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Leaning back he eyed his lunch companion with friendly ease. “I don’t know anything about what it takes to run a shelter, I’ll admit, but I’d like to make the conditions more . . . agreeable to the guests.”
“Residents,” she corrected. “That’s wonderful. I’m not sure if Slade told you, but the fire inspector’s been coming down on us pretty hard lately. The school is passable, but the church should’ve been condemned years ago. It’s a constant struggle to run a charitable organization when repairs are needed. Most of our budget goes to utilities and supplementing the pantries when supplies are low.
“Being that tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, we’ll have a surge of donations from local food banks that will get the residents through the next two weeks, but after that, as the holiday season approaches, people tend to get caught up in securing their own luxuries, rather than considering what the less fortunate actually need.”
It had completely slipped his mind that tomorrow was Thanksgiving. That meant he’d be traveling back to the estate tonight and heading to Isadora’s in the morning. The tediousness of a day with family immediately registered itself, forming a knot between his shoulders.
Paula continued to list the various needs of the shelter. He decided that while food was not an immediate issue, clothing was. He’d order bulk shipments of coats, gloves, hats, socks, and shoes and have them sent over as soon as possible. Next week he’d look into the building’s structural issues and see what could be done there. Slade was on the factions committee, and he’d know best where to start.
Paula admitted to not being too sure about the facility’s structural needs. She said after last year’s battle with the township, it was a wonder they remained open at all. Slade had spearheaded the campaign to keep the shelter alive. Lucian was grateful he had.
No matter how much Slade didn’t support his interest in Evelyn, he was still a philanthropist on some level. The shelter had been a cause of his since he graduated, taking up right where his mother had left off with the charity. He wondered if he was coming around on the Evelyn front or if he had called him the night he found her in hopes it would smother all interest Lucian had in the woman.
After taking care of the bill, he thanked Paula and promised to be in touch. Upon their return to the hotel, he told Dugan to hang tight and quickly packed his briefcase with things to keep him busy on the ride out of the city. Within the hour they were leaving Folsom and he was on his way to an intense, family-crammed holiday. His palms were already sweating.
Chapter 28
Pawns
The weakest pieces in the game
Isadora put out a beautiful spread. Distraction was easily found in asserting his skills of intimidation over Antoinette’s date. Peter Cross was a slimy little crawler with a knockoff Rolex, who liked to touch his baby sister a little too much.
“You’re rotten, Lucian,” Isadora teased as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink.
“Quite, but what’s brought about your scrutiny today?”
She laughed melodically as she transferred the remainder of turkey into a disposable silver tray.
“Poor Peter’s going to need a new pair of underwear by the time he leaves here.”
“I don’t care for the way he handles Antoinette. He should have respect. He’s in our family home.”
“They’re twenty-two and in love, Lucian. It isn’t like he’s groping her ass at the dinner table.”
“He better not be,” he growled, tossing a dishtowel on the granite countertop.
“She’s not a baby anymore, Lucian.”
That was true. She was the same age as Evelyn, yet Antoinette still seemed like a little girl in pigtails.
Isadora sealed a lid over the leftovers and turned. “I talked to father today. He and Tibet send their regards and apologize for not making it back to the States.”
“Like we ever expected them to.”
Tibet was his father’s mistress. She'd basically come with his father's marriage to their mother, like an unfortunate stowaway they all turned a blind eye to. When their mother passed away, when they were all under the age of twelve, Antoinette merely a toddler, Christos Patras had abandoned his children and legacy and taken off to Europe to fornicate with his mistress, where he wouldn’t be under the judgmental eye of his and Lucian’s mother’s upper-crust circle.
Lucian’s teenage years had been a navigation of misplaced anger and rebellion at being abandoned by the only parent he had left. Isadora took on the role of nurturer. Tutors saw to his education, ensuring he had the proper well-bred edification of any baron apprentice. He’d earned his master’s just after he disenfranchised the company he saw as his father’s last standing pride and joy, and earned his first million independent from his legacy shortly after.
The Patras name was plenty a foundation to stand on. By his midtwenties Lucian had held the impressive prestige of men twice his age, because none of them could compete with his family’s worth. Their name had been a trusted brand since the turn of the century, when his great-great-grandfather had opened a charming little inn that catered to the upper class within the limits of a little metropolitan town called Folsom. They now had a fleet of luxury hotels spanning the globe and more money than any of them knew what to do with.
