03_The Unexpected Gift (8 page)

However, after two weeks she still hadn’t had even a nibble. So, the stories she’d been reading about the tough job market must have been true, after all. At this point, she’d pretty much exhausted the Boston area. She wasn’t sure what to do next.

Her self-confidence was also eroding with dizzying speed. She’d always thought she was good at what she did. But if that was true, why weren’t her skills being recognized? Didn’t
anyone
in the advertising world think she had value? And if not, were they right? So much of her identity had been tied to her job that without it—her title, her office, her work—she wasn’t even sure who she was anymore. And that feeling wasn’t just disconcerting. It was terrifying.

“That sounds like a good idea, Sylvia. Let’s ask Morgan.”

Morgan heard her name and forced her thoughts back to the present. A flush spread over cheeks as she realized she’d missed a good part of the discussion. It reminded her of the few embarrassing times in grade school when she’d been caught daydreaming. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I missed that last comment. Could you repeat it, please?”

Grant’s eyes were probing, questioning, discerning. But to Morgan’s surprise, his look was caring, rather than critical, which touched her, considering all he’d been through. Lines of weariness and sorrow were etched on his gaunt face, and the purple shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights. Yet despite his own pain, he was still sensitive to the moods of others.

“Of course,” he replied. “Sylvia was asking whether it would be a good idea to try and tap into alumni of the camp as we begin our fund-raising effort.”

“That makes sense,” Morgan concurred. “Is your alumni mailing list up to date?”

“As much as we can make it,” Mary spoke up. “We try to stay in touch with the kids, but it’s not easy. So we’ve lost contact with quite a few.”

“Are you aware of any high-profile alumni who might be willing to go public with their support of the camp?”

“A few.”

“They’ll be a good resource.” Morgan scanned the sheet of paper in front of her, where she’d scribbled some notes as she’d reviewed the camp material that Grant had sent. “You might want to consider some sort of black-tie fund-raising dinner and auction, as well. That type of event can be very lucrative if it’s well-promoted and supported by the right people. That’s even more true if you can bring in some good entertainment.”

“I’m not sure we have the connections for that,” Sylvia told her.

“I have some contacts I may be able to use to help pull something like this together,” Morgan offered. “And I can help plan and arrange the publicity and marketing. But you also might want to think about appointing an advisory board of high-profile people who can lend their names—and support—to the camp and help to chair events like this. That’s why I asked about successful alumni, but the board could consist of anyone who supports your work. I think that’s critical, because even though I’m confident we can pull off an event this year and generate enough income to get the camp through another season, you need some people dedicated to fund-raising year-round on an ongoing basis. And they have to be people with the right contacts, who can get you the support you need.”

“Those ideas sound good,” Grant agreed. “We’ll put our heads together for some potential advisory board members. And how does everyone feel about the concept of a fund-raising event of some kind?” At the murmur of assent from the board, he looked at Morgan. “I’d say that’s a go. What do you think about timing on an event like this?”

“I can draw up some preliminary ideas that you could circulate to the board before the next meeting. If we can nail this down by the February meeting, I’d say we could plan an event for early May.”

“Is everyone okay with that timing?” Grant asked. Again, there was a positive reaction. “Then let’s move on to some other issues.”

By the time the meeting adjourned a half hour later, Morgan was more than ready to head home. But before she could make a fast exit a couple of the board members cornered her to chat about the fund-raising event. Summoning up a weary smile, she did her best to seem enthusiastic about the project.

From the other side of the room, Grant glanced her way as he spoke with Sylvia, who had waylaid him as he began to make his way over to Morgan. He’d managed to put concerns about Morgan aside during the meeting, using a skill he’d honed over the past two-and-a half years. Compartmentalizing his life was the only way he’d been able to survive. But now that the meeting was over, he couldn’t ignore her pallor or obvious distress. They might only be reluctant business partners, but he couldn’t let her walk out of this room without at least making a few discreet inquiries and offering help if she needed it. It was the Christian thing to do.

