Power and Passion (6 page)

"What does this note say here?" Pierce
asked, interrupting her reverie. He held out one of the papers
where Sara had scribbled a few words in ink.

"Oh, that says 'hotel contacts.' I thought,
uh, that I could ask you, you know, if you know anyone who might be
able to get us a venue—hopefully for a discounted price." She
laughed nervously. "The Special Olympics is not quite the richest
organization in town."

"No problem," Pierce said right away and
pulled out his cell phone to make a note of it. "I'll make some
phone calls when I get into the office and see what I can do." He
put the phone back in his pocket and returned his gaze to the
folder. "Oh, and Sara…" He glanced up at her, his expression quite
serious. "…you don't need to sound so nervous. I'm your fiancé.
It's all right to ask me for a favor now and then." Sara let out a
long breath and tried to smile. But there was still too much about
this idea that bothered her. She just could not rest easy.

"Well, thank you, of course," she said. "I
really do appreciate your help."

"But?" Pierce asked, setting the papers down
on the table and giving Sara his full attention.

"What do you mean
but
?"

"I mean it sounds like there's something
more to that statement. You thank me,
but
…"

Now Sara laughed as she realized what he was
trying to say. "Oh, no, there's no 'but.' I really do appreciate
it, Pierce. My mind is just scattered in a million different
directions right now. I didn't mean to sound so strange."

"Well, what else is on your mind?" He picked
up the teapot and poured them each another cup then started in on a
cherry-filled pastry.

Sara smiled and flicked her hair away from
her face. "Where to start?" she said then paused, trying to bring
some order to all the thoughts in her head. "Well, the biggest one,
I guess, is where will I get all the money? Holding a gala won't be
cheap, I'm sure. I haven't even looked into it yet, but there's the
venue to pay for, the food, the entertainment—" Pierce waved a hand
at her as he finished the bite of pastry in his mouth. "No, no," he
said as he swallowed. "Don't even worry about that. You get
sponsors—that's how these things work. They provide the items for
the auctions, the drinks, the food."

"But they won't pay for everything," Sara
rejoined. "Right? I mean we'll have to put out some money ourselves
upfront. Whatever we can't get sponsored will be our
responsibility."

Pierce nodded as he ate, silently conceding
her that one point.

"And I just don't know where the funds will
come from," Sara continued. "We do get donations, mostly from
families of the athletes and a few random strangers, but those pay
for things like uniforms and venue rental and paying our
staff."

Sara sighed again, resting her elbow on the
table and her head in her hand. "It just seems like my idea is over
before it even started."

Pierce took a sip of tea then returned his
cup to its saucer. "Well, then, I'll just give you the money."

Sara just looked at him for a moment. She
couldn't have heard him right. "What was that?" she asked. "Pierce,
could you say that again?"

He took out his phone to check the time and
did not seem to like what he saw. "I said that I can give you the
money." He paused, the two of them gazing at each other across the
table. Then he simply smiled again. "What? You know I can foot the
bill."

This was true. Aside from the wealth he'd
been amassing during all those fifteen-hour workdays since he'd
moved to Dubai, Pierce came from a family with money. His father
back in England owned an importing and exporting business, one that
had been handed down from Pierce's grandfather. In all honesty
Pierce didn't need to work, but he enjoyed it, and that was
something Sara liked about him: he could have ridden on his
father's coattails and simply taken over the family business,
ensuring for himself a comfortable life and an early, easy
retirement. Instead he had taken the harder road. Yes, Pierce had
his own wealth, but he had worked very hard to get it.

However, Sara couldn't do it. "I can't take
money from you," she responded adamantly. She was tempted to say
yes, but she just could not do it. Accepting his donation would
make everything so easy; she could hold any sort of gala she
wanted, with the best food and the hottest band and the most lavish
auctions anyone had ever seen. But that wasn't how
she
had
been raised. Her parents had instilled in her the importance of
behaving with integrity in addition to a very strong work ethic,
and she knew that if she wanted something, she had to go out and
get it, to make it happen on her own.

"Yes, you can," Pierce replied. "And you
really should. I wouldn't offer if I couldn't afford it. Please,
Sara." He reached across the table again and laid his hand on top
of hers. "Please let me do this for you. You're so independent, and
I love that about you. But if I'm going to be your husband, you're
going to have to let me help you with things once in a while."

Sara considered this. She knew he was
right—what was a marriage if not a relationship of give and take?
While she would never rely on him so much that she would lose her
own independence, she would have to take help from him from time to
time, whether it was giving her money or bringing her car in for
repairs or something to do with raising their children, when that
time came. Still, Sara shifted uncomfortably in her seat as the
waiter came over to refill her teacup. She picked up a spoon from
the table and absently stirred it as she debated this silently.

"I'd just feel like I'm taking advantage of
you," she finally told Pierce. "You know how my mother is, right?
She'd give away all she owned if she thought it would help someone
else who's in need. And because of that, she is taken advantage of
over and over again. Give some people an inch, and they'll take a
mile." She put down the spoon and shook her head. "Your offer is
too kind, Pierce, and I don't want it to seem like I am just using
you for your money. I'll tell you again: I cannot do it."

At that idea Pierce actually laughed. "Sara!
Do you honestly think I would feel like you're using me for money?"
He looked at her for a moment, but she did not respond, nor did she
share his mirth. In fact she sat back and crossed her arms over her
chest, trying to look as serious as possible.

He continued, "I doubt anyone else would see
it that way either. You are one of the most honest and hardworking
people I have ever met in my life. And those are just two of your
best qualities. There are so many others. No one would doubt for an
instant—least of all me—that your motives are anything but
noble."

