Protector: The Flawed Series Book Three Page 5

  ~

  Kelsey’s shoulders drooped as she walked to her boss’s office. The drama therapist passed her in the corridor, stroking the thick, chestnut braid that hung over one shoulder and sobbing.

  Kelsey stopped. “What’s wrong?”

  “They let me go.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Funding problems. Eisenman said they’re making cuts everywhere, in all extraneous personnel. I never thought I’d be on that list.”

  “Extraneous? Is that what he said?”

  The woman nodded, a sniffle escaping. “Three years here, all for what? I think I can find another job. But the children—what will they do without our sessions?”

  “You’ve really helped coax some of them out of their shells.”

  “That’s what I thought. The way Evan’s been talking up a storm…and you should see Anna’s smile light up every time she comes in for our improv exercises.”

  “They’re amazing kids.”

  “Will you do something for me?” the drama therapist asked.

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “Will you keep an eye on them for me? I mean, I know the staff takes care of them, but maybe you could sneak in a drama game here and there within your art program? That is, if you still…I mean, if you’re, uh, here…and have some free time.”

  Kelsey swallowed, the truth of why Mr. Eisenman had summoned her hitting her in the chest. Would he let her go too? “Yeah. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “Thanks.” The woman trailed back to her office.

  After knocking lightly, Kelsey entered Mr. Eisenman’s office and eased herself into a chair as if she were lowering onto a pile of pinecones.

  He looked up from his computer, took off his glasses, and wiped a hand across his creased forehead.

  “Rough day?” Kelsey asked.

  “Rough month, to be frank. Rough year. Our support isn’t what it’s been the last few years. We’re halfway into this renovation, and we don’t have the funds to finish the project. It’s a nightmare, and it keeps Mr. Bercovitch on my ass.” He met her eyes. “Sorry. I don’t mean to lay it all out on you. I’ve just had to make some hard decisions lately.”

  Kelsey couldn’t wait for him to meander to his point. “Are you letting me go, too?”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “I ran into Shelby in the hall.”

  He gave a regretful grimace. “We don’t want to cut anyone, but times are tight, and until the renovation gets completed, all of our patient rooms are cramped and the hospital staff are crawling over one another. Hell, the children’s ward has been crammed into half the space it should. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  Kelsey nodded.

  “We can’t get all the residents back to their own rooms until the old wing is finished, and we can’t do that without reallocating funds. In our latest budget meeting the board made some tough choices on how that belt gets tightened.”

  “So, you are letting me go.”

  “No,” Mr. Eisenman said. He sighed. “But I do have to cut your hours.”

  “Cut my hours?”

  “We’ll need you to go part time. We understand if you need to go look for work elsewhere. But if you stay you’ll have to keep it under twenty-five hours per week.”

  Kelsey blinked. “I can’t pay my bills on that.” She didn’t want to leave, but this decision would force her to find another job—and she didn’t even know where to begin looking. The thought of leaving the children made her chest ache.

  “I understand. But there’s not much I can do. Your program can’t be our priority right now.”

  “But the art therapy program has been monumental for these kids. Just ask the parents.” Kelsey swallowed down the bile that rose at the thought of all her progress roadblocked. Even switching to another part-time therapist would set them back. “I’ve made bonds with the kids over the last five years—that doesn’t come easily, and it’s not something to just throw away.”

  Mr. Eisenman nodded and scratched at a gray-flecked eyebrow. “I know, Kelsey. I’ve seen the looks on faces when they leave the studio.”

  “And Hugh—” She stopped herself. There was nothing to say about him, nothing tangible to point to, but she had a feeling about the kid. And despite how impossible it was to explain it to her boss, she knew he was making progress. What would happen if she left?

  “I know how you feel about the children,” Mr. Eisenman said. “It’s why you got the job here in the first place. But you have to put emotions aside in times like this. We’re looking at what’s better for everyone. Sprawling Plains won’t be able to help anyone if the hospital goes bankrupt.”

