In my wildest dreams, I never imagined this many people might attend my gallery opening. I never would have thought the venue could be a gothic-Tudor style mansion once home to Howard Candler, the president of Coca-Cola. In fact, only last night I dreamt that less than ten people turned up, mostly my direct family and Geo.
But tonight I’m swimming in a sea of suits and evening gowns, and an absolute ocean of people are admiring and touching my furniture, which is all artfully displayed thanks to the genius and hard work of Christine and Geo.
My baby sister Beth bounces up to me like a golden retriever. “Oh Rob, your tables and chairs and stuff all look amazing. And to think, Mom used to try and convince her friends to ask you to make them a coffee table. She’d tell them how badly you needed the moral support.”
Whenever Beth smiles for real, her eyes squint up so much that they practically close. They’re nearly slits right now, and I love it. I pull Beth in for a hug. The first piece of furniture I ever made, a clumsily joined bookcase, is filled with books in her bedroom at home.
“My original fan.”
“I’d never give that bookcase up, even if someone offered me a million dollars.”
I chuckle. “No one would ever pay a hundred dollars for that wobbly hunk of junk, but you’d be a fool not to take it if they did.”
“Then call me a fool.”
My dad and mom’s heads appear around the corner. Mom’s eyes are wide, looking at the guests more than the pieces.
“Where did all these people come from,” she whispers once she’s close enough.
I smile. “I don’t know any of them.”
“Why are they here?” my dad asks. “If you don’t even know them?”
Geo turns around from the person she was schmoozing to answer him. “We tapped into a guest list comprised of Luke’s, Paul’s, Trig’s, and my contacts. That formed our core group, but then we’ve been marketing the heck out of this, and it has grown.”
“You could’ve used our company list,” Dad says gruffly. “Then we might have known someone.”
“I didn’t want to take advantage.” I shuffle my feet. “Or alienate anyone.”
“I can’t believe you’ve been able to manage preparing all this, and all your work,” Dad says. “It’s impressive, son. Very impressive.”
Now or never. “Well, actually, about that. Christine’s been lending a hand at work so I could spend my extra time on this.”
Dad turns to look at the back of her head. “Christine, you say?”
“Yep. She told me she’s always had an interest.” I clear my throat. “Actually, she mentioned that she had even asked you about it once.”
“Pah,” Dad says. “She’s a public relations major. What does she know about selling cars?”
“I majored in nothing,” I say. “And I’ve managed alright.”
“You’ve got heaps of life experience and natural charisma.”
I’m suddenly glad Christine isn’t near enough to hear what we’re saying. She might pop good old dad on the nose. “Dad, Christine’s taking over for me. She’s picked things up quickly, and since you put the whole business in a family limited partnership years ago, we all have shares to vote. Me, Beth and Christine are all on board for sure. That’s enough.”
Dad splutters.
Mom’s smile takes me by surprise. “Correction. You, Beth, Christine, and me are all on board. I doubt her twin would vote against her, which means Jennifer’s probably a lock too.” Mom takes Dad’s arm in hers. “I believe that’s called a super majority, darling. You probably ought to make peace with it, rather than making us look like the old fools you and I both are. Let’s grab something to drink.” She leads him around the corner toward the bar, but winks at me over her shoulder as she does.
I might have underestimated my mother all these years.
“It’s unbelievable he has all these pieces,” one woman behind me is telling Beth. “How did he create so many?”
The Callanwolde is twenty-seven thousand square feet, and much of that is currently showcasing my work. Geo had the brilliant idea to dedicate thirty pieces to the charity and have this grand opening to drum up excitement for them.
The gallery director, Francis Tate, turns the corner with a woman on his arm. She’s much shorter than he is, but she’s wearing a very tall hat, and the feathers keep brushing his nose.
“Can I order the other pieces tonight?” the woman asks Tate.
His face looks pinched, as though he’s answered this question before. “The ones that aren’t up for auction, do you mean?”
She grins and nods. “Yes, exactly. Can’t I order those tonight?”
“Tonight’s auction is to benefit Mr. Graham’s new charity, as you well know. But if you’ll tell me which particular item you’re interested in, I’ll make a note and call you first thing.”
“All of them,” the woman says. “Don’t you know who I am?” She puts a hand on her ample hip. “Andrea Vanderblat.”
The name means nothing to me, but Tate’s jaw drops. “As I said, I’ll make a note of your number.”
“I don’t want you to make a note. I’ll pay five million for the entire lot, but you must agree to that right now.”
“Ma’am, it’s not up for sale yet,” Tate says.
