Page 45 of Axe Backwards
So I swallowed my pride and slid into the booth.
Bernice greeted me immediately, handing me a menu and pouring coffee into the mug on the table. “Here you are, sweetie. Heard about you and the mystery Hebert. So exciting. He’s quite handsome.”
The smile that spread across my face this time was genuine. Our morning run had done the trick. News of Noah and I had spread through the town quickly, along with details of our romantic weekend getaway to Kennebunkport. The knitting club was already taking bets on when we’d be engaged.
My phone had been going off all morning, lighting up with texts, which I studiously ignored. I wouldn’t set the record straight. Not when, for once, the town rumor mill was working in my favor.
As Bernice shuffled away, Denis rubbed his hands together. “I’m so pleased about our partnership.”
Partnership? What was he yammering on about?
With a flourish, he produced a spiral-bound packet. The front page was laminated and said “Huxley Industries and Lovewell Food Pantry Partnership proposal.”
I flipped it open and thumbed through it, finding page upon page of charts and tables. What the hell was this?
He was talking, likely explaining the details, but all that registered were buzzwords here and there. Terms like “Collaboration” and “synergy” He went on for a few minutes, a corporate word salad, each phrase making a bigger jumble of my thoughts.
“Sorry,” I said, stirring the milk into my coffee. “I’m confused about what you’re proposing. We’re a nonprofit. A partnership with us wouldn’t be beneficial for your business.” The Huxleys owned a construction company and controlled a ton of real estate. They were the kind of shady rich people who had offshore accounts. I wasn’t sure how they made their millions, and I probably didn’t want to know.
“My accountant pulled your 990s so we could see the tax records, and between that and the fact sheets you sent over, it seems the food pantry generates a great deal of waste.”
I sat up straighter, my hackles raising. He was pulling our tax records? Yes, they were public, but what the fuck was he playing at?
“The reporting available from the IRS is from two years ago.” I did my best to keep my tone even, though I was flush with anger. “So the records you reviewed were from before I took over. Furthermore, we’ve met multiple times. You’ve had ample opportunity to ask me questions, yet you’re relying on documentation you’ve dug up? I could have provided you with up-to-date numbers.”
Unbothered by my annoyance, he took a large bite of his club sandwich.
My food sat untouched. I’d lost my appetite. This was nothing but a game to him.
“Turn to page seven,” he said through a mouthful of food. “I went through your filings and made some improvements.”
Improvements? He had no idea how a food pantry operated. I highly doubted he could so easily come up with ways to optimize our use of funding.
If this wasn’t the definition of the audacity of a spoiled rich kid, I didn’t know what was.
Teeth gritted, I squinted at the pages, trying to make sense of what he was proposing.
“Tell me, how is it possible that you receive so much donated food, yet you still struggle to meet demand?”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Since the pandemic, food insecurity is at an all-time high.” My pitch was a little too high, my tone a little too sharp, but there was no helping it now. I was far too close to the edge. “And while the state food bank provides us with nonperishables and some additional items, our produce,meat, eggs, and milk come from local farms and grocery stores. Most of which are products that cannot be sold. In turn, that means a large percentage of it is unusable.”
The first time I volunteered with Aunt Lou at the food pantry when I was probably ten or eleven was a memorable experience, mostly because while I went through crates of apples, bagging them for clients, I pulled out one that was so rotten it exploded in my hand, covering my face and arm in moldy mush.
Every week we unloaded crates of produce that farmers wouldn’t even feed their animals. How could we consider passing it out to human beings?
“I refuse to serve rotten food to my clients.” I clenched my hands together in my lap, willing myself to control my anger. “We all deserve nutritious food, and every person we interact with deserves to be treated with dignity. We compost with the co-op in Heartsborough, and a pig farm in Belfast takes some of the other stuff. Nothing is going to waste.”
He looked down his nose at me, his lips turned down, clearly unsatisfied with my explanation.
“I’ve been seeking corporate partnerships for long-term giving,” I continued, ignoring his haughty expression, “in the hopes of obtaining more buying power. With more donations coming in monthly, I can buy fresh meat, cheese, and eggs from suppliers. Diapers and formulas are gold in my world. With an influx of cash, I could even provide turkeys for Thanksgiving.”
Though I wasn’t the least bit happy, I gave him a big smile. Maybe, if I was lucky, he’d jump at the chance to be the official Thanksgiving sponsor. That would be a huge step.
“We’re committed to our charitable profile,” he said distractedly while he tapped at his phone as if he’d barely heard a word I’d said. “And I think our resources can assist with the improvements.”
A knot formed in my stomach. “Improvements?”
“Yes. My father and I would be open to using some of our construction resources to help make some capital improvements to the food pantry. We’ll charge you a reduced rate, of course.”
