[This will conclude the backstory of Grace. Next, we return to Vermont. Here’s another considered, but rejected cover. This one reminded me too much of “The King of Vermont.” SB SM]
At the Oasis …
Lisa Grace’s mind is spinning on her drive home. Five million dollars? Dinner parties and lunchboxes? Good God.
“Western sandwich on rye.”
“Fries or coleslaw?”
“Coleslaw … actually, make it both fries and coleslaw.”
“And for you?”
“BLT on whole wheat, very light on the mayonnaise.”
“Fries or coleslaw?”
“Coleslaw. I’ll just steal her fries.”
“I hate to burst your bubble, Lisa, but these corporate sales seminars are all alike,” Lorette says, waving her fork. “Believe me, I’ve been to a zillion of them for real estate. They all teach the same psychological tricks: use the mark’s name in every sentence, ask whether they prefer to sign the contract with your gold pen or theirs. Every agent in our office knows them by heart. Hey … order your own side of fries next time.” Lorette threatens the fry pilferer with her raised fork.
“Just one more,” Lisa Grace says, snatching another golden fry and dipping it into the pool of Heinz ketchup on her friend’s plate.
“Did Hank ever give you any real skinny on his wife or his family situation?” Lorette asks, her tone turning investigative.
“Not a single word.”
“Something is definitely weird there.”
“I have to deliver a full campaign plan on Monday morning.”
“What kind of plan?”
“A line-item strategy on exactly how I am going to raise $5 million.”
“Well, hey, I love you, girl, but don’t count on me for anything more than the absolute minimum token gesture. Just enough to get my name typed onto the guest list for the donor appreciation cocktail party.”
“I need distinct, tangible fundraising products,” Lisa Grace murmurs, barely listening as her mind whirls.
Lorette isn’t listening either. “How much do you think that minimum donation is? Will twenty-five bucks be enough, or can I get away with a ten-dollar bill?”
“Let me ask you a serious question, Lorette. I heard about a preschool over in Springfield. They tore up the old concrete sidewalk in front of the main building, then announced it would be completely rebuilt using personally inscribed bricks. For a hundred dollars, any community donor could get their family name permanently inscribed on a single brick. Would you, personally, pay a hundred bucks for a brick?”
Lorette pauses, chewing. “Probably not out of my own pocket, but I know for a fact I could get my real estate agency to buy one for the tax write-off. Maybe even a few.”
“Hm-m-m,” Lisa Grace says, eyes tracking.
“I can practically see wheels turning in that head of yours,” Lorette notes.
“I think I’m starting to get it,” Lisa Grace says.
“Get what?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just talking to myself.”
“And Hank still hasn’t spilled anything about the wife?”
Ideas begin to spark in Grace’s mind over the weekend. She sketches out the mathematical breakdown on a legal pad. Twice she tries to engage Geoffrey as a sounding board, but he is far too wrapped up in his own institutional thoughts to engage. Mostly, when he does look at her notepad, he simply attacks her raw data. Where’d that number come from?
When she tells him she wants to sell 2,000 personalized bricks for $100 each, he wants to know how she knows that 2,000 is the structurally correct number of bricks. Has she actually measured the dimensions of a standard brick to know how many can fit into a square foot of the plaza? Has she consulted a campus mason about the thickness of the mortar lines? What is the exact wholesale cost of an engraved brick versus a standard red brick?
On Monday morning, she arrives in Henry’s office and proudly hands him a single, neat sheet of paper:
- 600 bronze auditorium seat back markers @ $1,000 = $600k
- 3,000 family name plaza bricks @ $500 = $1,500k
- 16 exterior courtyard benches @ $25,000 = $400k
- 3 grand lobby donor plaques (space for 50 names each) @ $10,000 = $1,500k
- 1 title naming right to the main box office = $100k
- Official Supporter/Donor high-end merchandise = $900k
Henry takes a full minute to read the paper in absolute silence. As he studies the numbers, Grace imagines a wild spectrum of responses, from Henry vaulting directly over his desk to take her in his arms to tearing the sheet into tiny pieces and throwing them in her face.
What she actually gets is a slow lifting of his eyes, a brilliant smile, and a single word: “Bingo!”
The Law of 27 Impressions
Henry prefaces the rest of that morning’s strategy session with a clear summary. “Here are three takeaways from today’s lesson: One, you must always have a plan, but the plan is always inherently wrong. Two, not all prospects are created equal. And three, your prospect will not be psychologically ready to make a purchase decision until they have been exposed to your product exactly twenty-seven times. Now, over the next hour or so, you are going to receive the advanced master’s degree, the accelerated, Reader’s Digest Condensed, CliffNotes version of Henry Trottier’s Sales Training. Do not take notes. Just listen.”