  “There has to be something we can do—what about a fundraiser?”

  “We’ll be having our annual gala in a few months. It will help, but the proceeds have been lower each year. We can’t count on that to keep paying the staff’s salaries.”

  “The gala isn’t enough,” Kelsey said. “You need to revamp it—make it bigger and more exciting. Right now it’s just a silent auction and catered dinner.”

  Mr. Eisenman waved a hand. “It’s not my area.”

  “Can’t you ask the board? What about doing something that highlights our art therapy program? We could have an art action and turn one of the rooms in the new wing into a temporary gallery.” Kelsey’s mind was spinning with the idea, with hopes of educating not only the public and the staff, but their prime benefactors of the true value of art therapy.

  “Like I said, it’s not my decision to make. But you seem pretty gung ho about this. Tell you what, why don’t you sit in on today’s planning meeting and you can toss out the idea?” Mr. Eisenman checked his watch. “It’s in ten minutes in the conference room.”

  Kelsey nodded. “Okay.”

  “I don’t know if Mr. Bercovitch will let you keep your full-time position, but maybe if your idea works you can earn your job back.”

  Kelsey exhaled and stood from her chair. She just hoped she could convince them.

  ~

  Kelsey tried not to bounce in her padded swivel chair in the conference room and thought back to elementary school where she’d had the same constant temptation to wiggle—except in art class, the one place she’d been able to concentrate. She wasn’t used to sitting through long meetings, especially ones that might determine the fate of her job. She inhaled silently and tried to listen as the secretary-treasurer spoke, though the tuft of fur atop his head kept daring her to figure out whether or not it was a toupee.

  “Moving on,” he said. “Let’s discuss the annual gala. Time is getting short now that it’s April. Regina, can you give us the update?”

  “Sure.” The development director guided her brassy blonde bangs behind her ear and glanced down at her notes.

  Kelsey’s eyes darted to Mr. Bercovitch, the CEO of Sprawling Plains. His eagle-eyed stare landed on Regina.

  “Our budget is the same as last year, but some expenses have gone up,” Regina said. “We’ll have to cut a few items—possibly drinks and dessert. The committee will iron out the details next week.”

  “So, it’s basically a pared-down version of last year,” Mr. Bercovitch said.

  “If I can interject.” Mr. Eisenman glanced at Kelsey. “Our resident art therapist has some ideas about the fundraiser.”

  Mr. Bercovitch arched a wiry gray brow at Kelsey. “Is that why she’s here?”

  Mr. Eisenman cleared his throat and nodded. “We haven’t hit our target amount the last few years, and she has some ideas that might help us regain our standings financially.”

  “I’m all ears,” Mr. Bercovitch said.

  Every gaze in the room swung to Kelsey. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “Right. Well, I was thinking maybe what you need—what we need—is to mix it up a bit. Throw something fresh into the gala—a theme, maybe. It could help get more people to come.”

  “What sort of theme?” Regina frowned, giving Kelsey the impression her turf w
as threatened.

  “Art,” Kelsey said. “The residents’ work. We could have an auction for some and have other pieces up for display. We’d focus on the, um, angle, of the art therapy program and what it provides for the kids here. It could really boost exposure for the event.”

  “Patient artwork?” The woman who served as legal adviser on the board gave Mr. Bercovitch a pointed look. “There are privacy issues with that. The legal ramifications—”

  “We can work around them,” Kelsey said. “We wouldn’t force any one to share their art, of course. And those who might want to donate pieces would sign off on—”

  “They’re minors, meaning the parents would have to be involved,” the lawyer said.

  “Right,” Kelsey said. “We get parental consent and, along with the typical silent auction, we could get a whole new group of possible benefactors if we reach out to the art community. I’m thinking a professional auction, like with an auctioneer and everything. That, and maybe get a band—have dancing and an open bar, extend the event longer than normal.”

