Chapter 35

“My name is Mary Wiggin. I've been spearheading the Sub-for-Santa program for years, for free. It meant so much to me as a child. In fact, before I get into the evidence I brought, I just wanted to say that I was a recipient of Sub-for-Santa for many years, from the age of seven. Most years, it was the thought of Christmas that helped me survive and thrive in school. That's why I've been giving eighty to a hundred hours of my time free each year in support of this program. I know hope and excitement and wonder don't manifest as tangibly as medical care, but Sub-for-Santa's very low resource, and I don't see why the two initiatives would be zero sum.”

Mr. Peters' eyebrows rise. “Zero sum?” He laughs then, a great big belly laugh. “Of course they aren't zero sum, except that our funds are limited and if we spend the money we've raised on one thing, we can't spend it on another. Last week, I tasked Foster here to cut enough programs to make room in the budget for our top priority, which is aiding sick kids.”

Foster walks back toward the conference room. “We can talk more tomorrow, Mary. Stan and I have a lot of work to do now.”

“Let her come show me her evidence,” Mr. Peters says. “I'd be most interested to see why she thinks United Way needs this program. After all, our goal is to maximize good for the funding we have. Shouldn't we listen to a self-proclaimed expert on it before we decide? And, frankly, her excitement has me questioning Sub-for-Santa's removal.”

I jog behind Foster and Mr. Peters and into the conference room, spreading my notes, articles and spreadsheets out in front of them both.

“Okay, first we've got the chart here that shows how many kids have been helped, and the total cost per family to United Way. If you average our costs out by family, we only spend $11.40 per family at Christmas. It's very low budget, because in fact, it's a fundraiser all its own. The families who sign up pay for almost everything.”

Mr. Peters hums quietly to himself. “And where does that eleven dollars go?”

I point at another chart, a budget break down. “We have promotional materials we provide to churches, clubs and schools. They help us identify families, which we then screen for eligibility. Beyond that, we also have mailers, paperwork fees, and whatnot. And while I work for free, I need an assistant to help me manage all of this, and she can't afford to work for free. I pay her half what she makes at my firm, and she's the best secretary I've ever had, but her salary composes about half of the expense for the administration.”

“If I agreed to let this continue, but I insisted on cutting your budget by half?” Mr. Peters stares into my eyes. “What then?”

I wring my hands in my lap where I hope he can't tell. I'd need to do Sub-for-Santa without a secretary or assistant, and I have a new job where I'll be working even more. I want to keep it alive, but I'm not Atlas and I can't carry the whole globe. Tears well up in my eyes. “I don't know, sir. Maybe we could make that work. Would we be allowed to do additional fundraisers, and use any funds we generate to pay my assistant?”

He shakes his head. “Against policy.”

Of course it is. “I could pay the assistant instead.”

He shakes his head again. “If you donate to United Way, it needs to go into the general fund. It's against our charter to have you pay an assistant on your own. In fact, it might invalidate our 501(c)(3) status.”

I close my eyes. “Sir, we're talking about a very small amount of money here. And I have more evidence of the benefits. Look at these articles about our program. This program is marketing and publicity gold, sir. People love the stories and the good we do generates a lot of positive buzz for the United Way. It's hard to quantify the exact benefit, but it's got to help people be more generous in donations. Families love participating, and obviously the recipient families love knowing someone cares about them. It fosters exactly the kind of goodwill and general kindness that's missing in the world.”

Mr. Peters flips through my fliers and my clippings. He lays his huge hand across the top of the clippings and leans back in his chair. “I hate to tell you this Mary, because I admire your excitement and your passion, but even though this certainly seems like a worthy cause, I have to evaluate everything as good, better, best. I would place this squarely into the “good” category. It's good, but our money can be better or even best used elsewhere.”

I knew this was coming. Foster told me resisting was futile, but somehow, here, looking this man in the eye, I can't quite believe he's turning me down. I think about the little girls out there with nothing to look forward to all year. I think about the little boys who only ask for a baseball and a glove. No glove for their dad, because they have no dad. I remember at last year's drop off, one mother fell at my feet and wept. Her husband was sick and the care for him was more than she could manage. Food stamps kept them alive, but there was nothing left over for the children.

“You're making a mistake, sir.” I reach across the table in front of him and gather up all my press clippings, thank you letters, emails, and charts. None of it mattered, not in the end. “But because your family knew the right people, and donated to the right groups, it's your mistake to make. I wish you the very best in your admirable and more impressive goals of healing sick kids' bodies. I hope that one day you'll see the value in instilling hope and love in kids' hearts, too.”

I head back into my office long enough to check my voicemail and make notes, grab my coat, and finish up my phone call notations. I'll be calling all day tomorrow as well, hoping everyone has done what they were supposed to do. If not, I'll have a few extra families this year. I've had as many as six extra families in the past, but last year I only had two.

I slide my arms into the sleeves of my navy blue pea coat and button it up. I'm proud that I don't glare at Mr. Peters where he's still poring over letters in the conference room when I walk past. He's all alone in there, which leaves me wondering where exactly Foster went.