I nearly choke. Why isn’t the moron taking the offer? Who cares what the rules are? We made the rules. Take the money!
Geo beams at me.
“Did you hear him turn her down?” I hiss. “What’s going on?”
She claps her hands and whispers. “Your pieces are skyrocketing on the bidding. Having Luke and Paul and Trig invite all their friends was brilliant. These people compete, and when you add alcohol to the mix.” She giggles. “Plus, it’s all for charity, so they can write it off.”
“Not the pieces I sell tomorrow.” I frown. “Do they know that?”
“I really need to win that nursery set,” Mary says a few feet away.
Luke pats her shoulder. “I told you, I’ve bid on it three times. I just don’t feel good about spending more than we spent on our house for a crib and nightstand.”
Mary’s eyes widen. “No, neither do I. I had no idea it had gone that high.”
Luke rolls his eyes.
I step closer to them. “Umm, you’re shopping for a crib?”
Mary beams. “We aren’t supposed to tell anyone yet. I’m only seven weeks along.”
Geo squeals! “Oh my gosh, Mary, I took a test just last night.”
Wait. A test?
The two girls are hugging and screaming. Geo’s pregnant? And Mary?
“Trig is going to kill me for saying anything,” Geo gushes, “but we might have babies at the same time!”
“I’d be happy to make you each a nursery suite,” I say. “My gift.”
A man behind me with a scarf tied around his neck, an honest to goodness scarf, says, “Wait, you’re taking custom commissions?”
Another woman, this one with five inch, magenta heels and a matching sheath dress touches my arm. “You are? Oh my goodness! I had this idea for a birch wood settee, with an ivory silk cushion. I must have you make it. Tell me you will. When could it be ready? My mother’s coming down to visit in three weeks. Is there any chance you could have it ready by then? I’ll gladly pay a rush fee.”
Suddenly people are shouting at me from all sides. Women, men, yelling things over one another.
Tate lifts his arms in the air. “Calm down, everyone. We are not taking custom orders. There’s been a misunderstanding, that’s all.”
“But I heard Andrea Vanderblat already bought the entire collection,” someone in the next room shouts.
What in the world?
“No one bought the entire collection,” Mr. Tate says, “but I’m willing to have my staff open up the rest of the pieces for auction tonight, if you’d like that.”
Loud cheers from everyone.
“Alright, I’ll take that as a yes. My staff will be listing the additional pieces one by one over the next forty-five minutes to an hour. Please be patient.”
Geo and Beth each take one of my arms and jostle me out of the room.
“This is better than you could have dreamed,” Beth whispers.
“No kidding,” I mutter.
“Your parents certainly won’t be able to argue that you’re not doing the right thing now,” Geo says. “And I am going to hold you to that pledge to make us a nursery suite, but I don’t expect you to do it for free.”
I pull Geo toward me for a hug. “Pregnant? I can’t believe it!”
“I know,” she gushes. “Me either. But Trig and I are both so happy. We haven’t told anyone though, so…”
“Don’t tell Brekka?” I ask.
Geo bobs her head.
“Don’t tell Brekka what?” Trig asks. “That tall skinny man said you two were back here.” He smiles at Beth. “Hey Beth. How’s it going?”
Beth shrugs. “Same old, same old. I’m not engaged, or pregnant, or selling truckloads of overpriced furniture, or anything, but I’m good.”
Trig pins Geo with a stare.
She moans. “It slipped out, okay? Mary’s pregnant and, I just, look, you can’t be mad. I’m too excited.”
Trig slings an arm around Geo’s shoulder. “Prepare yourself, Rob. You can’t stay mad at the woman you love for very long, no matter what she does. And I’m discovering it’s even harder when you know she’s going to have a baby.”
I grin at them. “Congratulations. I was just telling Geo I’d be happy to custom design some furniture for your nursery.”
“Well, I’m sure we’ll be delighted to sell our jet and use the proceeds to buy a crib from you.”
I laugh. “Hardly. And no matter what Geo says, it will be my gift.”
Trig shakes his head. “I could turn around and sell that jewelry box for a hundred times what I paid for it right now. And you already gave us the cabinet and the table for our wedding present. It’s too much. Especially now that I know your stuff sells for hundreds of thousands. Congratulations, Rob.”
“Thanks.”
“What did Brekka say about all this?”
I shake my head. “She didn’t bite. I asked her to come. Several times in fact, but she said she couldn’t make it.”
Trig’s tilts his head and looks at me like I’m wearing polyester.
