Chapter 6 - The Price of Looking Respectable
Dean brought folders.
That should have warned me.
My brother had never brought a folder to anything in his life unless he expected to be in charge by the end of it.
He spread sponsorship packages across our dining room table.
Gold.
Silver.
Platinum.
Each one featured Jack’s photograph.
I touched the edge of the paper.
“Where did you get this picture?”
“Your public page.”
“You should have asked.”
Dean waved a hand.
“I’m your brother, Claire.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
He sighed, then softened his voice.
“I’m trying to help.”
The proposed venue was a hotel ballroom.
There would be a dinner, an auction, professional lighting, and a sponsor reception.
The small exhibition in Jack’s sketchbook had become an event with ticket tiers.
“What happens to students who can’t pay?” I asked.
“We’ll have a limited number of complimentary seats.”
“Their work is the event.”
“Of course. We’ll work it out.”
Then he reached for a page marked PROGRAM.
“I do have one concern.”
Daniel looked up from the other end of the table.
Dean tapped Theo’s name.
“The funeral thing has become a distraction.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What funeral thing?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” I said. “Tell me.”
Dean leaned back.
“A couple of sponsors are uncomfortable with making that dress the centerpiece. They want something uplifting. Something everyone can support.”
Nora’s careful explanation.
Theo’s shaking hands.
My son sitting at Rosa’s sewing machine.
Apparently, those things required approval from people buying advertising space.
“The dress stays,” I said.
“Claire.”
“Theo stays.”
“Nobody said he couldn’t attend.”
Daniel put down his pencil.
“He isn’t attending,” he said. “He’s helping lead it.”
Dean glanced toward him.
“I’m trying to keep this respectable.”
The word landed hard.
For years, Daniel might have agreed with it without thinking.
Now he stared at my brother.
“What part isn’t respectable?”
Dean’s face reddened.
“You’re both emotional.”
“Yes,” I said. “Our son died.”
He gathered the folders too quickly.
“Fine. Think about whether you want to raise money or prove a point.”
After he left, the kitchen felt smaller.
I wanted to believe it had been an ugly conversation with someone who would calm down and apologize.
Then Ms. Bennett called.
A local business had asked where to send a second sponsorship payment.
“Second?” I repeated.
“They said Dean already collected a deposit.”
I looked toward the empty place on the table.
We had not approved sponsors.
We had not agreed to the hotel.
We had not authorized anyone to collect money in Jack’s name.
I called Dean.
He sounded irritated.
“It’s standard practice. I had to secure the space.”
“Whose account received it?”
“My company’s event account.”
“How much?”
A pause.
“Don’t make this ugly.”
“How much, Dean?”
He named a number large enough to make my hands go numb.
Then he explained that the package included production fees, venue expenses, promotional services, and his company’s management charge.
A significant management charge.
“Were donors told that?” I asked.
“It’s in the materials.”
“The materials we never approved?”
He exhaled sharply.
“You want a professional event, professionals get paid.”
I stared at Jack’s photograph on the refrigerator.
He was nine in it.
His front teeth were too big for his face.
My brother had watched him grow up.
“We’re done,” I said.
“You’ll lose the ballroom.”
“Then we’ll lose it.”
He began speaking.
I ended the call.
That night, Harrison Cole, a local attorney whose daughter had been Jack’s classmate, agreed to review the documents.
He asked careful questions.
Had we signed anything?
No.
Had Dean been authorized to solicit donations?
No.
Had anyone promised that every dollar would go to a scholarship?
Some promotional emails appeared to suggest exactly that.
“We need clear records,” Harrison said. “And a direct correction to donors. Don’t make accusations you can’t support.”
I nodded.
The next morning, the hotel withdrew the date while the arrangements were disputed.
Our school venue had already been reassigned after Dean announced the move.
We had twelve days left.
Theo stood in my kitchen staring at the calendar.
“We can postpone.”
I looked at the blue sketchbook.
Then I heard Daniel from the doorway.
“No.”
May you like
He held up a set of keys.
“I think I found a room.”
