Love Me Forever

Something died in her eyes at his reminder that she’d made a major, painful mistake. He felt almost guilty about that. She sighed, then cleared her throat. “Apparently.” There was a moment of loud silence before she asked stiffly, “Would you please get out of my car?”

She was finally pushing him away. This was what he wanted, what he needed. He hadn’t expected to hate it. “Sandy, you know where I stand. Eventually, things might be different, but for now...”

“If you won’t accept help, won’t take that generous gift from Nate, how do you intend to make anything different?”

He said what he knew she wouldn’t want to hear. “It’ll take time. I’ve been chipping away at the debt for a couple of years, now. It’s a slow process, but I have my self-respect.”

“Yeah. Well, I guess there’s no arguing with that.” She pushed the passenger side door open. “I have to go.”

Which was some kind of progress. But they still had to work together. “We have to find a way to be civil with each other,” he reminded her. “You’re the one who volunteered us to chair the opening of the Clothes Closet. We have to collect the clothes, plan some kind of event. There’ll be meetings, reports to Clatsop Community Action...” The Clothes Closet was a new arm of the Food Bank, being set up to provide warm winter clothing free of charge for those in need, and at a drastically reduced price to other shoppers.

“I can be civil,” she said. “Just don’t ask me to be friends.”

He opened his door, too. “Of course not,” he said before he climbed out. “That would require tolerance and respect for the other party’s opinion.”

The moment he got to his feet, she was there to push him out of her way and slip in behind the wheel. The wind whipped up from the river and a light rain began to fall. The atmosphere was perfect for the swan song of a love gone wrong. Or, less dramatically, for a love that couldn’t be. At least for now.

She yanked the door closed and he pulled his hand away just in time. He stepped back before she could run over his toes. She drove away in a squeal of tires.

* * *

HUNTER STUDIED THE new client in the chair facing his desk. He guessed the man was in his early sixties, and probably financially comfortable. When Hunter took the man’s raincoat, he noticed the exclusive label. He looked strong and fit and had lively brown eyes and white close-cropped hair.

Studying the business card the man had given him, he read the name—Harris Connolly. There was a Fairhaven, Massachusetts, address and a cell phone number, but no business name, no lofty title, no email address.

“I came through Astoria on a cruise ship a few years ago,” Connolly explained to Hunter as he leaned back in the chair and crossed his ankles. “I loved it here. I fell on the ship and broke my leg.” He grinned. “My own stupid fault. Nothing I could sue over, unfortunately. The ship had to go on without me, but the hospital took excellent care of me and arranged to get me a flight to Boston. They even found someone to drive me to the airport in Portland. I couldn’t believe how kind everyone was to me. I owe this town.”

“It’s a great place. We take good care of everyone, tourists included. So, you’re back to stay?”

“Maybe. I’m not sure.” Connolly had a warm, wide smile, but used it only briefly. He focused seriously on Hunter’s face. “I’ve scraped by for years running a little coffee shop in Fairhaven. Then I developed a new style of whoopie pie. Are you familiar with whoopie pies?”

Hunter laughed. “Whoopie cushions, yes. Whoopie pies, no. Are they a dessert?”

Connolly put a hand to his heart. “Oh, yes. And New Englanders love them. The dessert is basically a cream filling between two cakey chocolate cookies. Some are chocolate coated, some are rolled in nuts, all are scrumptious. But I developed one with cherries in the cream filling, and dipped half in milk chocolate, half in white chocolate.”

“Wow.” Hunter thought of Nate’s wife, Bobbie, and her love of all things chocolate.

“I served them à la mode in the restaurant and people came from as far away as Boston to get them ‘to go.’ I started shipping them, and caught the attention of Mrs. Walters’s Whoopie Pies. A big name among connoisseurs. She finally bought my recipe for a considerable amount of money. I’d like someone to help me manage the distribution of some of that money. I’m not good with figures, and investments just confuse me. I need help.”

“We’ll be happy to help you, of course. But we have an investment counselor connected to the firm, Suzanne Corliss. You might prefer to talk to her.”

Connolly shook his head. “I want you to help me. My aim right now is to give some money to Astoria. I thought you could figure out where it would do the most good.”

Surprised, Hunter dropped the pen he held onto his yellow pad and pushed both pad and pen aside. He smiled politely. “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Connolly.” The unwritten rule was never to let a potential client go for any reason, but he couldn’t imagine how this man had found him. Any nonprofit in town would be thrilled with a contribution of any kind, but surely someone in the mayor’s office would be more qualified to decide which groups that might be.

Connolly’s quick smile came and went again. “You’re wondering why I’m here and not at the Community Action office.”

“True.”

“It’s because last weekend I met someone you know and we got to talking; Clarissa somebody. I explained that I was searching for someone who knew about the various nonprofit agencies in town, and she said that you and your friends are active in community service. All that practical knowledge is just what I need to feel my money will end up in the right place.”

Hunter nodded. “Clarissa Burke. She’s pretty generous with her time, too.”

“Also,” Connolly shrugged and said with a curiously shy lift of his shoulder, “I’d like to keep this quiet, keep my name out of it. I hate fuss. So, I expect you’d like to do a little research into who needs what and get back to me?”

“I would,” Hunter agreed. “And just so that I know what we’re talking about here and how to distribute it, can you tell me what you’d like to give?”

“Sure. I was thinking a million dollars distributed among however many agencies you suggest. And if we could work it out so that some of that money is socked away somehow to provide them with long-term funding, I’d be very happy. What do you think?”

“Ah...” Hunter was aware that his mouth hung open. He closed it and swallowed then cleared his throat to reply. “Well thought out, Mr. Connolly,” he said, his voice raspy. “I’ll do this carefully.”

Connolly stood. He leaned across the desk and shook Hunter’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you. I’ve wanted to for some time.”

In the process of getting the man’s coat, Hunter turned, surprised at that. “You have? Oh, you mean...since meeting Clarissa?”

Connolly accepted his coat and threw it over his arm. “Yes.” He smiled and pulled on a blue plaid cap, then adjusted the bill with a debonair snap. “That’s what I meant. I look forward to hearing from you.”

“Give me a week.”

“Take all the time you need. I just subleased a condo on the river. You know the the building?”

“The Columbia House?”

“That’s it. I’ve written my new landline number on the back of the card, but the cell number on the front still works. Call me when you have a plan and I’ll make an appointment.”

Hunter walked him to the front door. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Connolly.” He offered his hand. “You don’t run into many philanthropists these days. Everybody’s struggling to keep themselves afloat.”

“I know. But life was generous to me and this town was so kind. I have feelings for Astoria. I’d like to share.”

“That’s highly commendable.”

“Nah. The more I give away, the less I have to worry about. Good to meet you. We’re going to do good things together.”

“Well, you’ll be doing—I’m just fact-finding.”

“That’s an important part of the process. We want to make sure the money goes where it’ll do the most good. I’ll wait for your call.”

Connolly climbed into a silver Lexus parked out front and drove off.

Hunter strode across the green-oak-furnished office and rapped on Nate’s open door. Nate glanced up from the computer. “Yeah?”

“You won’t believe this,” Hunter began as he took a client chair and told him Harris Connolly’s story and what he wanted to do for Astoria.

Nate stared then said finally, “Well, great. If Sandy’s still talking to you, you should get her to help you. She knows every group in town.”

Running a hand over his face, Hunter groaned. “Yeah, well, I don’t think that’ll work. She’s gone. I have to figure this out for myself.”

“She lives in Astoria. How can she be gone?”