because last weekend I met someone you know and we got to talking; Clarissa somebody. I explained that I was searching for someone who knew about the various nonprofit agencies in town, and she said that you and your friends are active in community service. All that practical knowledge is just what I need to feel my money will end up in the right place.”
Hunter nodded. “Clarissa Burke. She’s pretty generous with her time, too.”
“Also,” Connolly shrugged and said with a curiously shy lift of his shoulder, “I’d like to keep this quiet, keep my name out of it. I hate fuss. So, I expect you’d like to do a little research into who needs what and get back to me?”
“I would,” Hunter agreed. “And just so that I know what we’re talking about here and how to distribute it, can you tell me what you’d like to give?”
“Sure. I was thinking a million dollars distributed among however many agencies you suggest. And if we could work it out so that some of that money is socked away somehow to provide them with long-term funding, I’d be very happy. What do you think?”
“Ah...” Hunter was aware that his mouth hung open. He closed it and swallowed then cleared his throat to reply. “Well thought out, Mr. Connolly,” he said, his voice raspy. “I’ll do this carefully.”
Connolly stood. He leaned across the desk and shook Hunter’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’ve wanted to for some time.”
In the process of getting the man’s coat, Hunter turned, surprised at that. “You have? Oh, you mean...since meeting Clarissa?”
Connolly accepted his coat and threw it over his arm. “Yes.” He smiled and pulled on a blue plaid cap, then adjusted the bill with a debonair snap. “That’s what I meant. I look forward to hearing from you.”
“Give me a week.”
“Take all the time you need. I just subleased a condo on the river. You know the the building?”
“The Columbia House?”
“That’s it. I’ve written my new landline number on the back of the card, but the cell number on the front still works. Call me when you have a plan and I’ll make an appointment.”
Hunter walked him to the front door. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Connolly.” He offered his hand. “You don’t run into many philanthropists these days. Everybody’s struggling to keep themselves afloat.”
“I know. But life was generous to me and this town was so kind. I have feelings for Astoria. I’d like to share.”
“That’s highly commendable.”
“Nah. The more I give away, the less I have to worry about. Good to meet you. We’re going to do good things together.”
“Well, you’ll be doing—I’m just fact-finding.”
“That’s an important part of the process. We want to make sure the money goes where it’ll do the most good. I’ll wait for your call.”
Connolly climbed into a silver Lexus parked out front and drove off.
Hunter strode across the green-oak-furnished office and rapped on Nate’s open door. Nate glanced up from the computer. “Yeah?”
“You won’t believe this,” Hunter began as he took a client chair and told him Harris Connolly’s story and what he wanted to do for Astoria.
Nate stared then said finally, “Well, great. If Sandy’s still talking to you, you should get her to help you. She knows every group in town.”
Running a hand over his face, Hunter groaned. “Yeah, well, I don’t think that’ll work. She’s gone. I have to figure this out for myself.”
“She lives in Astoria. How can she be gone?”
“Not gone from town. Gone from my life.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t give up. We all know she has strong opinions on everything.” Nate’s expression was vaguely superior, Hunter thought, now that Nate had his love life in order. Then Nate’s voice became vague as he refocused on the computer. “You’ll fix it. She’d do anything for anybody, and you, particularly.”
Hunter stood to leave and sketched a wave in Nate’s direction. Though Hunter had done his best to discourage Sandy’s feelings, he knew Nate’s assessment was probably still true. Sandy took care of everyone.
She just had to understand that Hunter Bristol took care of himself.
CHAPTER TWO
DISAPPOINTMENT LODGED like an anvil in her chest, Sandy did what she’d always done in such situations—she got on with her life. She drove to the Maritime Museum, parked her car and walked to the railing to look out on the river. The day was chilly and gray, but she loved it when the weather was like that. Moody and intimate, the air smelling the way she imagined heaven would.
She fought to think positively about other things. She had the rest of the day off and the girls were at daycare. She could finish painting the back porch. She could make goodie bags for Addie’s fourth birthday party on Saturday; she could buy gift wrap and treat herself to lunch while she was at it.
She sighed and a strangled little sound came out with the whoosh of air. She put a hand to her chest and breathed in, letting that wood-and-river fragrance fill her up. So she couldn’t have the man she wanted. She would survive.
Her father had left without any explanation when she was fourteen, and she’d survived. Her mother had gone into a decline for a few months, and Sandy had kept them going and they had both survived. Her husband had left two months after Addie was born, unable to deal with the tyrannies of parenthood, and she’d come through again. But, every time she’d had to pull it together, she’d felt a little of her soft side erode. She’d wondered what it would be like to have a man in her life who would be there when she turned to him, who would love her forever.
Well, she thought bracingly, that wasn’t going to happen today. She inhaled another gulp of Columbia River air and wandered back to her car, considering the virtues of painting her porch against shopping and lunch out, when her cell phone rang. She didn’t want to talk to anyone, but it could be the daycare calling about the girls.
The caller ID read A. Moreno. Armando and Celia Moreno and their two little girls were her tenants, living next door to Nate and Bobbie in a little cottage Sandy had inherited from her aunt. Bobbie had rented it before she met and married Nate and moved in with him and his nephews. Because the Morenos had come upon hard times, Sandy charged them just enough rent to cover property taxes and homeowner’s insurance. They were embarrassingly grateful.
She answered the phone.
“Sandee!” Celia was breathless. “I took the leaky faucet off the top of the...the sink in the kitchen to try to...to fix it myself and water is like a fountain! I called Mando, but he doesn’t answer. They are painting the apartment house by the bridge today.” Hunter had gotten Mando a job with Affordable Painting, one of his clients.
Must be one of those days, Sandy thought. “There’s a knob under the sink, Celia,” she said. “Turn off the one under the cold water. I’ll hold on while you do that.”
Sandy heard scurrying, mutterings in Spanish, then, “I did, but it doesn’t stop!”
“It’ll take a second.”
“Oh.” She heard Celia’s sigh of relief. “Just a little fountain. It is stopped.”
“Okay. I’ll be right there with a new faucet. That one was ready to be replaced anyway.”
Celia made a commiserating sound. “I’m sorry. Bobbie says you are having a Sandy day.”
She was surprised to feel herself smile. “I am.” A pileup of disasters was a Sandy day.