Dropping the Ball

28. Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Four

Kaitlyn

We get the chandelier from Gabriela Juarez.

Gabriela approved the concept, and Eva said she could make the pieces for the vases in a couple of hours.

That did not create any breathing space for me. Thursday and Friday, none of my contact attempts panned out. No messages or emails returned beyond one autoreply. Three assistants who wouldn’t put me through to their bosses.

No new auction items.

At Madison’s house on Sunday for family dinner, I smile big—crocodile big—when she asks me how it’s going. I rave so hard over the chandelier commission that they forget to ask about any other new items. Mom looks delighted, Dad nods his approval—which is close to a standing ovation from him—and the pit in my stomach widens, a bottomless hole my worry keeps pouring into.

Talk turns to the entertainment for the gala, and Mom gushes over how Sara Elizabeth’s personal assistant is the sweetest thing. Then she moves on to our gowns and crowing about how she’d told Madison she would lose her baby weight just like that , because hadn’t Mom done that herself after each of us?

When dinner ends, Harper announces through the baby monitor clipped to Oliver’s waistband that it’s her turn to eat, so I make my excuses and leave before I can get drawn into a chatty goodbye with Mom.

Instead of studying when I get home, I sit down to review my contact list for the auction. Again. I go over every contact I can think of with even the slightest connection to me or anyone in our family or the company.

I push my memory harder to come up with more names, more connections, no matter how obscure. I have no pride left. I will beg in the most professional way possible to get their donations.

I go through my sorority’s Instagram, every roommate I’ve ever had, anyone I knew in college with any kind of connection at all. They all go on my list. I go back even further to high school, and . . .

Drake Braverman. His family owns a few car dealerships. They’re loaded. I see him every now and then, mainly at a wedding or two in the last couple of years. I always smile. He doesn’t seem to register that I’m being ironic.

I will start with Drake Braverman in the morning.

No, I’ll start now. I grab my phone and search Instagram, finding his account. It’s mostly him posing in front of different exotic cars they’re selling, always leaning on the hood, feet crossed at the ankles, hands resting on his lap, one hand gripping the other wrist in a pose that shows off a different flashy watch.

I follow and message him.

Hey, Drake. Long time, no talk.

I go up to wash my face and put a pitch together in my head. I’m going to get an appointment with him, and I’m going to close the deal.

He answers as I’m standing in my closet, choosing an outfit for the morning.

Lol, if you mean you never talk to me, then yeah. Long time. What’s good, Kaitlyn Armstrong?

Wheeling and dealing, which is your specialty, isn’t it?

You know it. You looking to get into something new?

Definitely looking to hit you up for something. If I call your office tomorrow, will you take it?

Gotta hear this. Call after lunch. My assistant will put you through.

He signs off with a laugh-cry emoji, and I choose a suit and set it on a hook, ready for the morning. Then I put myself to bed wearing a grim smile, because I will absolutely be making a donation happen. A big-ticket item.

I understand Drake Braverman. And I’m going to get what I need.

Yes.

Yes yes yes yes yes.

It is Monday after lunch, and I just hung up with Drake Braverman.

It isn’t a big win; Drake didn’t say yes to a donation on the spot. But he did agree to meet Thursday for drinks, so it’s still a win.

I take a minute to savor it. I’m going to bring him a pair of gorgeous Copperhead boots and a pitch he can’t refuse.

Micah’s words keep running through my head. He’s bought cars that cost more than our house did at the time . That’s what he said about his uncle.

It applies to the Bravermans too. The Bravermans take vacations that cost more than the sports cars they sell.

We’re doing this—all of it—to create opportunities for people who don’t have the luxury of even cheap vacations, much less a car. I can’t say I know how it feels. But I know how I feel when I see it in Bangladesh.

I have to make this happen. I’m going to Drake with a big ask, swinging like I expect a homerun.

“Suz,” I say, popping my head out the door. “Call up to Raj for a pair of men’s Thorntons in size twelve, gray alligator, please?” It’s always better to guess bigger than smaller on a man’s boot size when you’re asking for a favor.

Raj’s whole job is PR, and that includes letting the Armstrongs request boots whenever we want them. Hmmm. Maybe we should create a design exclusively for people who do big charitable favors like this? Call it . . . platinum certified or something elite, and a pair will be one of those if you know, you know kind of status symbols? Wealthy people love owning things money can’t buy.

I walk out to Suz’s desk. “Actually, tell Raj I’m a genius and put a meeting on the books with him later this week.”

“Got it.”

“I’m going to be practicing a pitch for the rest of the afternoon, so hold any calls unless they sound like they want to give us money.”

I don’t get any more meetings over the next two days, and Thursday tries to knock me down all day before I’m supposed to meet with Drake for drinks. Raj calls down to tell me that we’re out of any boots over size ten in the building, but he’ll have more in next week.

I gamble that it will be better to show up with a pair in hand and a promise to exchange them, so I tell Raj to send down the tens.

I spill salad on my blouse at lunch, leaving a grease spot on the blush pink silk, right over my boob.

Two more assistants decline meetings on behalf of their bosses.

By 4:00, my nerves are stretched thin, and I evacuate my office before anything else can go wrong and head home to change. A silver lining, maybe? I can choose something more suited for drinks.

I pull out a simple blue-gray Natori shift in my closet. It’s the color of my eyes, and I always feel confident when I wear it. It’s sleeveless with a V-neck. It’s less structured than what I usually wear, made of silk that skims my hips, and the hem floats right above my knee. It looks perfectly professional with a blazer, but when the jacket comes off, the cut emphasizes my favorite features: my strong arms and strong legs.

I want that message coming across to Drake tonight. Strength, strength, strength.

I choose four-inch stiletto heels with a pointy toe. They mean business. It’s the perfect balance.

No sooner do I change dresses than my phone goes off. If this is Drake canceling . . .

Stuff for the vases done. Pic doesn’t really capture it. Have time to swing by?

Tomorrow is better. Would that work?

Not here again until Monday.

I can’t say no when he did all this as a massive favor. I glance at the time. The warehouse is by the freeway. If I head over now, I can make it to meet Drake at the hotel bar with a decent cushion, especially if I valet to save time.

Be there in twenty.

I grab a handbag that will fit my iPad so I can show Drake what the Marigold Institute does, slick on a power lipstick—a NARS red—and head out for some light project supervision followed by world domination.