swirling breeze mixed sea brine with the first stirrings of autumn — ripe beach plums, the first fallen leaves, and the faint scent of rotting apple from the orchard a half mile away. That beguiling, funky herbal sachet of cold dirt, rotting vegetation, and brittle leaves that infused the air each fall was just beginning to build up a head. The sky was an aching blue crisscrossed by gulls.

  “I haven’t been this happy for years,” Lucinda said. “Just simply happy.”

  They walked the horses in contented silence for a few minutes.

  “Any news from Bart?”

  “They don’t encourage family to communicate with in-patients during the dry-out phase.” Lucinda looked at the incoming waves spilling on the beach, the joy in her face disappearing like seawater into the sand. “I just don’t think Bart and I can get it together again. At one time, it could have happened, but I think it’s too late now. I don’t know, I love him but — ”

  “You know what I read in a magazine the other day? Guess what the odds are for a couple with a confessed affair staying together?”

  “Hah!” said Lucinda. “Not good.”

  “About fifteen percent. And if you throw in two miscarriages and alcoholism — ”

  “You’d need an intervention from God to stay together. It’s amazing that Bart and I still even talk to each other.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So what does it all mean? Be a pessimist?”

  “I read it this way. Keep your mind open. Keep your options open. Never say never.”

  Lucinda laughed. “You say that about everything. It’s your philosophy.”

  They turned from the beach onto a trail through the dunes and then up the small hill toward Lucinda’s farm. Tori pulled up at the T split in the trail, glancing north and then south.

  “Lucinda, you don’t have your property posted clearly.”

  Lucinda pulled her mare in next to Pogo. Tori pointed right and then left with her riding crop, used mostly to whisk bugs off the gelding’s neck and flanks. “I’ve only seen one ancient No Trespassing/No Hunting sign since we came onto your property. You have to post your whole property boundary.”

  “I did that the year after I moved in and never gave it any more thought. You’re right. I ought to throw a few more signs up.”

  “A few is an understatement! And it’s getting to be that time of year. Those crazy people going after deer with everything from rocks to rocket launchers.” She shivered. “We’ve got to keep the trails between our barns safe for riders.”

  Lucinda nodded.

  “I’ll ask Ramsey to help if you don’t have enough time,” Tori said, glancing at her friend. “Don’t put it off, Cinda.”

  “Peter can do it. He’s staying with me for a while and he detests guns. He’d love that assignment.”

  “What happened to that monastery thing?” Tori asked.

  “Good question. I’ll let him tell you.”

  “We’ll invite you guys over. Martin’s throwing himself back into Hyperion II, I’m calling it Hyper Two. We’ve a lot to discuss. Shall we?” Tori nodded toward the trail and urged Pogo into a trot, with Lucinda and the mare falling in b
ehind. They followed the trail south through scrub pine woods to oak woods to hayfields back to Salt Marsh Stable.

  Moments after the two riders departed, a man, a trespasser, trudged through the sand up from the beach via the dune trail and stopped at the T. Bending down, he studied the two sets of hoof prints, then took the trail to the north toward the farmhouse.

  * * * * *

  “I’m stretching my neck out awfully damn far,” Cliff said. “I hope I’m not being foolish.” He stared pointedly at Frank. “You still have the unwavering support of the majority of the Board, but there’re a few — ”

  “Like Singh,” Frank grumbled.

  They sat in back of the larger of the Thornbough Mansions on the portico facing the sea at a table for two, drinking whiskey and soda.

  “You’re losing Honor’s support too and that’s not good.” Cliff downed his drink and scanned the harbor to the south, where the harbormaster was overseeing the heavy flow of sailboat traffic. “I hardly got out on the water at all this summer,” he said, as if that too were Frank’s fault.

  “I take it that all of you on the Board were serious when you told me you were hunting for strategic leadership to blast this campus forward? To shake the dust out of P-H halls and classrooms and graduate more movers and shakers?”

  “God, yes!” said Cliff.

  “That’s what we can do with 35-million-dollar gifts.”

  Cliff stirred from his study of sailboats bobbing in the blackish-green and orange sunset harbor water and met Frank’s eyes.

  “Honor told me this morning that gift was totally Lucinda’s doing.”

  Frank shoved himself all the way to the back of his seat, he’d been slumping slightly he realized, and grimaced.

  “And you believed her? You need to know that Lucinda’s desperate to find ways to stay relevant given our new pace, our new priorities. She’s very competitive with me. Actually, Chester and I have been in dialogue since the spring, going back and forth.”