All That Really Matters, Nicole Deese [best detective novels of all time .TXT] 📗

numbers for me from the beginning. And there’d been a lot of numbers to crunch. “Right, I agree. It’s best to stay on track.” Though her words were informational, I couldn’t help but hear an undercurrent of unease.

“Did you print out the latest report?” I sat my satchel on the picnic table and smiled down at her. “I always have an easier time with numbers when they’re not on a screen.”

“Yes, I did.” Again, with the obvious hesitation. “I have the numbers right here . . . including the updated ticket price.” She handed me a color-coded budget spreadsheet without looking at it.

“What? Is it more than we talked about?”

“Considerably more.” She wrung her hands in front of her petite frame.

“Hey, let’s not borrow worry. Whatever it is, we’ll work it out.” That was one of my dad and brother’s favorite phrases, and it brought a wave of pleasure to use it, knowing they would be pleased to hear me say it. Maybe . . . maybe they’d even come to this event if I invited them? After all, it was for the benefit of those in need.

I tried to focus on the numbers blurring in front of my eyes and not on my growing freebie invite list. “Okay, what am I looking at here? What’s the bottom line?”

Clara looked ill. “To raise what you want to raise and cover all the overhead plus entertainment fees . . .”

“Clara, it’s really okay. Just say it.”

She tapped the sum at the bottom of the page. “We’ll need to charge two thousand dollars a ticket.”

“Oh.” I gripped my chest, huffing out a laugh of relief. “Gosh, for a minute, I thought you were going to say a number close to triple that. But that’s totally doable.”

Clara didn’t blink. “Molly, two grand a ticket is . . .” She shook her head. “It’s not something people around here can afford. Our monthly supporters are small church congregations and faith-based bookstores and family-owned restaurants.”

“Exactly. Which is why I haven’t limited our invitations to local businesses and their patrons.” I bit my lip, debating with myself. “Can you keep a secret?”

She nodded, albeit hesitantly at first.

“I’ve secured commitments from twenty of my sponsors already. With those donations and the scholarship from my agency, we have nearly three hundred thousand already in the bank. The livestream auction from my platforms will make up the deficit, no problem. So those ticket prices, they won’t even be relevant in the end. Most of the sponsors who pay won’t actually RSVP to the event anyway.”

Clara’s mouth gaped open like a fish needing to be thrown back in the lake. “Molly . . . really?”

I nodded excitedly. “Yes! Really! I wanted to wait until we set up the account link and had the transfer confirmations, but yes. Everything is going perfectly on schedule.”

“I just . . .” Clara shook her head, amazed. “I’m speechless. That’s so much money. I can’t believe you’ve managed to raise all that in such a short amount of time—and basically all on your own, too. Silas is going to be thrilled, shocked.” She pinched her lips together, her eyes teary and soft. “It’s been his dream to be able to do more for the community, for the kids on the waitlist.”

For possibly the first time since I’d created a beauty brand from the meager beginnings of my social media platforms, I saw a bigger picture. A more purposeful connection to it all. The followers. The sponsors. The shares and views and comments and link clicks. What if everything I’d built had been for this? For this moment right here? To use my years of networking and beauty product testing to help a group of people in need.

The hope set a fire deep in my chest.

“So you really don’t think most of your sponsors will actually attend?”

Her question pulled me out of my introspection. “They’re all welcome to, but it’s easier for most people in their positions to just write a check.” The flippancy of such a statement stung as I recalled all the moments I’d done exactly that. How Miles would mention a need within his church or abroad, and I’d simply send him money without a second thought of how else I might be of help. Of service.

“I guess that makes sense,” she said, in a way that told me it didn’t actually make sense to her at all. Because Clara couldn’t imagine herself being anywhere but here, no matter what else was going on in her world. She found the time. No, she made the time. For these young adults. “At least it will free up more spots for some of our locals who otherwise couldn’t afford the price of admission.”

I cleared my throat. “Exactly. I have a list of names going for complimentary tickets if there’s anybody you’d like to add to it.”

Unexpectedly, Val’s face surfaced in my mind. She would have loved working on an event like this—organizing the schedule and doing the website and all the social media prep work. Val shined when it came to roles like this, and yet . . . and yet I had no right to ask her to help me, not after all that had transpired. I was realizing more and more the many ways our relationship had been built on my needs and on my timeline. Maybe things between us would heal if I gave her space to tend to her own—and to Tucker’s.

Clara’s watch beeped a calendar alert for the start of group, and we both looked across the lawn to the open door of the girls’ cottage, where our six mentees trailed into the sun with their journals in hand. “Here they come.”

Though this was only our fifth Friday mentor session of the summer, my connection with the girls had grown in a way I hadn’t anticipated. At first they’d been fascinated by my following and the famous people I’d met. And sure, they enjoyed talking beauty and fashion trends with me. But our last couple mandatories and mentor meetings had had nothing to do with my social