hell wouldn’t be worrying about water leaks. Crumpling the photo, he took aim for the wastebasket and shot, missing by a foot.
“Your girlfriend’s here.”
The pronouncement, short and sweet, kicked all thoughts of “what if?” aside.
“My what?” Since the disaster with Julia he had but one committed relationship, and that was with the center.
Maria Carrerra folded her arms across her body. Though only five foot one, the mother of six was by far the most formidable volunteer the center had. Her first day on the job, she’d stared down the surliest teenagers on the block with a look. Oliver knew because he’d been one of them. Her expression hadn’t been unlike the one she was shooting him now. A look that said he should know what she was talking about.
“The woman from that public relations agency.”
“Right.” Now he remembered. “The party planner.”
Peter McNabb, head of the McNabb Foundation and Oliver’s chief donor, had had the misfortune of getting caught by a camera phone in flagrante delicto with his au pair, and so he was throwing a huge children’s Christmas party at the center for damage control. Personally, Oliver hated seeing his center being used for some PR stunt, but he didn’t have much choice. Not if he wanted a decent budget next year. He thought of the water stain that was no doubt expanding behind him as they spoke.
Maria, meanwhile, still stood in the doorway, giving him the look. As a volunteer she was terrific. As a secretary, not so much. “What’s the matter? Go ahead and send McNabb’s image-polisher in.”
“I can’t. She’s not here.”
“You just said—”
“I said she was here, meaning at the center. She went straight to the community room. Right after telling me you need to bring a tape measure with you. She’s kinda bossy.” A frown marred her petite features. “We’re not going to have to run around doing all sorts of errands for her, are we?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she understands we’ve got other work to do besides throw this party.” He might not havea choice about hosting the party, but he refused to let Peter McNabb’s PR stunt take over his center.
“Good,” Maria replied. “Because right now I don’t think she realizes that.”
The community room was in the back of the building. A refurbished cafetorium left over from when the building had been an elementary school in the 1950s, it now served as the center’s main gathering space. Overall, it wasn’t much. There was a stage at the far end of the room, and a battered piano tucked in the corner that Oliver had paid to have tuned last month. Several large tables were pushed against the walls, along with boxes of toys and balls of various sizes. Two of the windows had boards in them thanks to broken glass. The walls, he noticed, were looking pretty dingy, too. They could stand fresh paint. Another item for his list.
At the moment, the room played host to the preschool playgroup. Mothers gathered in folding chairs, chatting and nursing babies, while toddlers wreaked their usual havoc on the toys and snacks. Oliver spotted his appointment immediately. The willowy blond pacing the perimeter looked as out of place as a cellist at a rap competition.
He watched as her coat swayed in cadence with her steps. Cell phone stuck to her ear. Cashmere scarf. Faux-fur-trimmed hood. Stiletto-heeled boots that cost more than his paycheck. Visions of society photos danced in his head. Uptown all the way, wasn’t she?
No sooner did he step toward her than a particularly havoc-wreaking boy, slightly older than the others, ran up, his mouth filled with cookies. He held out the box for Oliver to see. “Mr. Oliver! We got animal crackers!” At least that was what Oliver thought he said.
“Jamarcus, you get back here!” His mother, a very pregnant young woman, gestured at the boy to return. “Leave Mr. Oliver alone.”
Oliver smiled. “You better listen to your mother,
“Your girlfriend’s here.”
The pronouncement, short and sweet, kicked all thoughts of “what if?” aside.
“My what?” Since the disaster with Julia he had but one committed relationship, and that was with the center.
Maria Carrerra folded her arms across her body. Though only five foot one, the mother of six was by far the most formidable volunteer the center had. Her first day on the job, she’d stared down the surliest teenagers on the block with a look. Oliver knew because he’d been one of them. Her expression hadn’t been unlike the one she was shooting him now. A look that said he should know what she was talking about.
“The woman from that public relations agency.”
“Right.” Now he remembered. “The party planner.”
Peter McNabb, head of the McNabb Foundation and Oliver’s chief donor, had had the misfortune of getting caught by a camera phone in flagrante delicto with his au pair, and so he was throwing a huge children’s Christmas party at the center for damage control. Personally, Oliver hated seeing his center being used for some PR stunt, but he didn’t have much choice. Not if he wanted a decent budget next year. He thought of the water stain that was no doubt expanding behind him as they spoke.
Maria, meanwhile, still stood in the doorway, giving him the look. As a volunteer she was terrific. As a secretary, not so much. “What’s the matter? Go ahead and send McNabb’s image-polisher in.”
“I can’t. She’s not here.”
“You just said—”
“I said she was here, meaning at the center. She went straight to the community room. Right after telling me you need to bring a tape measure with you. She’s kinda bossy.” A frown marred her petite features. “We’re not going to have to run around doing all sorts of errands for her, are we?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she understands we’ve got other work to do besides throw this party.” He might not havea choice about hosting the party, but he refused to let Peter McNabb’s PR stunt take over his center.
“Good,” Maria replied. “Because right now I don’t think she realizes that.”
The community room was in the back of the building. A refurbished cafetorium left over from when the building had been an elementary school in the 1950s, it now served as the center’s main gathering space. Overall, it wasn’t much. There was a stage at the far end of the room, and a battered piano tucked in the corner that Oliver had paid to have tuned last month. Several large tables were pushed against the walls, along with boxes of toys and balls of various sizes. Two of the windows had boards in them thanks to broken glass. The walls, he noticed, were looking pretty dingy, too. They could stand fresh paint. Another item for his list.
At the moment, the room played host to the preschool playgroup. Mothers gathered in folding chairs, chatting and nursing babies, while toddlers wreaked their usual havoc on the toys and snacks. Oliver spotted his appointment immediately. The willowy blond pacing the perimeter looked as out of place as a cellist at a rap competition.
He watched as her coat swayed in cadence with her steps. Cell phone stuck to her ear. Cashmere scarf. Faux-fur-trimmed hood. Stiletto-heeled boots that cost more than his paycheck. Visions of society photos danced in his head. Uptown all the way, wasn’t she?
No sooner did he step toward her than a particularly havoc-wreaking boy, slightly older than the others, ran up, his mouth filled with cookies. He held out the box for Oliver to see. “Mr. Oliver! We got animal crackers!” At least that was what Oliver thought he said.
“Jamarcus, you get back here!” His mother, a very pregnant young woman, gestured at the boy to return. “Leave Mr. Oliver alone.”
Oliver smiled. “You better listen to your mother,
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