"Well, thank you," she replied then looked
at him in silence. Though the praise made her blush a
little—humility, another trait her parents and their faith had
taught her—she was thankful to hear it. Sara rarely stopped to
wonder or worry about her own image, but to know that what she
projected into the world was exactly what was in her heart… well,
that was comforting. "But still."

"'Why don't you look at it like this?"
Pierce said, not missing a beat. "I wouldn't be giving the money to
you
. I'd be giving it to SO."

That gave Sara pause. She uncrossed her arms
and leaned up against the table. "Hmmm…" She brought her eyes up to
meet Pierce's. He didn't take his gaze from her, and she knew what
that meant: he was set on the idea, and nothing she could say would
talk him out of it. Pierce wanted to give her this gift, and she
would simply have to accept.

She took a deep breath. "Okay. All right,
you win. I'll take the money. However, I'll take it as a loan, and
I
will
pay you back."

"An interest-free loan." Pierce winked at
her.

Sara smiled again, though weakly; she still
felt uncomfortable about the situation. "We'll discuss the terms
later," she told him with a bit of a wink right back at him, trying
to lighten her own mood and convince herself she was doing the
right thing.

"There you go," he said, clapping his hands
together once. "You know, for a minute there I didn't think I would
get you to agree. I like this stubborn streak in you." He grinned,
reached over, and squeezed her hand. "And thank you for letting me.
I know this is a big deal for you. You never even ask me to do
anything for you, and I know accepting help is hard."

Pierce then pulled his hand back and, after
a last big bite of his cherry pastry, wiped his mouth and stood up,
signaling that he had to leave. Sara followed suit, collecting her
folder and papers and slipping them into her bag while Pierce left
some cash on the table for their meal. As the two walked out
together, he told her about what he had planned for the day—first
he would look into those hotels for her, and then he would be out
in the field all day, scouting locations for a client who wanted to
invest in a new resort.

"So tomorrow," Sara said as they approached
her car. Pierce was such a gentleman—he would always walk her to
hers before going off to get his from the valet. "I bought the
tickets for the play we're going to see. It starts at eight
o'clock. Shall we meet in the theater lobby at seven-thirty?" He
smiled, but then his phone rang, and as he pulled it out his face
grew serious. He looked at the screen. "Yeah, tomorrow, good," he
replied in a mumble. "Look, I have to take this."

As he picked up the call, he reached out and
squeezed Sara's shoulder, and then he just wandered off in what she
assumed was the direction of where he had valet-parked his car. She
stood there watching him for a minute, feeling her heart fall just
a bit. Their conversation over breakfast had been so good, and here
he was, back again: same old Pierce, inattentive and preoccupied,
more concerned about his phone than he was about his fiancée. When
had he become that guy? When they'd met he certainly had been at
least a little more carefree. He'd turned his phone off when they'd
gone out, and he never would have left without making some loving
gesture or giving her one last kiss.

Well, I suppose he's just so busy at
work
, she told herself as she got into her car. She would just
have to get used to it.

T
he Special Olympics office was abuzz when
Sara arrived. A small group of young women waited in the lobby,
fresh-faced and looking smart in their business-casual attire,
chattering quietly among themselves. They all smiled at Sara as she
strode by, saying a quick hello on the way to her office. She
looked back at them over her shoulder, wondering what they were
doing there, and in doing so bumped right into Isabella, the head
of marketing for this Special Olympics division.

"Oh, so sorry, Isabella," Sara said as the
two maneuvered around each other in the narrow hallway.

"Always in a hurry, Sara," Isabella replied
with a lighthearted laugh. "Good morning. And how are you
today?"

"I am good, thanks." Sara smiled but peered
over Isabella's shoulder as they talked. She lowered her voice and
nodded toward the crowd she had passed in the lobby. "Listen, do
you know what they're all doing here?"

Isabella also looked at them. Some smiled
and waved at her. "They're the new interns, remember?" she told
Sara. "The scholarship group?"

Sara took in a sudden breath. "Today is the
day they start?" How could she have forgotten? A couple times a
year, they welcomed a new group of students of diverse ethnicities
to work in the Special Olympics offices and learn about the world
of nonprofit agencies and business in general. This year they had
students from the American University in Dubai, the Canadian
University of Dubai, the University of Wollongong Dubai, and New
York University in Abu Dhabi. Some of the students were from
scholarship programs in which the leaders of Dubai and Abu Dhabi
paid the schools' fees for those who had talent and skill but could
not otherwise afford higher education. Others put themselves
through school or were fortunate to have their parents' help.
Regardless of how or why they had gotten where they were, all the
interns Sara had worked with so far had been bright and ambitious,
and she always found working with them to be such an enjoyable
experience. They all came in ready to learn—ready to take on the
world, really. To tell the truth, Sara found them inspirational and
a good reminder of why she had pursued this line of work in the
first place.

Right now, however, she was not exactly sure
what to do with them. Putting a hand on her head as if that would
hold down her spinning thoughts, she rushed around Isabella and
into her office. She dropped her things onto her desk then went
around and opened the windows' blinds, letting in the sharp morning
sunlight. "Oh, goodness, how could I forget such a thing?" she
fretted, nearly knocking over the framed photos and potted plants
that lined the windowsills. Isabella, who had followed, waved a
hand at her and smiled kindly. "Don't worry," she said, jumping
over to right a jade plant that was just about to tip to the floor.
"You've been so busy. No one expects you to remember
everything.