Sylvia was still talking when Morgan began to gather up her briefcase and purse, and as she headed toward the door he laid a hand on the older woman’s arm. “Excuse me, Sylvia.” He looked toward the door. “Morgan!” She paused, then turned with obvious reluctance. “Could you wait a minute? I’d like to speak with you before you leave.”

At first he didn’t think she was going to comply, but after a brief hesitation, she nodded.

“Don’t let me keep you, Grant,” Sylvia said. “I was finished, anyway.” The woman started toward the door, and Grant followed. When she reached Morgan, she extended her hand. “We appreciate your help, my dear. Your ideas all sound wonderful, and I’ll look forward to seeing more details soon.”

“Thank you.”

“Talk to you soon, Grant.”

They watched Sylvia leave, then Grant turned toward Morgan. Up close she looked even worse. There were faint shadows under eyes, and fine lines at their corners, as if she hadn’t been sleeping. When she lifted a hand to push her hair back from her face, it was trembling, and his gut clenched. Whatever had happened to her had been bad. Really bad. And even though he had plenty of his own problems to deal with, he couldn’t ignore her pain. “Could I buy you a cup of coffee before you tackle the long drive back to Boston?” he offered.

Morgan was touched—and tempted—by the unexpected offer. She could use a sympathetic ear about now. But adding to Grant’s already heavy burden wouldn’t be fair. So she shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to get back.” She started to turn away, but again his voice stopped her.

“Look…I don’t mean to pry, but…is everything okay?”

Morgan took a deep breath, then turned back to him. His eyes were so kind, so caring, so empathetic, that her composure took a dangerous dive. She needed to get out of there, she realized. Fast. Before she completely lost it and made a total fool of herself.

“Yes. I’m fine,” she lied, but the tremor in her voice said otherwise. “Look, I really need to run. I’ll be in touch.”

And with that she fled.

Troubled, Grant watched her go. He’d given her an opening to share her problem, whatever it was, and she’d brushed him aside. There was nothing else he could do. Besides, he had enough to deal with right now. He didn’t need to add Morgan Williams’s dilemma, whatever it was, to his list. It would be better if he put her of his mind and focused on getting on with his life.

But he had a feeling that wasn’t going to be so easy to do.

Morgan’s gaze shifted from her bank statement to the figures she’d scribbled on the lined sheet of yellow legal paper in front of her, then back again. Things were not looking good.

Cradling her mug in her hands, she leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her now-lukewarm coffee as she glanced out the window. The bleak, gray, early-February Boston sky did nothing to raise her sprits.

Her severance pay was vanishing with remarkable speed as she struggled to maintain the lifestyle she’d created. She’d made good money—but she’d also spent a lot of it. It was important in her world to live a life that spelled
success
in capital letters. Everyone she knew lived this way, struggling to present an image that they hoped would breed big-time success in the future. After all, people who appeared to be successful were more likely to
be
successful. At least that had been the philosophy of her peers.

So she’d paid big bucks for a prestigious address in a very trendy section of town, even if she did have just a tiny apartment in the building, drove an expensive sports car, wore designer clothing and ate at fine restaurants. But she couldn’t maintain that lifestyle much longer without a regular salary, and she’d still had no responses to her résumés. So she’d come to the conclusion that she’d have to broaden her job search beyond Boston.

In the meantime, she needed to hear a friendly voice. Meaning A.J. or Clare. Not that she wanted to burden her sisters with her problems; they were dealing with their own inheritance challenges. But at least if she talked with them she’d be reminded that there were people in the world who cared about her. Clare would be easiest to reach at this hour, so without giving herself time for second thoughts, she punched in her older sister’s number.

Clare answered on the second ring, and even though Morgan did her best to sound upbeat, it took her sister less than thirty seconds to discern that there was a problem.

“So what’s wrong?” she asked before they’d barely said hello.

“Who said anything was wrong?”

“You didn’t have to. I lived with you for years, remember? I know how to read your moods. Is it something with the job?”