Grace nods, leaning back and absorbing it. It all makes perfect sense. Know your product inside and out. Don’t waste valuable time pitching a ten-thousand-dollar grand lobby plaque to someone who is clearly a candidate for a five-hundred-dollar family brick. And above all, never ask for a final commitment before the prospect has reached their twenty-seven impressions.
She interrupts him only once. “What is so magical about the twenty-seven impressions?”
“Just trust me on that one,” he says with a wink.
The session concludes quickly. Once again, her mind is teeming with logistics and ideas. She briefly considers extending an elegant invitation for Henry and his wife to come over to the President’s House for dinner, but she decides against it.
“Are we meeting again next week?” she asks as she gathers her things.
“You tell me,” Henry says gently. “I’ve officially taught you everything I know, and you are an exceptionally smart lady. Why don’t we leave it at this: the door is always open. Feel free to call me the minute you need a sounding board.”
That leaves Grace feeling slightly uncertain, but she has no real alternative.
Two weeks later, she places the call. She invites Henry to meet her at the old campus theater, a historic structure that will essentially be stripped to its bones to make way for the new Mary Holmgren Performing Arts Center. She tells him she wants to give him a private tour of the facility as if he were a high-profile candidate for a significant capital contribution.
“It’s a lunch invitation,” she says over the phone. “I’ll bring the sandwiches.”
The New England weather cooperates perfectly. It is a warm, brilliant day that delivers the absolute best that May can offer in the valley. They meet on the concrete steps outside the theater. He arrives in his standard business-casual uniform: khakis and a short-sleeve button-down shirt. She, however, is in full, calculated role-playing mode, wearing a stunning black cotton cocktail dress and full makeup.
“Mrs. Manion,” he says, pausing on the steps to take her in fully. “You look absolutely stunning.”
She knows she does.
“So glad you could make it, Mr. Trottier …”
“Please, call me Henry.”
“Henry … I’ll be asking you to use your imagination quite a bit this evening, even though it’s just past noon. In a moment, I will show you the architect’s scale model for the Mary Holmgren Performing Arts Center. But where you are standing right now is, or will be, the Grand Donor Plaza, where patrons will linger before and after performances. We will dine on the dedicated benches you see over there, and the plaza itself will be beautifully paved with 3,000 personalized bricks showcasing the names of community members and local businesses that have so generously supported this historic effort.”
She gestures toward the entrance. “If you will please follow me past the Henry Trottier Box Office into the grand lobby, the architect’s model will give you a complete overview of the project’s scope. After your private tour and our repast, I will tell you about a few exclusive opportunities for individuals like yourself to become a permanent part of this exciting project.”
She leads him gracefully through the dusty lobby, past the box office alcove, the model display, and the bare wall designated for the future “Wall of Fame” where major donors will be recognized on permanent bronze plaques. They walk past the empty orchestra pit and directly onto the main stage, where she describes the state-of-the-art computerized light boards and digital sound systems that will replace the aging equipment.
Finally, she leads him gracefully through the dim, quiet bowels of the underground backstage area, a labyrinth of dressing rooms, costume storage racks, and prop rooms. She keeps up a flawless running commentary, expertly painting a vivid picture of not what is, but what will be.
As they approach the dim concrete stairway that will lead them back up to the main stage, Henry reaches out and taps her gently on the shoulder.
He says only, “Another time, another place.”
She nods silently, then breaks the spell with a smile. “I hope you like egg salad sandwiches, because that’s exactly what you’re getting for lunch.” She turns and marches up the stairs ahead of him.
“I hate them,” Henry calls out, following her up, “but I’m far too polite to say anything to the Captain.”
Outside, they sit on opposite ends of one of the rickety, peeling wooden benches that will eventually become a customized “dedication bench,” personalized with an embossed brass crest acknowledging a “generous contribution of a mere $25,000.”
“Stop!” Henry laughs. The sun is bright, the campus grass is lush and green, and the afternoon air is fragrant with the blossoming fruit trees of the Grafton campus. “I’m ready to hand you my wallet, my credit cards, the keys to my station wagon, and my firstborn child. Just sign me up for one of everything.” He smiles warmly. “Grace, you are completely ready to fly.”
That evening, she describes the success of the day to Geoffrey. He responds with total indifference, staring at the television and mentioning casually that he has traveled to Boston that afternoon.
“Did you have an appointment with that specialist?” she asks.