“Uh, you sure?”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
Trig grins his sideways grin. “It means I just saw her outside, wheeling around and drooling over some kind of buffet table.”
My heart rate spikes and my hands tremble. “No, you didn’t.”
He slashes his finger in the shape of an x over his chest. “Cross my selfish little heart.”
I shoot out of the room, eyes scanning, but everyone is so dang tall. I can’t see past the crush of people. How could Brekka navigate through this stupid exhibit at all?
“Rob?”
Her voice stops my heart dead. I’m sure I’ll slump to my knees any second and then keel over. Except somehow my feet turn around, and my head turns around and my heart starts beating again, and suddenly, there she is. Her perfect smile, her fringy hair falling in her eyes, and her delicate hands folded in her lap.
I push past the woman who’s talking to me, and the man who’s pointing at something and asking me a question.
“Pardon me,” I say absently. “I need a moment.”
I kneel in front of Brekka and cup her face in my hands. The rest of the room dissolves, and the chatter falls quiet all around me. “You came.”
She bobs her head, the skin of her cheeks sliding past the palms of my hands, silky smooth against work-worn rough. “I came.”
“How did you know? I wanted to surprise you, but you said you were busy.”
She laughs, the sound like a songbird trilling with joy. “This time I’m the one surprising you for once. Was it a good surprise?”
“The best.” Then I lean down and kiss her, claiming her mouth with mine. Telling her with the urgency of my kiss that I needed her here. I needed her to see my success, because without her it doesn’t mean anything. I broke with my family and struck out on my own because she told me I could. She’s been there encouraging me, every step of the way as the voice in my head, telling me to try try try.
At first, there’s only her mouth, and my fist in her hair, and my fingers on her knee. The barest touch of her hand tracing my jaw. Her lips against mine. And then I notice other things. Like cheering and laughing that’s somehow surrounding us.
I pull back and Brekka blushes bright red. Everyone in the room is staring at us.
“The wife, I assume?” Andrea Vanderblat asks with a gargantuan grin.
“That’s Brekka Thornton,” someone else murmurs. “Victoria’s daughter.”
“Bernard’s daughter,” someone else says.
“She’s married? I thought she died.”
I roll my eyes. “Apparently a few other people are interested in your surprise, too.” I stand up.
“Brekka Thornton’s my girlfriend, not my wife. Not yet anyway.”
Everyone claps and cheers.
“I’ll be sure to let everyone know when our status changes,” I say. “Maybe a twitter blast. How’s that?”
More cheering. Oh, please.
Brekka’s grinning at me when I glance back down, so at least she’s not upset.
I head back for the side room, Brekka right behind me. Once we’re there, I drop down to one knee again. “Sorry about that. I forgot where we were momentarily.”
“The mark of a successful surprise.” She glances down at her lap and wrings her hands. “I’m still your girlfriend?” Her voice is small, too small.
I take her hands in mine, my large fingers enveloping hers entirely. “If you want to be.”
She looks back at me, her dark, full lashes framing eyes full of hope. “It’s all I want.”
“Then why have you been hiding?” I ask. “What did I do?”
“You didn’t do anything.” She shakes her head. “And I’m not hiding, not exactly.”
“Are you ever going to tell me what’s going on, then?”
“I am. That’s why I came this weekend. Well, that and to buy some outrageously priced furniture, apparently.”
I beam at her. “I have no idea what’s going on. It’s like a house full of barracudas, and I’m the recipient of all their violent energy.”
“That’s an apt description of my social circle,” she says. “And I said it was outrageously priced. I didn’t say it wasn’t worth every penny.”
“Well, even if you don’t get something tonight, I saved one thing back at the shop that I thought you might like.”
Her eyes light up. “You did?”
I nod my head. “I’d love to show it to you, if you have time.”
She nods. “Absolutely.”
“Maybe we can go back there and talk.”
Someone taps on the doorframe and I turn. Mr. Tate pokes his head around the corner. “Got a second?”
What now? “Yeah?”
“We’re closing the auction on the charity items in ten minutes. We extended it half an hour as a courtesy.”
“Courtesy to whom?” I ask.
“Last minute bidders,” he says.
I shake my head. “I don’t understand. Won’t there always be last minute bidders?”
“These bids were called in.”
“What?” I ask. “From where?”
“Many of our guests tonight have been posting on social media.” Mr. Tate beams. “To say you’re trending is an understatement.”
“Okay,” I say. “Well, that’s good.”
“I thought you might like to be there for a press release,” he says. “Your face is good branding, and several of the major networks have sent camera crews. They’d like you to announce the amount you’re donating. Your friend Clive is also here, ready to accept your donation on behalf of Cultivate.”
