Nick avoided bars and alcohol, but today seemed like a good day to break that rule. Once in a great while, he would share a glass of wine with his wife, Angela. And there was a time when Nick sipped a 25-year-old scotch with one of the hospital’s biggest donors. He didn’t enjoy it as much as the cigar he smoked with the donor. Nick’s only vice was his America Spirit habit, acquired after his first internship. Nick thought he was good at handling his stress until his supervisor clarified no good medical student had zero pressure. That, in and of itself, put Nick into a panic, driving him straight to smoke. The actual addictiveness was the behavior of smoking and not the cancer-causing agents he was putting into his body.

Angela hated his smoking. She put up with it because she had nothing to worry about financially. Nick handled it all, leaving her time to meet with friends for lunch daily, go shopping, work out, do yoga, and cook meals for her husband. Angela didn’t have to work at all, not that she was afraid to work. Nick’s wife spent her free time fundraising for charities like Helping Hands Network. One of her socialite friends shared with her the good that the organization was doing. After one volunteering event, she thought organizing their systems would be a great way to help structure their nonprofit. And as wealthy as Nick and Angela were, the idea of talking to people about how she could make it easier for people to receive their services wasn’t something she would do. Not on her own, at least.

               “Angela, you are something else, you know that? No one else keeps all these different donations,” Trish said, “organized the way you do. You’re a natural!” Angela stood amid a pile of donated items from some of the wealthiest families in the Bay Area. “How do you do it?”

               Angela shrugged. “I don’t know. Mother was a neat freak, so maybe that rubbed off on me a little?”

               Tish hugged her sideways. “I just LOVE you! You are the best thing to happen to Helping Hands. Oh, you have got to meet Emily Von Otto. She’ll adore you.”

               Angela tried to smile. She didn’t like meeting new people. It was hard enough when new students came to yoga. Or when she saw different people at the gym. Angela knew she came off as snooty or snobby, but she didn’t care. So long as she didn’t have to interact with new people, she was okay with whatever anyone thought. But to meet the founder of Helping Hands? She couldn’t do that. “I don’t know, Tish. I’m really not all that good with new . . .”

               “Oh, it’ll be great, Angela! Come on,” Tish said, grabbing her friend’s hand and dragging her away from the pile of donations.

               Angela tried to pull away from Tish. Tish’s grip was tight, circulation draining from Angela’s hand. “You are hurting me,” she protested.

               “Oh! Sorry about that,” Tish let go a little. Pulling her through the massive warehouse on the other side of San Francisco, both women made their way up to the office overlooking the gigantic space. The warehouse was in Danville, California, roughly an hour from Angela’s home on the other side of the Bay Bridge. Both Tish and Angela wore leggings and baggy t-shirts. Tish and Angela drove almost identical SUVs. Tish drove a LandRover, whereas Angela drove a Lexus. Two spare outfits hung from inside their white cars and a few different pairs of shoes to match.

               The office itself overlooked the interior of the building, giving it the best vantage point to see every part of any production. It was built specifically for the nonprofit, most of the revenue coming from friends of Emily and her husband, one of the most prominent bankers in Danville with a net worth of more than a few million dollars. Jonathan’s wealth came from smart investments and conversations with men wealthier than himself. Those conversations lasted five to ten minutes. But Jonathan was blessed, finding the best way to invest in those tips, with blind luck. Jonathan once tried to tell Emily how she should run the Helping Hands Network. He slept in the downstairs guest room for almost two weeks before she let it go. Not that she ever held a grudge, but too many men tried to ‘explain’ things to her, typically wealthy men who had nothing to lose except Jonathan. If he wasn’t careful, he’d lose her.

               Tish knocked on the glass door. Emily, talking on the phone, waved her and Angela inside. She was sitting behind a cute, solid glass desk. Angela saw her shoes, immediately jealous and embarrassed by her beat-up Reebok’s. Emily looked like a CEO, makeup perfected, slim figure, and a dress that accented every natural curve. Her red dress was muted through the glass, but it was spotless, not a trace of lint anywhere! Angela wanted to know how she did it. No lint! No dust. It must be a design feature of the material.