I slow down as I pass Foster's office, looking for clues of why he abandoned ship.

I don't notice her perfectly curled, shiny, blonde hair until I'm two feet from Foster's office door.

“Babe, when can we go?” she asks, one hand on her flat stomach. “I swear this baby is making me so hungry all the time.”

“I just hope you can still fit in your dress at the end of the week.” Foster grins down at her. “My parents spent a fortune on it.”

She's not really pregnant, I want to shout. She lied to trick you into marrying her. But I don't say a single word. I think he may deserve someone like her.

I wave at Foster. “Hey boss. I'm headed out, but I wanted to let you know I won't be able to make it to the wedding. Unfortunately my funding for buying cute, wedding appropriate clothing and shoes has been cut and reallocated to my toilet paper fund. I do hope you understand. Wiping butts is more important than supporting friends. I wish you both the best of luck in the future.”

“Don't be petty Mary,” Foster says. “It doesn't suit you. And you know very well that the budget decisions are above my pay grade. I'm just doing my job.”

When Jessica recognizes me, her eyes flash. “Mary Wiggin.”

I bob my head an inch or so. “So nice to finally meet you,” I say, daring her to say different.

“I told Foster not to send you an invite with a plus one. You've only been seeing this new guy for what? A week? That kind of thing falls apart as fast as it goes together, if you know what I mean. We didn't want to put any undue pressure on something so new, and although you're welcome to come alone, we didn't want you to feel conspicuous.”

Her liberal use of 'we' makes me want to hurl in the big, black, pot next to Foster's fake Bird of Paradise plant.

I scratch my head. “I think Luke and I started dating about two weeks after you and Foster.” I smile sweetly. “But it's not my relationship status that's getting in the way of me coming. Actually, I can't make it because I'm getting a promotion at work, and my sister is moving in with me, along with her toddler son. Bad timing, is all.”

“Wait,” Foster says. “What's going on with Trudy?”

“It's nothing, really.”

Foster opens his mouth, but before he can speak, Jessica, who's glaring at me says, “Well, in any case, thanks for letting us know.” She leans against Foster and slides her hand down his arm to take his hand in hers.

“Sorry to tell you so late, but I just can't go.”

Jessica's smile is relieved. I glance at Foster and he's wearing his plastic smile underneath pained eyes. Which means he's relieved too. If they didn't want me to come, why even bother inviting me?

I pull my phone out of my purse and pretend to be reading a text message. “On second thought, Luke is free and we'll be there. With bells on.”

Jessica raises one eyebrow. “What wonderful news.”

“Yeah.” I drop to a whisper. “Speaking of wonderful news, I heard you have some great news to share. When I guessed, Foster told me to keep it to myself, but of course I can congratulate you.” I stare right into Jessica's eyes. “Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

She flinches and her face falls. At least she has the decency to pretend to feel awful about her lie. I consider telling Foster, but I keep my mouth shut.

Foster wraps his arms around her shoulders from behind. “We don't care about the gender as long as it's healthy.”

I think about Troy, who isn't healthy, and I frown. “What does that mean? If it's born with Down's syndrome, you won't want it? If it's born with a bad heart, or another condition, will you walk away? What if he or she isn't that smart, or very talented? Will you still love them then?”

Foster leads Jessica out of his office and back toward the conference room. “Such a nice chat. We're glad you'll be there for our wedding. But for now, Jess and I are taking Mr. Peters to lunch.”

“I have to get to work anyway,” I say. “I'm way behind now that I've got a new role to train for.”

All I can think about the entire drive over to my tax firm is. . . how in the world will I skip the wedding, or go alone, without confirming their suspicion that I can't hold a relationship together for more than a month? It's been a long month already, but I can't bear the idea of facing them without a plus one. Yuck. What's wrong with me? Why didn't I let it go?

I reach for my phone, about to text Luke, when another message pings. Trudy.

-YOU OKAY?

I text back.

-HOW'S THE MOVE COMING?

-ALL MOVED OVER ALREADY. THOSE GUYS WERE FAST, AND IT HELPS OUR PLACES ARE CLOSE TOGETHER.

What a relief.

-WONDERFUL NEWS.

-I NEED A BREAK AFTER THIS.

Me too. In the past year, Foster has managed to find the perfect girl for him: a beautiful, money loving, raging liar. Meanwhile, I'm still completely single, unlovable, and married to my job. Actually, Foster and Trudy have always been oil and water. She’s probably the perfect person to be my plus one if I need to go, and I feel like I do.

-WOULD YOU COME WITH ME TO A WEDDING?

Trudy texts back immediately.

-WOULDN'T MISS IT.

Peace settles over me like a warm blanket, fresh from the dryer. I've got a plus one, and I don't have to worry about upsetting Luke or reopening that can of worms.

-THANKS T.

-ANYTHING FOR YOU. YOU'RE THE BEST PERSON IN THE WORLD. I'M LUCKY YOU'RE MY SISTER.

Unlike the polite platitudes friends throw out, I know Trudy means it from the bottom of her heart.