I turn toward Brekka. She beams at me. “Go, I’ll be here when you’re done. I’m so proud of you, Rob. For all of it. Plus, it sounds like I have some last minute bids to make now that there’s time.”
She follows me out the door, but I head for the dining room we designated as the pressroom, and Brekka turns toward the main living area. I wonder what she’s bidding on, but when I reach the press area any thoughts in my brain evaporate. I’m immediately bombarded with questions.
“What gave you the idea for Cultivate?” a woman with hair like a helmet asks.
“When I was stationed in Libya, our unit was hit with an IED. I was thrown to the road, and debris landed on my chest. It broke my back.”
The room falls surprisingly quiet.
“Through equal parts luck, hard work, and dedication by a group of military surgeons, my break was stabilized and then it healed. My broken spine has refused and I’m fine today. I can do anything.”
“Could you play quarterback in the NFL?” a man with a hugely wide mouth asks.
“Anything I could do before, which sadly means that I’m as bad at football as I always was.”
People in the room snicker.
“But I do have complete range of motion. It’s miraculous to me, even now. But some of my friends weren’t as lucky as me.” I put my hand on Clive’s shoulder. “Many former warriors in our nation’s military are now fighting battles of their own every day at home. The wounds they received in combat continue to plague them.”
“What about your girlfriend?” a man with long thin fingers, and a bright white smile asks.
I bob my head. “My girlfriend was in an automobile accident. She’s also a wheelchair user today. And you know, there are hosts of other people who deal with similar difficulties. I have neighbors, friends and family who use wheelchairs and have prosthetic limbs, and I’m not the exception. I’m the rule. People who use wheelchairs are all around us. Many people have suffered injuries in combat, or are dealing with medical conditions. Differently abled people face a barrage of problems most of us never even notice. Many, many places still aren’t accessible. My buddy Clive teaches,” I pause. “Or, I suppose I should say, before he accepted my offer to be the new President of Cultivate, he taught physical education. It’s not typically a job performed by a person who uses a wheelchair. Not because a wheelchair user can’t do it, but because it’s not something people typically make accommodations for, which is a shame.”
“When we completed our rehab,” Clive says, cameras snapping as he speaks for the first time, “we were told to look for jobs we could complete at home. Even for those of us able to live independently, we’re directed that it’s just simpler. I was strongly encouraged to go into customer service or computer programming. Everyone wanted me to do something I could do while sitting in a wheelchair in my family room.”
“One of my goals with Cultivate,” I say, “is to help people to see, all people, the tremendous value that disabled people can bring to the world around them, if we’re able to approach things from a new perspective. And not because they are wheelchair users, not at all. Not because they’ve risen above their great difficulty, but because of the people they were before, and now and the people they always would have been. They’re people exactly like you and me, with the exception of needing a few accommodations. Although, instead of seeing the changes we need to make as accommodations, I wish we could think of them as opportunities to improve. I know no one likes change.”
“Believe me,” Clive says. “I don’t like it either. But I didn’t have a choice.”
“In a moment,” I say, “I’ll have the honor to announce the amount of donations we were able to raise through the sale of some furniture I made in my shop at home. Each piece is different, unique, and one of a kind. And all the people Cultivate strives to care for, to benefit, and to enrich, are different and unique too. They aren’t like everyone you see in your normal routine, but they’re just as beautiful as each piece of furniture.” I turn to face Tate. “Isn’t this where you wanted to play that reel of the images of what we put up for auction?”
Tate nods. “And I thought I’d surprise everyone with a little announcement of my own. Thanks in large part to the tremendous response from donors tonight, the gallery is planning to donate its entire commission as well. Therefore, one hundred percent of the income from the sale of these beautiful items will go to fund Cultivate, a charity the Callanwolde stands behind one hundred percent.”
I’m floored. He’s donating their twenty percent cut? I don’t know how to react.
Tate starts the video, and flashes of furniture I made over the past years in the quiet of my own shop appear, one by one. A coffee table with glass blown in between the joined parts of a split tree. A nightstand with the word Sleep burned into the top, then covered in iridescent glaze. A dining table formed from a single cross cut slab. A breakfast table with stump slab seats. A bookcase with carved scrollwork running up the sides, featuring butterflies and flowers I treated with a chemical stain, making them iridescent. A delicate china hutch. A set of end tables. A lamp stand. A rocking chair. On and on, the images flash. More coffee tables. An entry table, and my favorite piece of the night. A breakfast table made of the same inosculated ash I used for Trig and Geo’s wedding gift, and delicate, individual chairs made of ash as well. The finish is rubbed, and the legs took me days and days to carve, those of the table matching the chairs.