  The secretary-treasurer frowned. “Open bar, live band, and auctioneer. She just doubled the gala’s expenses. We can’t expand the budget any more. We’re scraping by as it is.”

  “He’s right,” Regina said. “To do all that, we’d have to cut something. And there’s nothing else to cut. We can’t do a party without dinner. What does that leave?”

  Kelsey glanced between the faces at the table, and for a moment she feared she was losing them. She took a deep breath. “The venue.”

  They frowned at her, confusion clouding every face except Mr. Bercovitch, who sat calmly listening to the debate, his elbows resting on the table and hands steepled.

  “We’re raising funds for the new wing, right?” Kelsey said. “So let’s bring them here. We have a gorgeous new lobby, and we could open up this and the other conference room into one large space. And there’s the brand new office next door—we could move some of the furniture and use that room as the gallery.”

  Regina gave a dubious look. “We always rent out the Renaissance Center.”

  “It would give them a chance to see where their funds are going,” Mr. Eisenman said. “People might give more if they see our facility first hand.”

  Mr. Bercovitch nodded thoughtfully. “Who’s on the planning committee this year besides Regina?”

  Regina glanced at the secretary-treasurer. “Terry? You available this year?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t do it this time. My daughter’s wedding is coming up, and I’ll be out for a few weeks. My wife has me booked solid beforehand, and then we’ll all be off to Hawaii.”

  “Sounds nice,” the lawyer said.

  “Okay. Who else?” Mr. Bercovitch asked.

  “We’re a little short-handed this year,” Regina said.

  Mr. Bercovitch’s piercing stare landed on Kelsey. “If we’re going to give miss Matthews’s idea a shot, she should be involved in the planning.”

  “Me?” Kelsey said.

  “You seem to have a passion for it. In my experience, passion drives success. Could you join the committee? Regina will lead it, of course. But you’d be there for advisement and support.”

  Kelsey looked at Mr. Eisenman. “I’d be happy to. But it might be a little tight with the part-time hours.”

  Mr. Bercovitch frowned.

  “Kelsey’s work schedule was…changed,” Mr. Eisenman said. “Due to the cutbacks.”

  “Well, it looks like we may have to adjust the cutbacks,” Mr. Bercovitch said. He gave Kelsey a pointed look. “Temporarily, perhaps. Until we see how the event goes.”

  Mr. Eisenman gave a quick nod and scribbled a note on his pad.

  “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.” Mr. Bercovitch said. “You and Regina will have to scrounge up the rest of the committee.”

  “What about Bill, the office manager?” Kelsey said. “He’s a dedicated worker, and he sometimes helps out with the art and drama students.” She bit her lip, remembering the drama therapy program had been cut. Oh well, one hurdle at a time.

  “Bill it is,” Mr. Bercovitch said. “Make sure he’s on board, and talk to Eisenman if you need any more assistance. Let’s hope your idea is a raging success. Lord knows we could use it right now.”

  Finding out about Logan’s parents had been easier than he’d expected, but it wasn’t all happy news. The private investigator had discovered that Logan’s mother died long ago. Just a few days after giving birth, complications claimed her life. It would take Logan a while to digest this, so instead he focused his mind on his father. According to the investigator, the man still lived in the state—within twenty minutes from Logan’s house.

  The air was crisp as he exited his home and headed for his truck. It was cool enough to require a jacket, but at least the sun was shining.

  Inside the cab, Logan fingered the scrap of paper he’d written the address and directions on. Jade would’ve chuckled if she’d seen him writing it down—she would’ve probably used the map app on her smartphone.

  He hadn’t told her he was finally looking up his parents. There was no reason to hide it, but he didn’t want to compound his problems on her own. Once he got himself sorted he would tell her everything.

  Nervous tension tightened his stomach as he drove. He loosened his grip on the wheel and flexed his fingers, making a conscious effort to regulate his breathing. This was it. He was actually going to meet his father.

