Page 16 of A Whim and a Prayer

Oh, she’d liked Holy Trinity well enough in kindergarten through fifth because she’d been popular, but that all changed when Mary Lou Lambert arrived in the 6th grade, spreading rumors. Rumors that were true, unfortunately, but Winnie didn’t want anybody else knowing that.

She claimed Winnie had been a bully at The Boston Society for the Care of Girls where both she and Mary Lou had been orphans before rich families adopted them.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, she told everyone Winnie’s birth mother was a prostitute in and out of the slammer for theft and drugs, who eventually died in an overdose. To add insult to injury, she said Winnie’s “lowlife” mom dumped her on the steps of The St. Mary’s Home for Unwed Mothers because she was a cross-eyed freak nobody wanted. The very taunt that had branded Winnie for life as a piece of trash, a reject who was cross-eyed, and ugly too.

So naturally she beat Mary Lou up—just like she had when she’d been five—busting her lip and giving her a black eye, which earned her a suspension that turned everyone in her class against her.

That’s when the stuttering began.

It got so bad that her mom took her to a psychologist who recommended getting Winnie into drama. Criminy, she yanked Winnie out of that high-falutin’ prison so fast, Winnie’s head was spinning, transferring her to St. Stephen’s instead. Which had been a stroke of luck because when Winnie had joined the drama club there, that stupid stuttering improved considerably, with only occasional lapses whenever she was stressed.

But it was really her sophomore year at Cathedral High, when a new drama teacher named Mrs. Cullen took her under her wing, that Winnie’s confidence took flight and the stuttering disappeared altogether.

Watching Mrs. C now as she answered several questions for Abby and Beck, Winnie almost wished she was her mom instead of her own. At age thirty-three, Mrs. C was so much younger and more understanding than Winnie’s mother. And although she wasn’t nearly as pretty as her own mom, that suited Winnie just fine. Because frankly, next to Mrs. Charity Dennehy—the admired socialite whose beauty turned everyone’s head—Winnie felt downright dowdy.

But Mrs. C? Now she made Winnie feel comfortable. Yes, her chin-length, brown, curly bob paled next to Winnie’s mother’s platinum long pageboy à la Rita Hayworth, and Mrs. C’s petite frame couldn’t compare to her mother’s own voluptuous figure—but somehow that didn’t matter. Because Mrs. C didn’t harp on Winnie like her mom did.

A familiar niggle of guilt hit its mark, and Winnie expelled a weighty sigh. Yes, deep down she loved her mother, more than her mother would ever know, and she really didn’t want to exchange her for Mrs. C. But she never felt like she had her mother’s approval, whereas Mrs. C made it clear that Winnie was her favorite student.

And the clincher?

Mrs. C was a bona fide member of The Footlight Club, one of Boston’s most revered community theatres and a well-established part of Boston’s cultural life. Located in prestigious Eliot Hall—a literal community-theatre landmark in and of itself—The Footlight Club boasted the proud distinction of being the oldest continuously operating community theatre in the United States, founded in 1877.

And if you had the talent and clout to have performed on its stage? A thrill shivered through Winnie’s body. Not only did that mean you had serious artistic credibility, but you were unquestionably, undeniably considered to be “legitimate theatre,” a lifelong dream of Winnie’s.

“Winnie, do you have any questions before we adjourn?”

She snapped to attention, quickly returning to the present. Clearing her throat, she sat up tall—or as tall as she could with a height of five feet. “Well, I was thinking, Mrs. C, about additional ways we could maybe meet our financial goal.”

“Goodness, Winnie, you’re a wonder!” Mrs. C said with a bright smile, her approval literally beaming on her face. “What do you suggest?”

Winnie shimmied closer, excitement coursing through her veins as she sat straight up with hands clasped on the table. “This annual fundraiser is to reel in hefty donations from the big cats, I know, but … what if we expanded on those donations? You know, with maybe sponsorship from big companies?”

Mrs. C blinked before a grin slowly spread across her face. “I knew you were the right person to be one of my assistants on this fundraiser, young lady, so let’s hear your ideas.”

“Well, as you know, my father is editor of The Herald, but he’s also the co-chair for the annual Fogg Museum auction—”

Mrs. C nodded. “Yes, Harvard’s most prestigious museum.”

“Well … I suggested the same thing to him, recommending he not only depend on the usual donor list, but publish a handbill for all attendees that showcases the generosity of various companies as well, something they’ve never done before. Plus they can also tastefully list donors who hit set monetary levels.

“For instance, those who donate $1,000 or more would be discreetly listed as ‘Gold-Level Donors,’ $500 and above, ‘Silver-Level Donors,’ and $100 on up, ‘Bronze-Level Donors.’” She clasped her hands to her chest like a little girl, a thrill shooting through her at the open-mouth stares of her favorite teacher and best friends.

Eyes in a squint, Beck shot her a half smile. “You never told me about this.”

“Me either,” Abby said, “and you tell me everything!”

Winnie wiggled her brows. “Not everything, apparently.” She turned back to Mrs. C. “I have a lot of other ideas, too, ma’am, but I can share those with you at the next meeting if that’s okay? I’ll be happy to come early if you want.”

“Absolutely, Winnie, and thank you for all your hard work on this.” She surveyed each of the volunteers around the table with a tender smile. “My utmost thanks to all of you for volunteering your time—you are such a blessing to me and to the BCAS.” Gaze darting to the clock on the wall, she clapped her hands and stood. “Well, that’s it for this evening—meeting adjourned. We’ll see you here next week, same time, same place.”

Chairs scraped as everyone rose, their chatter filling the room with excitement and laughter.

“I feel like a hot-fudge sundae,” Winnie announced to Beck and Abby as she gathered her things, flipping both the strap of her purse and satchel over her shoulder.

“You always feel like a hot-fudge sundae,” Beck commented dryly as he automatically wrested the heavy leather shoulder bag away from her.

“I know.” Abby lifted her purse off the back of her chair. “It’s a wonder she doesn’t weigh 300 pounds.”