“I guess you could say that.” Morgan took a deep breath. “I don’t have it anymore.”

For a moment, there was silence. When Clare spoke again, her voice was laced with concern. “What happened, Morgan?”

Morgan gave her the bad news. “I’ve been looking for something else, but so far no bites,” she concluded. “I don’t think anything is going to turn up in Boston.”

“How are you holding up emotionally?”

Leave it to Clare to get right to the heart of the problem. “I’ve been better,” Morgan admitted. “The thing is, my work was my life, you know? Since I was let go, I feel…I don’t know. Useless, maybe. Like my life isn’t worth anything. I’m not even sure who I am anymore.”

“Oh, Morgan, you are so much more than your job! You always have been. And your worth doesn’t depend on a paycheck. God doesn’t value us based on what job we have, or how much we earn, or how high we’ve risen on the corporate ladder. He doesn’t judge us by what we accomplish in a worldly sense, but by who we are and the people whose lives have been made better because of us.”

Morgan conceded that Clare might be right. The trouble was, she didn’t fare too well on that score, either. Most of her adult life had been devoted to getting ahead. In general, the things she did for other people had a hidden agenda. Even her work on the Good Shepherd board had been dictated by Aunt Jo, and Morgan was only complying so she could get her inheritance. Unlike Grant, she had no altruistic motives. His debt to the camp had been paid long ago, but he still gave of himself unselfishly to help others. She felt small in comparison, which only depressed her further.

“Listen, Morgan, I have a thought,” Clare said as the silence lengthened. “Why don’t you spend some time at Aunt Jo’s cottage? You need to put in four weeks there, anyway. And I’m sure you can conduct your job search just as easily from there, with the Internet and all. Besides, you owe it to yourself to take some time to decompress and unwind after the high-pressure life you’ve lived all these years.”

Morgan considered the suggestion. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“Think about it, at least,” Clare encouraged. Then she grew wistful. “You know, at times like these, I wish we all lived closer together. At least I could give you a hug if I was there. Is there anything I can do long-distance?”

“You could pray,” Morgan said, only half teasing.

“You know I’ll do that,” Clare replied, her voice serious. “And try to trust God on this. I feel that somehow this is part of His plan for you. It may look bad right now, but I have a sense that things will turn out for the best. And call me anytime, okay?”

“Okay. And thanks, Clare.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“You listened. And you cared. That means a lot right now.”

“I always care, Morgan. Go to Maine. Trust in God. And I’ll keep praying.”

As Morgan hung up, she felt better somehow. Connecting with Clare had restored some semblance of normalcy to her life, if only briefly. And her sister’s advice had been good. At least some of it. It did make sense to go to Maine. The God part, she was less sure about. It had been a long time since she’d trusted in anyone but herself. But even if her own faith was shaky—at best—she was glad Clare still had a solid relationship with the Lord.

Because she could use all the prayers she could get.

“Grant? It’s Morgan. I wanted to let you know that I put a first draft of the Good Shepherd fund-raising campaign plan in the mail to you today.”

Grant punched some numbers into the microwave, then shifted the phone to his other ear and sat in a wooden chair at his tiny kitchen table to wait for his dinner to get warm. “Great. Thanks. I’ll distribute them to the rest of the board before the next meeting.”

“Sounds good. If anyone has any comments before then, let me know.”

“Okay.”

Grant expected her to conduct the call in her typical style—dispense with chit-chat, get right down to business, then hang up. But that didn’t seem to be her inclination today. He sensed that something was on her mind, and thought back to the board meeting two weeks before, when she’d been so distressed. He’d tried without success that day to give her an opening to share her problem. And he’d tried with even less success since then to push thoughts of her aside. Maybe she would be more receptive to an overture today.

“Is there something else we need to discuss?” he asked when the silence lengthened.

“Actually, I was planning to come back to Maine and spend some time at the cottage,” she told him.

“Okay. I’ll make sure everything’s ready for you. When did you want to come up?”

“In a week or so. Maybe ten days. I can let you know for sure when it gets a little closer.”