Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 331(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“That was a fast exit. I was about to ask him in to see…oh.” He slapped his head and gestured at the steep porch steps. “Crap.”
“Need a ramp, boss?” I asked, forcing a cheerful tone. Sam didn’t need the dregs of my confusion over Holden, and Sam’s realization that his house wasn’t accessible for Holden and others was far more important than petty worries over kissing. “I’m no woodworker, but I could talk to Knox. If he’s got plans from other ramp projects, I bet I could bang something basic out.”
“Something that would let Holden see the first floor?” Sam smiled as we entered the house, greeted by the scents of paint and industrial cleaners, the air still dusty with age. But the house’s vibe was slowly transforming from neglected relic to work zone to the possibility of being a home again someday.
“Yep. Gonna need permission to remove some of the higher thresholds between rooms as well.” Striding into the living room, I pointed out the thick wooden divider between the living and dining rooms. Not only a hindrance for wheelchair users, the old-fashioned thresholds were a hazard for anyone with unsure footing or high distractibility.
“Good call. Start on that whenever you get a chance.” Sam nodded as he walked around the large, open living room. “Your work so far is looking amazing. And I absolutely want the house as accessible as possible. Might also add a chair lift to the second floor at some point.”
I whistled low even as I nodded my agreement. “Those are a pretty penny.”
“That’s what fundraising is for.” He grinned at me, but I only groaned in response.
“Now, you sound like Holden.”
“If this is about your RV dilemma, you should listen to him.” Sam gestured broadly, completely oblivious to my rising tension. Undoubtedly, the whole damn town knew my business. Broken RV. Injury. Rooming with Holden. Sam was hardly the only one picking up on all the good gossip. “Holden has a knack for encouraging people to donate. Guess all benevolent comedians have that skill, but he’s among the best at it.”
I made a warning noise. “He’s more than a comedian.”
“Is he now?” Leaning against the fireplace, Sam cocked his head at me, but I chose to ignore that I’d inadvertently tossed more fuel on the gossip fire.
“Holden’s ideas are sound. I’m just allergic to asking for help.”
“So don’t.” Sam shrugged like this was the obvious answer. “Why do you think so many charities have celebrity spokespeople? You’re not the only do-gooder who hates to ask for money.”
“I’m not a do-gooder.” I scowled, summoning all my badass SEAL vibes, but Sam chuckled.
“See? That kind of humility is exactly why you need to let others do the asking.”
“You got a spare celebrity?” Unable to keep still, I took a piece of sandpaper to a rough edge on one of the shelves I’d painted the day before, smoothing out a dried drip that was a testament to how distracted I was by everything with Holden. I didn’t make silly mistakes, nor did I make friends, and yet, Sam kept right on with his advice like we were pals and he cared about my fundraising woes.
“As it turns out, yes. That iconic eighties coming-of-age movie, Treehouse, was filmed in Safe Harbor. My dad was an extra, and he became friends with one of the stars. Monte Ringer?”
“I’ve heard of him. Won an Oscar, right?”
“Yup. And he went on to be a big-name director after getting bored of acting awards. It’s not a favor I ask Dad to call in often, but Monte lost a sister to a drowning accident. I think this charity might speak to him.”
“I’m not profiting on some family’s tragedy.”
“It’s not profiting.” Sam shook his head like I was missing the point. “Everyone has a tragic backstory in some way. What sets people apart is what they do with the tragedies that define them. Some stuff them down. Some try to make amends or find other personal motivations. And a few will try to use the bad stuff as inspiration to advocate for changes that might prevent future tragedies.”
“Suppose that’s a point.” My jaw was so tense it was a wonder it didn’t pop loose like an over-tightened spring. I’d tried all that—stuffing the feelings down, trying to make things right, directing my life course—and Sam was wrong. When the tragedy was senseless, it didn’t matter what a person did.
“It’s all about what helps someone process.” He sounded like Holden, firm in the belief that grief could be transformed into something manageable, maybe even useful. I knew better, but I let Sam continue. “In fact, in addition to my dad’s friend, we should look into testimonials from those who have benefited from your recovery work.”
“I ain’t a restaurant begging for reviews.”
“No, your work is way more important than that.” Sam bounced on the balls of his feet, cheeks flushed and eyes lighting up. He and Holden were peas in a pod, energized by thoughts of donations. Publicity. People. I wasn’t ever going to understand extroverts.