“While the slide was playing,” Tate announces, “the network informed me that we’ve had viewers, hundreds of viewers in fact, who have called asking to donate as well. We wanted to let you know, the website recently set up for Cultivate is available at the web address flashing in the strip at the bottom of the screen. If you’d like to donate, they welcome that. Every donation helps. And now, I’ve got an envelope here for Rob. We wanted him to read the amount he was able to raise, as well as the single largest donation out loud for all of you today. Live, so we can experience his success right here with him.”
I take the envelope with steady hands. I’m surprised about how utterly calm I feel. I’m conscious that this is all happening in front of thousands of people, but I can’t see anyone other than the representatives from the press and a handful of cameramen, so it feels pretty surreal. “Well,” I say. “When I had this idea, I wasn’t sure if anyone would turn out other than my mom, so I’m pleased, no matter what this number is.”
“Tell them your pie-in-the-sky goal,” Clive says.
“Good idea,” Tate says.
“Well,” I say, “Clive and I went over his expenses. He’s going to work for the same salary he was being paid as a teacher, forty-thousand dollars a year, and since he’s got VA coverage, we don’t even have to pay for his health insurance.” I wink. “Which is really why I gave him the job. He’s cheaper than anyone else would be.”
Clive rolls his eyes.
“By my calculations, if I could manage to raise a hundred and fifty-thousand, we’d have enough to run for a year and a half, especially if people like me are willing to donate their time to help effectuate the modifications to the individual applicant’s homes.”
“I’m not sure whether anyone mentioned this yet,” Clive says, “though I know it was on the invitations. I thought maybe we should explain on air that Rob here spent weeks and weeks of weekends at my house, and donated all the supplies to redo my cabinets at a level I could easily reach. He’s done it for several other friends from our injured veteran trauma support group as well.”
I swallow. “But the material point is that, in addition to people donating any money they are willing to donate, we will be looking for people willing to volunteer time or skills. The more donations of any type we receive, the further these donations of cash will go.”
“Exactly,” Clive says.
I pull the paper out of the envelope and start to read. “It says that we raised one hundred and four—” I cut off. There must be a typo. I turn toward Tate and drop my voice. “This can’t be right. Is there a typo?”
Tate shakes his head and jerks his head toward the cameras.
“Uh, okay, well, it says we raised one hundred and four million, three hundred and forty-three thousand and fifty dollars.”
Clive’s mouth opens and his eyes widen like teacups.
I whisper at Clive again. “Are you sure it’s not one hundred and four thousand? It’s less than my pie in the sky dream, but it’s still tremendous. More than I had any reason to hope.”
Tate points at the paper. “Keep reading, hot shot.”
I look back down at the paper, my hands shaking so badly I can hardly read the figures. “It says the single largest donation was for the breakfast table and chairs made of inosculated Ash. The donation was made by Brekka Thornton, who paid one hundred million dollars on behalf of the Aldertree Thornton Family Trust.”
I drop the paper.
Brekka.
“Even without your girlfriend’s tremendous support,” the woman with the helmet hair says, “you still raised four million and three hundred and forty-three thousand. How does that feel?”
“Three hundred and forty-three thousand and fifty,” Clive says. “Every dollar counts.”
I have no idea what to say.
One of Tate’s employees hands Clive a laptop.
Clive makes a strangled sound. “I was logged in to the system so that they could provide the information for donations on the air,” he says. “And look!”
He spins the laptop around toward me.
Our fund shows that we’ve already had almost half a million in funds donated from individuals through the website.
“I’m utterly speechless,” I say into the camera. “It’s one thing for the very wealthy to support a cause and take a write off. But to know that all of you viewers believe as strongly in this cause as I do? To see you all supporting us tonight, well, it’s overwhelming to say the least.”
A whimpering sound to my side draws my attention and I notice that my friend who’s a former football player, who normally sports a classically good looking profile, has turned to look at the ground. Because his face has scrunched up in an ugly way.
Clive is crying. On national television.
“Well, it’s time for us to conclude this interview,” Tate says. “Because I have word that Mr. Graham has a special phone call. From the oval office. Apparently the President is planning to redecorate, and she would love to commission her new desk and filing cabinet from a veteran. Her favorite cousin is also a wheelchair user, you know.”
I can’t hold back my tears either. I have no idea how long Clive and I are crying on a live feed before they finally cut off, but the donations roll in even faster after that.