  He pulled into the apartment complex and came to a stop, tires crunching on broken asphalt. As Logan stared at the simple, two-story structures, he regarded their mismatched, peeling, tan-painted facades, and a sense of anticlimax hit him. This was where his father lived? It felt so…mundane.

  Logan glanced at the first line of his notes again, though he’d memorized it. “Grant Henry, apartment 301.” He tentatively stepped up to the complex, scanning the unit numbers. The sidewalk through the apartments was like a central spine that radiated in quadrants at the center. A small courtyard surrounded the area where these paths met. Tables were scattered throughout. Thin trees stretched upward, and cropped turf spread out beneath them.

  As he searched for unit 301, a child ran past, and he had to skip out of the way as the mother came barreling after. Farther down he spotted the 300s. Logan headed that direction, and the door to one of the units emitted an elderly man with slightly tousled, thick, gray hair. Clutching a box under one arm, the man passed Logan and headed to one of the stone tables in the courtyard. As Logan approached the units, he realized the man came from door 301. Logan’s heart rate spiked momentarily.

  It had to be him.

  A moment of panic seized Logan. He swallowed hard, reminding himself why he was here. He needed answers. As he turned and headed back toward the courtyard, his legs were heavy and sluggish.

  Logan’s gaze flitted to the man sitting alone then away toward another unit. His feet shuffled against dry pine needles as he crossed through the courtyard and veered off down the opposite row of apartments. Out of sight, he paused for a moment to still the breaths that hitched inside his chest.

  He should’ve called ahead. Why hadn’t he?

  But Logan knew why. Part of him still wasn’t ready to meet his father. He rested against the side of the building for a few minutes, his mind racing with what-ifs. A soft breeze whispered through the walkway, pulling in a crisp, woodsy scent that reminded Logan of being a child, playing alone for hours beneath the firs. Always alone.

  He’d gone this long on his own. Maybe he didn’t need a real father.

  But he needed answers.

  The paper crinkled in his tense fingers, and he shoved it into his pocket. Was the man still there?

  Logan’s feet pulled him back to the courtyard, and he tried to manage a casual gait, hands in pockets, head down. He risked a peek. The man sat alone at one of the tables. He looked content to sit there for hours.

  Head back down, Logan stopped near a
nother table in the courtyard. He picked up a pine cone that had fallen on the concrete and examined it.

  Could that man really hold the answers to the questions gnawing Logan’s gut? If he didn’t, where else could Logan look? He had no mother to ask.

  “Hello, there.”

  Logan looked up, panic momentarily seizing him. The man watched him. “Are you lost?”

  “Uh, no,” Logan said.

  “Oh. Well, you looked lost.”

  “I was just…enjoying the fresh air.”

  The man’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Ahh. A soul like myself. Too many people are consumed with those portable devices nowadays. They forget to enjoy life’s simplicities.”

  Logan gave a noncommittal nod.

  The man lifted a graying brow. “You have a few minutes?” He gestured Logan forward with his hand. Did he recognize him?

  Logan’s feet tugged him forward, though he still trembled inside. He stopped next to the table and raised his brows at his father, unable to anticipate what he might say. What was there to say when you hadn’t seen your son in thirty years?

  “How about a game?” His father gestured at the wooden box. He opened it, pulled out a board, and placed the figurines on the squares.

  Logan blinked. “Chess?”

  “Well, it dern ain’t checkers.” His father gave a throaty chuckle and continued to lay out the board. He set the last pawn in place and gave Logan an expectant stare.

  Logan sank down onto the bench, and the cold from the stone seeped through his jeans. He zipped his jacket and met the man’s gaze. “I’m not that good.”

  “Likely you’re better than Casper here.” His father gestured at the empty spot next to Logan.

  Logan stared at him.

  The man gave a hearty laugh that ended in a cough. “Ha! Had you there for a minute, didn’t I?” He winked.

  “Yeah, guess I’m better than him.”

  “He always forgets to move his pieces. I wait hours. Time done be out before he makes a move.” Logan’s father held a straight face. “You see the problem?”