“So how about it, Bill? Do we have a deal?”
His movements almost leisurely, the Texan reached into his inside jacket pocket and drew out a fat cigar. He lit up, eyes narrowed. Nodded slowly. “Well now, we might. We just might. Depends on what you’ve got in mind.”
“Some financial support. Help locating suitable properties.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Public relations. Your PR department has one hell of a track record.”
“It’s been said.”
“GALL is the new kid on the block. We’ve been concentrating on setup—locating sites, renovation, staffing, and so on—so we haven’t been able to devote much time to developing a brand or a comprehensive marketing approach. If we don’t communicate effectively, we don’t get clients or donors. It all dies on the vine. If, on the other hand, we can consult with the best communicators in nonprofits, we’ve got a good chance to make a go of this deal.”
“And what does United get out of it?”
“Simple. We come under your umbrella, list ourselves as a United charity.”
Williamson puffed on his Cuban as a red-tail hawk circled slowly overhead. The aroma of rich tobacco wafted through the tang of new-mown grass laced and the sultry scent of gardenia. Up in the oak a mockingbird fluted and trilled. A fat bumblebee lazily circled a white daisy, and Jen wondered if she, Brent, and Bill would still be standing there when night fell.
Finally, Bill removed his cigar, picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue and said, “Tell you what. I’ll toss it out there during the next board meeting. That bunch most always listens to my … let’s call ‘em suggestions, so I don’t see us running into any problems with this one.”
Brent quietly expelled a breath. “Thanks, Bill,” he said, then grinned and clapped the Texan lightly on the back. “I’ll get the paperwork drawn up.”
“And I’ll get the ball rolling on my end. Now, there was one more thing I wanted to talk to you about, and I guess this is about as good a time as any. See, what I have in mind—”
“W!” At the exclamation, everyone turned to watch an Ichabod Crane-type lope around the side of the house in a Jerry Lewis welter of arms and legs. The black hair slicked straight back from his forehead shone almost as brightly as his patent-leather shoes. “Got a call on your cell, W.”
“Now, Clancy …. My driver,” Williamson muttered in an aside, “didn’t I tell you to hold my calls?”
Skidding to a halt, Clancy tightened his already ruthlessly knotted tie and swallowed heavily. His dark eyes darted from person to person. “Yessir, W, you did. You surely did. But it’s Donnelly. Calling about Day of Service Campaign funding? Says there’s a glitch.”
The cigar stabbed toward Clancy. “Glitch? What kind of glitch? Damn bureaucrats. Got no more sense than a hard-boiled egg.” Before his driver could offer an explanation, Williamson was striding away, stocky legs eating up the terrain with surprising speed, forcing the taller Clancy to scurry to catch up. “Maddox, you wait right there. I’m not finished with you.” The order rapped out as the duo disappeared around the corner.
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