“Yes.” He looks surprised, turning his head. She hurries to explain that she saw the prescription bottles in his office bathroom cabinet.
“Yes.” He looks surprised, turning his head. She hurries to explain that she saw the prescription bottles in his office bathroom cabinet. “Oh, that …” He pauses, clearing his throat. “Yes, um, it’s just a referral from Gerald. I’ve got a few minor hormonal imbalances that he wanted a specialist in the city to look at. It’s all under control.” She presses gently for a bit more information, but he firmly assures her that everything is routine.
Later that night, Geoffrey is already fast asleep when Lisa Grace comes to bed. Her mind is still filled with the day’s creative triumph, and she lies awake, reliving every detail of her tour with Henry. This time, however, in the private theater of her mind, when they pass the dim, secluded costume room, she imagines opening the heavy door and pulling him inside. She imagines pulling him close and kissing him … hard. Her breathing slows in the dark bedroom, and for the first time in many months, she realizes she is fully aroused.
The Summer Passes
The summer social calendar in the Pioneer Valley quickly becomes as jam-packed and festive as Massachusetts Route 3 heading toward Cape Cod on a scorching Friday afternoon. The kids are packed off to their beloved Camp Ay-a-Po in Connecticut, where their oldest daughter, Harlow, is proudly serving as a CIT, or counselor-in-training. This leaves Lisa Grace entirely free to throw herself into a fundraising frenzy.
She begins holding weekly “Presidential Soirees,” hosted beneath a massive white canvas tent that Geoffrey has erected in the side yard of their historic campus home. At these elegant events, guests dress in fine summer linen, sipping chilled champagne and nibbling on catered canapés. Lisa Grace expertly dresses Geoffrey in a sharp blue-and-gold blazer—Grafton’s official colors—complete with a genuine straw boater hat. He protests initially, calling it ridiculous, but he receives so much flattering attention from the wealthy alumnae that he eventually suggests wearing the outfit to off-campus events as well.
The soirees always feature a brief, strategic presentation by Lisa Grace on the progress of the capital campaign, timed perfectly after the bubbly has worked its social magic. Her speeches are brief, enthusiastic, and overwhelmingly positive. There are still prime opportunities to be part of history, she warns them with a smile, but they are slipping away just as fast as the New England summer itself.
Between the weekly soirees, Lisa Grace becomes a daily fixture at the theater, where she gives endless tours of the old building. But these high-stakes tours no longer end with egg salad sandwiches on a peeling bench; they culminate onstage with a catered meal accompanied by a delightfully unobtrusive student string quartet. She becomes a regular speaker at regional Rotary clubs, historical garden tours, and local softball tournament barbecues.
The kids return home from camp in mid-August, just in time for the late-summer youth soccer league.
“Is that Hank Trottier over there?” Lorette asks, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun. She and Lisa Grace are both dressed in standard soccer-mom regulation: graphic T-shirts, running shorts, and hooded sweatshirts.
“I call him Henry, but yes, it is. Let’s go say hi,” Lisa Grace says. He is standing on the opposite side of the field by the turf line. She has been in regular phone contact with him to report her soaring numbers, but she hasn’t seen him in person since May.
“Hey, you!” she calls out as they approach. They exchange a brief, warm hug. “Henry, I want you to meet my friend Lorette. She’s my gym buddy, although we’re currently on a summer hiatus.”
“Hi,” he says, offering his hand with a pleasant smile. “Hank. Nice to meet you.”
“Ah, so you’re the one who turns my workout partner into a crazed used-car salesman,” Lorette jokes, shaking his hand.
Henry laughs warmly. “From what I hear from Pierce, she’s officially the hottest sales producer on the corporate lot!”
The easy banter continues for the next half-hour. Each parent points out their respective proto-teenagers running across the grass. Eventually, a loud whistle blast echoes across the complex, and the children trot over to the sidelines, arriving like a pack of bowling balls.
“Where’s my water?” “Do you have a towel?” “Mom, did you see my goal?”
“Well, see you later. Great to meet you!”
In October, the leaves on the steep hills surrounding Grafton College brighten into brilliant crimson and gold, then fall to the earth. The women meet on the plaza of the Cross Campus to finally resume their morning workout routine. Afterward, they walk briskly to the Oasis Diner, where they each decide to order the classic turkey club sandwich … and a large side order of French Fries to share.
“We have a massive amount of catching up to do,” Lisa Grace says, unfolding her napkin.
