Page 13 of His Daughter

"Go ahead," I told her. "Wait in the lobby."

"I'll be timing you."

I followed the assistant down another corridor, into the elevator, past more glass-walled offices, through double doors into a sprawling office that took up the width of the building. The windows wrapped around two walls. The desk faced outward toward the city.

He stood in front of his desk, leaning against its edge, arms crossed, jacket off. His shirt was white, the sleeves still rolled. Without the jacket, his shoulders were broader.

"Please, sit down," he said.

I didn't sit. I couldn't. "Is this about the funding?"

He smiled — crooked, pulled more to the right side of his mouth. "Partially." He uncrossed his arms and moved around the desk. "Your housing placement model. You mentioned an eighteen-month retention rate. What's the dropout window?"

"Months four through seven. That's when the transitional support ends and the permanent housing waitlist hasn't caught up."

"And the funding gap. How much are you short?"

"For the year? About three hundred twenty thousand. For the bridge period — the next six weeks — eighty."

"What happens if you don't close the bridge gap?"

"We freeze intake. The women on the waitlist stay on the waitlist, and the ones in crisis go back to whatever they were running from."

He nodded, moved to the side table, and poured water from a glass pitcher into two tumblers. He crossed back to me and held one out.

I took it. Our fingers brushed on the glass. He was warm. The contact lasted a half-second longer than necessary, and neither of us pulled back first. The water was cold in my hand. The place where his skin had touched mine was not.

"How long have you been doing this work?" he asked.

"Eight years." I kept my voice flat, my answers direct. I stood there, watching him, waiting for him to finally say why he'd really called me in.

"Hmm." He licked his lips. "What drives it?"

I took a sip. "The women I serve don't have anyone else. The system isn't built for them. Someone has to build something that is."

"Vanguard will fund your program," he said. "Not through CSR. Through my personal foundation. It's not subject to quarterly budgets or evaluation cycles. I'll have the paperwork drawn up this week."

I stared at him. "Why?"

"Because the work matters. And because Claire was wrong to pass on it."

"Thank you. This is — thank you."

"Also, have dinner with me tonight."

The room went still. I stared at him. The smile was gone. "Is that the only way I get the donation?"

"No." He shook his head. "The donation is done. The dinner is for me."

No.

I just ended a marriage. I still slept on my side of the bed. I still reached across in the dark sometimes, half-asleep, expecting to find Caleb's shoulder and finding cold sheets. It wasn't time.

I am not ready.

"I can't. I'm sorry. Thank you for the funding."

I turned, walked across his office, down the hallway, and into the elevator. I pressed the button for the lobby. The doors closed. I stood in that quiet box, pressed my back against the wall, stared at the ceiling, and let out a breath I must have been holding since he walked into the conference room.