Page 46 of Axe Backwards
A wave of confusion hit me. What in the ever-loving fuck was he talking about? “We replaced our roof last year and rebuilt the garage to support all our refrigeration.” Owen Hebert had made most of that happen, and my lumberjack competition had done the rest.
Reaching across the table, he opened the proposal and pointed to a list of figures.
“We’ll make regular donations,” he said, suddenly wearing a too-bright smile. “For tax purposes. And come up with a project schedule.”
“So you’ll donate and get a big tax break. Then I’m supposed to use that money to hire your construction company to do work I don’t need?”
He tapped the portfolio. “Read it. You’ll see. What else would you do with this kind of money anyway?”
“Buy food,” I quipped, frowning.
“How much do people really need?”
My eye twitched, but I kept my mouth shut.
“What about food stamps?”
I held back a sigh. “Food stamps are great, but they don’t cover everything. And more importantly, a lot of people in need don’t qualify for food stamps. They may make too much to qualify, yet still struggle to afford regular access to nutritious food.”
He pressed his lips together, his brows lifting, as if he was vaguely amused.
My blood heated, and not in a good way. “Other people go through rough patches or get sick and can’t work. Government benefits, while great, require a lot of paperwork and take months to kick in. And that’s not accounting for those who havetransportation challenges, language gaps, or health challenges. We’re a stopgap,” I explained. “A necessary and essential service that keeps people healthy and fed.”
Sure, our facility could use some updates, but it wasn’t in dire need of any repairs at the moment, thank God. I needed cash and supplies. Mrs. Miller was anemic, and Laurie’s baby was growing rapidly. It was impossible not to feel personally responsible for helping every person I could. That was why, despite the mandate from Aunt Lou and the urging of our accountant, I still wasn’t paying myself a salary.
“I think starting with rewiring would be best.” He stroked his weak chin, clearly not listening to a single word I’d said. “Maybe an addition. Surely you could use more space.”
My blood was boiling now. Of course, we could use more space. Who couldn’t? But we could get by with what we had for a long, long while.
“New windows,” he went on. “We could repave the driveway and add some landscaping. Rip out the kitchen and bring in top-of-the-line appliances.”
It sounded like he was trying to sell me a used car.
Not only was I vibrating with anger, but my head was spinning with thoughts of all the things I could be doing instead of listening to him drone on about things that were nowhere close to relevant to our needs.
“Rewiring the building would mean shutting down.” I pulled my shoulders back. “We can’t do that. Too many people need us. Our windows and wiring are fine. We need food and supplies.” Forcing myself to take several steadying breaths, I looked down at the page in front of me and assessed the figures. “I’m not going to pay you six thousand dollars for landscaping services. We’re a nonprofit trying to keep families from going hungry. We don’t need landscaping.”
“Good landscaping is essential,” he said, “and only part of what I’m offering. Keep reading.”
I didn’t keep reading. Instead, I stared at him, at a loss for words. This man was ridiculous, and every one of his suggestions was disgusting.
“We could write up proposals.” He broke into a creepy smile. “Generate some invoices. Maybe delay the work for a more”—he leaned back, lacing his fingers on over this abdomen—“convenient time.”
In moments like this, I wished I possessed a poker face. I had no doubt that a bigwhat the fuckwas written all over mine. He was talking in circles and ignoring the needs of the organization we were here to discuss. Instead of listening, he was trying to use his money to influence me to do useless construction projects.
I scoffed. “This is a waste of time.” It wasn’t until the words had left my mouth that I realized how loud they were.
Several heads turned in our direction.
Eyes narrowed, Denis leaned forward in the booth. “I’m proposing a synergistic relationship, Ms. Randolph.” He sneered. “And may I remind you that you came to us begging for money?”
His predatory tone made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. What was he trying to do and how on earth did I fit into his plan? This was absolutely some kind of corporate bullshit scenario he was concocting so that he could avoid paying taxes or God knew what else. His aggressive response set off every alarm in my brain.
So I stood and tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the table to cover the salad I’d refused to eat. Then I picked up the bound prospectus and shoved it into my purse. “I came to you asking for donations to help food-insecure people in our community. Instead, you’ve jerked me around and are proposing unnecessary construction projects.”
His voice, when he responded, was low and controlled, almost like a sinister whisper. “You’ll come around,” he said. “Or you won’t. And if that’s the case, you’ll be very sorry.”
Chapter 15