The conversation picks up exactly where the last summer session left off. Brady, soon to turn 13, is actually growing a faint line of facial hair on his upper lip. Lorette’s ex-husband is giving him shooting lessons and plans to take him to deer camp in Vermont this November. The Hunk from Holyoke has mercifully disappeared into the ether, but there is an intriguing new man who has just listed his colonial home with her agency because he is relocating to Florida to work on a mammoth retirement development called The Villages.
“He’s got a big gut, but he’s really nice, has a great business, and a fantastic sense of humor,” says Lorette.
For Lisa Grace, the updates are all about Harlow and Loren, who currently alternate between fighting like alley cats in the hallways and dissolving into unstoppable giggling fits that last for hours. Geoffrey’s mood is still up and down, but mostly down. He is still being entirely evasive about the Boston specialist and the specifics of his hormonal imbalance, but Lisa Grace has managed to look up the medications; at least one of them is a powerful mood stabilizer.
And then … Lisa Grace looks around the diner conspiratorially and lowers her voice to a whisper. “This is strictly off the record, Lorette, but I got a private call from Pierce Holmgren earlier this week. We have officially passed our $75 million goal for the capital campaign. There’s going to be a massive gala announcement and celebration at the theater in early November. Remember, not a single word to anyone.”
“I think it was my twenty-five-dollar check that officially put this entire campaign over the top,” Lorette jokes, adjusting her evening gown. She is dressed elegantly for the gala, wearing the new man in her life, Ray, on her arm. He is ten years her senior and possesses a formidable gut, but he is outgoing, wealthy, and gregarious. On balance, Lisa Grace thinks, watching them, Lorette could do worse.
“Shhh,” Lisa Grace says, smiling as she adjusts her earrings. “Don’t ruin Pierce’s big dramatic announcement.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll drop my jaw and gasp in absolute amazement right on cue along with the other five hundred people in the auditorium. Geoffrey certainly dressed for the occasion.”
He is standing near the stage, wearing his now-trademark bright blue-and-gold striped presidential blazer.
“I tried my absolute best to talk him out of it,” Lisa Grace whispers, “but he insisted.”
The grand theater house lights blink twice.
“It’s showtime,” Lorette whispers.
Onstage, the college Board of Trustees are seated in an elegant semicircle, fronted by a mahogany podium where Pierce Holmgren stands. He gets straight to the point. They set an incredibly ambitious financial goal, and he is profoundly proud to announce that they have not only met it but surpassed it. On cue, a massive velvet banner unfurls from the rafters, displaying the final dollar amount. Jaws drop, people gasp, and a thunderous wave of applause erupts into a standing ovation. Lorette contributes a few high-spirited yelps.
“The true purpose of tonight is to say a resounding, heartfelt thank you to the many folks who made this miracle happen,” Pierce booms into the microphone. He proceeds with the customary litany of obligatory institutional acknowledgments. In general, he is impressively efficient, but he pauses to dwell extensively on Lisa Grace. He calls her “our most outstanding, tireless performer,” closing his introduction with: “This is not merely the little woman behind a successful man; this is the absolute powerhouse superwoman who carried this campaign on her shoulders.”
He asks her to stand. As she rises in her black dress and waves to the cheering crowd, she says through her fixed smile to Lorette, “This … is … completely embarrassing.”
Let the party begin.
Lisa Grace receives a nonstop stream of ecstatic compliments and “atta-girls” during the champagne reception that follows in the lobby. Her eyes scan the crowd, searching for Henry, but she can’t find his familiar beard anywhere. As the lavish festivities finally show signs of winding down, she seeks out Pierce, who is standing near the exit in a perpetual state of handshaking and backslapping.
“Pierce, where is Henry? Where’s Hank? He worked so hard on the sales plan; he really should be sharing the victory.”
Pierce’s smile falters slightly. He takes a quick, cautious look around the lobby, says, “Excuse us for just a moment,” to the circle of wealthy donors he is holding court with, and gently guides Lisa Grace by the elbow to a quiet, shadowed alcove near the exit doors.
When he finally turns back to face her, his expression is somber, the booming salesman persona completely gone.
“Hank is on an indefinite leave of absence, Grace,” Pierce says quietly, lowering his voice. He pauses, clearing his throat. “His wife passed away last week.”
He looks down at the carpet briefly, then back into her eyes. “She took her own life. She had been at a specialized rehab facility out of state for months. We’re trying to keep the details quiet in the community because … well, you know, the two kids. No one saw it coming.”
They are suddenly interrupted by a boisterous well-wisher. Pierce mutters one final, heavy “Terrible,” pats her arm, and returns to his posse.
Grace stands paralyzed and completely alone by the emergency exit door.
