Page 84 of Loss and Damages
He nods and grunts. “Good. Get me that shelter or I’ll halt the divorce proceedings.”
“You don’t have to worry, Dad.”
He leaves my office to speak to his attorney.
I’ll buy the church and the homeless shelter. I’ll buy the halfway houses, too. Everything is for sale if you have the money to pay.
I’ll buy everything my father commanded me to.
But he didn’t tell me what I had to do with them, and he’ll be unpleasantly surprised when he finds out what I have in store for the buildings.
I don’t care what my father thinks. All I want now is to please Jemma, so when I ask her to marry me, she says yes.
I can’t drive out to Hollow Lake until I can tell Jemma what she wants to hear. She won’t talk to me if she thinks I’m going through with the plans to raze the 1100 block and put up our high-rise. I need to prove to her that I’ll do whatever I need to do to keep her, and that includes implementing her ideas for the homes and businesses in Oakdale Square.
I can picture her sitting behind my desk, telling me what she thinks I should do with the trailer park and rundown buildings like the Scarlet Wing. She’ll be thrilled when I tell her my plans for the homeless shelter and the halfway houses.
I don’t need the money. I have enough to last a hundred lifetimes. The only thing I’m greedy for now is Jemma’s kisses and the family I hope she’ll want to give me when I ask her to be mine.
I text Duncan and have him meet me in the underground parking garage. I’m tired of these games, of arranging decoys to move ahead to distract the picketers. They chase after the town car, throwing rocks, cans, bottles, whatever they can get their hands on. The police are having a difficult time keeping them in check, or perhaps their families too, are affected, and they look the other way when the angry mob throws smoke bombs at the company cars.
No one is paying attention to us, and we’re able to clear the building without incident.
Stoic and keeping his eyes on the road, Duncan doesn’t say anything. He’s never made his opinion known and I’venever asked if he agrees with my business decisions. I sign his paycheck and he keeps his thoughts to himself.
“Is there word on who broke into Miss Ferrell’s gallery?” I ask as he navigates the pothole-ridden back roads that lead to the First Baptist Christian church. I have an appointment with the pastor, who also owns the land the church sits on, and the director of the homeless shelter. They think the meeting is to talk about me buying them out, but I’d like to come to a more agreeable solution.
“The SCPD is still working with the cell phone carrier. The owner didn’t register the prepaid device, but they may have purchased minutes with a credit or debit card.”
“They paid for the phone in cash.”
“Yes, but refilling a burner phone online is easier than going to a store and buying a refill card.”
“If they’ve had it long enough to run low on minutes.”
“The call log will indicate if they’ve used it enough to warrant more minutes, but the carrier is dragging their feet. They don’t think the investigation is warranted.”
“Despite the fact they threatened Miss Ferrell and admitted to breaking into her gallery and destroying the art inside it.”
Duncan meets my eyes in the rearview mirror. “There’s no proof that’s what they said.”
“Fuck,” I mutter. No, only my word and the fact I can repeat verbatim what that slimeball said to me while I stood in Jemma’s kitchen, but that means jack shit.
I turn my gaze to the window.
This is the kind of bullshit I’ve been dealing with since my father has handed me more and more responsibility. He endures it as it comes, expecting the hate and derision. Bodyguards are a part of everyday life, one posted outside the shitter because that’s not the kind of throne my father plans to die on.
In a stuffy office located at the rear of the church, I have a meeting with the pastor and the director of the shelter and halfway houses. Afterward, the director gives me a tour of the homeless shelter, and I can imagine Jemma and how she would jump in to help. I wouldn’t be able to drag her away from the nursery and the children who don’t have a permanent home in which to lay their heads, and she would shoot me barbed looks as if to say, “Your bank account is worth more to you than these people? These lives? When you already have so much?”
The halfway houses are in desperate need of repair, the furniture donated, the carpet stained and threadbare. The buildings should be torn down, asbestos packed into the walls, lead in the paint. The homeless shelter and halfway houses are the largest programs of their kind in St. Charlotte but no matter how many fundraisers are thrown or grants awarded, there isn’t enough money to go around.
The director introduces me to several men and women who are using the facility to find their footing, and after listening to their stories, despite my mother’s disregard and my father’s thirst for the dollar, my own life seems downright blissful.
We talk about the future of the buildings, of the blocks as a whole. The pastor wants to move his congregation to a smaller church because the offerings collected on Sundays aren’t enough to pay the bills of a space that size and don’t keep his parsonage afloat. That particular issue has nothing to do with me, and I arrange the sale of the building and land.
On top of what he’ll earn from the sale, I’ll give the pastor what he needs to move his congregation to a smaller church a few miles away, and we’ll turn the building into whatever space the homeless shelter needs. Offices, a separate daycare, a preschool. That’s not my wheelhouse and I don’t plan to have an active part in it. Just knowing I’m starting to turn the family business around is enough.
The pastor, director, and I plan to meet again to finalize the sale and start renovations of the halfway houses. The people who are trying to make their lives better deserve better, and thanks to Jemma, they’ll get it.