               “No,” Emily said to the phone, “that doesn’t work. Look. I’m tired of going round and round about this, Danny. We’ve got the space. We’ve got the donations. There is a huge need. And we’ve got a waiting list. What else do we need to get the ball rolling?” She motioned for the two women to sit in the two plush leather chairs in front of her desk. “Danny. No. I said no shortcuts. No. I don’t care how much it costs. Just make it happen. That’s what you are supposed to do, right?” She winked at Tish and smiled. “That’s what I thought. Okay then. Call me when you have the answers. Thanks.” Emily hung up the phone, leaning back in her chair without losing an inch of her perfect posture. Angela didn’t think that was possible.

               “I assure you, it’s very possible. But you must do yoga all the bloody time,” Emily addressed Angela. “Tish, this is Angela, right?”

               “Yes. Angela, this is Emily Von Otto, founder and CEO of . . .”

               “Blah. Blah. Blah. Yes, we know all that, Tish. So, Angela. I understand that you are well-organized and great at developing systems. Is that true?”

               “Well, yes. But I wasn’t looking for . . .”

               “Nonsense. No one is looking for systems to complete tasks, but they need them. We need them.” Emily shook her head. “I need them. I need someone to concentrate on building the systems for sorting, separating, and structuring the inflow and outflow of every donated item. I also need someone to build a tracking system accurate for our needs.” Emily stood up walking to the front of the desk. “And that person is not going to be some man. Oh God, no! I need a woman to do this. A powerful woman who can make it a reality. Not some wishy-washy bimbo who has no sense. You seem like the right person for the job. What do you say? Will you do it?”

               Angela crossed her legs, feeling the heat rising up to her cheeks. “Um, do what, exactly?”

               Emily patted her knees. “Organize this!” She stood up, waving her hands around the room. “Build and structure the systems to make this a successful nonprofit. You would be in charge of it all. Vice President of Operations. What do you think?”

               Angela’s face turned a deeper shade of red. “I don’t know.” She hugged herself, hoping to quiet her beating heart. Angela was sure Emily could hear it beating through her chest. “I’m not looking for a job.”

               “It’s not a ‘job’ sweetheart. It’s an opportunity. As much as you enjoy structure and systems? You wouldn’t be working. You’d love to do this! And,” Emily sat back the chair behind her desk, “you would be well compensated for building all of it. Compensated long after the systems were up and running.”

               Tish was sitting on the edge of her seat, waiting to hear the dollar figure of Angela’s compensation. She punched her friend in the shoulder, wanting her to respond to Emily.

               “Um, maybe. I have to talk to Nick about it first.”

               “Talk to your husband? Seriously, girl. You don’t need his approval.”

               “No, it’s not that.”

               “Then what is it, exactly?” Emily asked.

               “Nick’s Dad. He’s not what you would call sane.”

               “Neither are any of us!” Tish giggled.

               Emily shot Tish with a finger gun, smiling. “That’s quite true. So, what? You’re afraid the drunk living on the streets of San Francisco will ruin your good name and reputation, is that it?”

               “No. It’s not. Wait. How did you know he’s living on the streets in San Francisco?”

               “Did you think you volunteered here all by your own doing? Tish brought you here, and I need you, Angela. You are the right person for this. And you have to say yes.”

               “What about compensation?” Tish asked.

Angela hadn’t known Tish for long, but she suspected getting into other people’s business was her thing.

“Tish? This is where you,” Emily said, pointing at the door.

Tish, without saying another word, stood up. Smiling at the two women, she walked out of the office.

“Compensation, Angela. Six figures plus bonuses and perks. And,” she grimaced, “for your banker husband and his team of attorneys,” she slid a contract across the desk. “The details are solid, set in stone, and ironclad. I’d bet he doesn’t have a compensation package like this, but talk it over.” Emily gagged a little. “Sorry. The idea of discussing something that concerns me and my career with Jonathan? Makes me gag. But I get it. Most women are like you. So, let me know Friday if this works for you. If you agree, we can start you next week, unless you’d like to start sooner.”

. . . To be continued.