Page 48 of One Night with Cinderella

Nine

Two months later

Monica came to a stop in the hall before the frosted glass door. She reached out and lightly touched the words etched out in the film. “The Bridge,” she read aloud, remembering Gabe helping her to finally choose a name for her foundation when she expressed wanting to fill the gap between childhood in foster care and adulthood alone.

And now, with the use of her inheritance, she had a small office space in a three-story building in the Dumbo section of Brooklyn and was about to walk inside and greet her small staff.

Just another new beginning. That’s all. You got this, she thought to herself.

Monica worked her shoulders in the fitted jewel-neck, long-sleeved lace shirt she wore over lightweight tweed high-rise trousers with flared legs. She reached for the door knob. “Wait,” she said, reaching inside her crocodile leather briefcase for her oversize tortoiseshell readers to slide on. With her sleek ponytail, she hoped they made her look older, more serious and smart.

She opened the door and stepped inside. Four women turned to view her from where they stood in the center of the large room, its four desks situated two on each side, facing each other.

“Good morning,” she said, setting her purse and briefcase on one of the six waiting room chairs before moving over to each person: her two full-time employees, Kylie Branch, her administrative assistant, and Nylah Hunt, her grant writer and chief financial officer. Choice, volunteering to serve pro bono as chief counsel. And Montgomery Morgan, her on-call publicist.

She shook the hand of each one before reclaiming her original spot. She was nervous and fidgeted, sliding her hands in and out of her pockets. Clearing her throat. Moving back and forth on her heels.

Choice, who as her friend knew her trepidation so well, gave her an encouraging smile.

“Unlike myself, all of you are so experienced in your fields and I am grateful to have you here to assist me in ensuring so many children aged out of the foster care system receive the help they deserve and need,” she said, hearing the slight tremble in her voice.

The women all offered her smiles.

Monica didn’t reveal that she’d taken both a business and a website-development course at Manhattan Community College as a nondegree student. She hoped that, plus her two years of college, would give her better footing alongside these very competent women.

“I’m so nervous,” she admitted with a laugh. “Please forgive me.”

“You’re doing fine, darlin’,” Kylie said, holding steadfast to her Charleston accent although she’d moved to the northeast over twenty years ago.

“How about the space? Does everyone like it?” Monica asked as she looked about the office at the khaki decor with accents in coral, turquoise, citrine and gold.

“It’s beautiful,” everyone agreed.

She crossed the room, loving how the fall sun gleamed through the windows and lit the tiled floor as she reached the small office she’d reserved for herself. Here, the same hues from the outer office continued with a large bouquet of fresh flowers on the edge of her clear desk. She moved to push the rolling ergonomic chair out of the office, setting it at the head of the wide aisle running up the middle of the desks. “So, let’s update each other before Montgomery and Choice have to go,” she said, turning to close the door behind her before sitting down and crossing her legs.

The women all moved to their assigned desks, as well.

“We already have a list of ten applicants sent over from different county social service departments,” Kylie began. “I’ve placed them on your desk.”

Monica was personally funding awards of five thousand dollars each from money she’d gifted the foundation. “Reach out to other agencies in the tristate area. There are more people who need help. Let’s find them,” she said.

“Right away, boss,” Kylie said.

Boss? I’m a boss! I like it.

She turned to Nylah.

The woman opened up a coral folder on her desk. “I think our plan should be to reach out to large companies who offer local community grants. I researched and I can meet the current deadlines of ten such corporations. I just need to adjust the grant I’ve already written to meet specific guidelines.”

“I didn’t even know these brands offered grant money like that,” Monica admitted after accepting the folder and looking at the names listed.

“That’s my job,” Nylah said. “And I believe in what you’re doing. Remember, I aged out of the foster care system myself.”

Monica gave her a heartfelt smile. “Thank you,” she said with feeling before turning to Choice.

“The majority of my work was done in the setting up of the foundation,” she said. “I won’t be here in the office, but The Bridge Foundation is a client and Monica knows how to reach out to me if a legal matter arises.”

The women all nodded in understanding.

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