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"Can you believe these people?"
I turned at the sound of a female voice.
Rubie Thomas leaned against a wall, a glass of something clear in her hand. It looked like water to me, but it might be vodka.
"Excuse me?" I asked politely.
Rubie waved a hand toward the guests who gathered in groups, chatting and laughing.
"Do you think for a moment they care about the homeless? They're just here to be seen, and to make themselves feel good before they go back to their mansions and have a bath in champagne."
"Why are you here?" I said before I could stop myself.
She threw back her head and laughed. "The same reason they are, but at least I can admit it." She sipped her drink and looked bored. "Every one of these people could just donate, and save everyone the bother of coming out tonight. But they don't. You know why?"
"Why?" I asked carefully. She was even more cynical than I was. That was saying something.
"Because who would know?" she replied. "What's the point of doing good things for those you don't care about, if others can't fawn all over you and thank you for your generosity?"
"I'm sure some of them donate in ways we can't see," I said. Not everyone needed that kind of attention.
"Maybe." Rubie pushed herself off the wall. "But galas like this raise a lot of money."
"They also make jobs for the bar staff," I pointed out.
"Opening bottles of wine that cost more than they make in a month," she replied. She fixed me with a steady gaze. "You don't think extreme wealth is obscene?"
I hesitated. Anything I said to her might get back to her father. Since he was one of the obscenely rich, that might not end well for me.
"I won't tell," she said, as if she read my mind.
Okay, it was obvious why I'd hesitated.
"I think it's a shame some people have so much while others have so little," I said carefully.
Rubie snorted. "Right. That's why I have no interest in being the owner of a football team. It's a status symbol for my father. I don't want it. If I was passionate about football, then I might be all over it, but," she shrugged, "I'm not."
"The team does a lot of good for the economy, and sports encourages kids to run around and get fit," I said.
She nodded once. "Right, no debate there. But if I'm going to do good things, I want to do it my way. Y'know?"
I wasn't sure I did know. But then, I didn't have so much money I could pick and choose how I helped. "By donating to the homeless?" I suggested.
She waved a hand. "Oh, I do that anyway. I meant working in a soup kitchen, or putting together care packages for kids going into foster care. Hands on help, you know? Things that make a real difference."
I looked at her in surprise. There was obviously a lot more to Rubie Thomas than I first thought. I felt bad for judging her the way I had.
"Those are all good ways to help out," I said, "but they have to be funded somehow."
"Yeah, but that could be done in ways that don't stroke the egos of the rich." She gave the whole room a dark look.
"At least it keeps them from getting bored," I said, half joking.
She barked a laugh. "There is that. Heaven forbid Daddy's little trust fund babies get bored." She dropped her glass on a tray as a woman walked by collecting empties. From somewhere in her slender, probably incredibly expensive black gown, she pulled out her phone, smiled at it and took a selfie.
"Gotta keep the fans happy," she said.
"You don't seem happy." I hoped I wasn't overstepping with that observation.
