Catherine Palmer - Thread Of Deceit

“God is important to me.” Her dark eyes pinned him. “Without Him, I wouldn’t exist.”

Stunned at her bluntness, Sam couldn’t respond for a moment. She dropped her focus to her notebook, as if reading over what she had written, but he could see that her eyes weren’t moving.

He let out a breath. “Then maybe you’ll understand this. I started Haven because I believed it was what God wanted me to do.”

She had stopped taking notes and was moving her pen tip around on the paper in a tiny blue circle. “You believe God talked to you?”

“In a way.”

“Is it the same with Terell?”

“Terell is a strong Christian. When we were in college together, he led me to Christ.”

She looked up. “Led you to Christ?”

“To salvation. I’d been raised in a Christian home and had believed in Jesus from early childhood. Terell helped me see that it’s not enough to believe. A person has to commit his life to Christ.”

She wrote something in her notebook. “So, your patrons…you run Haven as a religious organization?”

“We get some financial support from churches, and we maintain Christian principles. But Haven is nondenominational. We’re not-for-profit, and we operate under those governmental regulations. We don’t qualify for any exemptions as a religious group.”

“You’ve met state guidelines in every area except this lead paint situation?”

“As far as I know. They allowed us to go ahead and open, but different agencies keep coming around to inspect. We’re doing our best.”

He stood, the subject touching a sore place in his gut. “The codes, the regulations…the whole thing is difficult. When Terell and I found this building and bought it, we thought we’d just need to clean it and then get the center going. We had big plans for the outside—turning the parking lot into a top-notch basketball court with bleachers and a snack bar, setting up a tennis court, even putting sod down for a park area with picnic tables. But we haven’t had time to start on any of that because of all the work we’ve had to do inside—wiring, plumbing, rehabbing the whole basic structure. We had to widen doorways and enlarge the bathrooms. Had to buy special toilets. Had to put in ramps. Lights. Exit signs. Washer and dryer.”

He moved across the room and began restacking the books on his small shelf. “Don’t get me started on the kitchen,” he continued. “We’re not even close to code there. We’re not certified, so we can’t provide hot meals or homemade refreshments—which was one way we hoped to make a little money. At this point, all we can sell is packaged snacks, popcorn and sodas, and we do that at cost.”

“I had no idea it was so complicated,” she murmured, taking notes. “It sounds like an uphill battle.”

“Battle is the right word for it. Right after we purchased the building, vandals broke into the main level. It was still empty, so they couldn’t find anything to steal. But they smashed out windows, spray-painted walls, demolished toilets. We’ve had to use the bathrooms downstairs, which is a problem for our kids with special needs. Some of our volunteers have offered to build ramps, and those have to meet code. We’ve been working like crazy to fix the restrooms on this level, and we’re nearly there. The punks destroyed nearly all our light fixtures, too, so now we’re working to buy and install new ones.”

“Your military background must be a help. If you see this as a battle, I’m sure you’re determined to win.”

“We’ll win. But there are times I’d almost rather be stranded in an Iraqi sandstorm.” He rubbed the back of his neck, remembering. “Terell and I can handle the kids, and our volunteers will get the building into shape. But we need more of two things we lack. Time and money.”

“If Terell played professional basketball, he must have earned a huge salary.” She frowned, the raven wings drawing closer. “Maybe you could convince the city to give you more time.”

“Terell can tell you about his pro career, if he chooses, but he gave Haven all he had left. He’s a good man. We’re both willing to sacrifice everything for this place, but we can’t live forever without bringing in some income. And we can’t keep the doors open unless we have a solid financial operating base. The trouble is that our donors are reluctant to fork over more money until they’re sure we’re on solid footing with the city, the county, the state and probably the Feds.”

“Makes perfect sense.” She leaned back, relaxing in her chair for the first time since she’d entered his office. “And it explains your reluctance to let me publicize your problems.”

As the light of understanding shone in her eyes for the first time, the knots in Sam’s shoulders loosened a little. He picked up a file from his desk.

“Our donors are mostly individuals or small-business owners,” he explained. “Churches have given us some money, but we don’t have any corporate sponsors. We can’t afford to pay salaries for a fund-raiser and a public relations expert. Basically, it’s up to Terell and me to carve out the time for those things.”

“Doesn’t sound like it’s your cup of tea.”

“We’re both athletes. I’m a soldier.” He dropped the file on his desk. “Nah, it’s not our thing.”

“Mind if I take a look at your donor list?”

“Why?”

“I’d like to take down the names and give some of them a call. If I can get a few good quotes about the vision these people have for Haven, my article might help you drum up additional support.”

He considered her request. “If our donors agree to be interviewed, it’s fine with me. But I don’t want you to publish names without their permission.”

“No problem.” She took the file he handed to her and scanned the list. “This is good. I know some of these people. Isn’t Richard Hayes the CEO of a moving van company?”

“He’s been great. But so far, it’s all been personal donations. He hasn’t involved his business yet, and that’s where the big money is.”

“These are fairly large churches, aren’t they?” she asked, jotting information as she went down the list.

“Sure, but they’re in low-income areas. They send us a lot of volunteer help, but they don’t have much money to give.”

Her finger stopped at a name. “I know this man—Jim Slater. He goes to my church.” She looked up, her face transformed by that radiant smile. “He runs an adoption agency, doesn’t he?”

“It’s called Young Blessings Adoption Services,” he told her. “Jim’s on our board of directors, and he drops by fairly often to help out with the kids. I’m assuming he must be well-off, because he’s done a lot for Haven. He paid for new tile in the bathroom. In fact, I have an appointment with him later this afternoon. To talk about the lead paint problem.”

“I bet he’ll help. I’ve worked with Jim in the church nursery a couple of times. He’s a gentle man, and so good with children. He lost his wife to cancer, you know.”

“I didn’t realize that.”

“Well, this is great.” She looked up from her notebook. “One more thing, Sam. Terell mentioned a problem with DFS.”

Sam shook his head. “Your story’s on lead paint, Miss Burns. That’s all I’m willing to discuss.”

“But why would Family Services be after you?”

“They’re not ‘after’ us. You make it sound like we’re criminals.”

“Are you?”

He scowled. “Of course not. If you work with children and don’t meet your health codes, then DFS starts sniffing. Look, I’ve given you all the time I can, Miss Burns.”

“Ana.” She stood. “So, how’s the little girl in the corner?”

He thought for a moment, picturing the forlorn child who never spoke. “We’ve tried, but we can’t get her involved in our activities. Still, she seems to feel safe with us. She comes every day.”