I spend Sunday almost exclusively horizontal, ignoring Vera’s phone calls and watching old Westerns. Early that evening, she finds me in rare vertical form, standing like a zombie in my bedroom with crumpled bedsheets held to my nose.

Not one of my finer moments.

After I spill the proverbial beans—all twenty years’ worth—she orders Chinese delivery and we watch Braveheart. No lectures, tears, or man-hating commences. She knows me too well for that. I need time to process what happened last night before attempting to articulate feelings.

Monday morning, I rejoin the human race.

At nine thirty, I drive to UCLA to give a lecture on nonprofit work to a group of bored seminar students. It’s not something I love doing, but the potential reward keeps me coming back every semester. Although slim, there’s always a chance someone in the audience will consider giving money or time to a worthy cause.

Jonathon Feldman, the professor whose class I’m here to hijack, is waiting for me outside the lecture hall. Already, there’s a heavy buzz of noise from within. He grins as I approach, blond head tilting to the side.

“Going for the naughty teacher look, I see.”

I laugh and give him a hug. We were undergrads together, and even dated for a few weeks before realizing we were better off as friends.

Jonathon kisses my cheek as we separate. “Candace, thank you.”

“Anything for you.”

He taps the contemporary, black-framed glasses on my nose. “Is this outfit for me?”

I smack his hand away. “It’s for your students.”

“Well, it’ll certainly keep the male population riveted.”

I wink. “And whatever keeps the males riveted will interest the females.”

He chuckles and takes my arm, steering me into the hall. The chaos of disjointed conversations shifts, aligning on speculation. They know who I am, of course. I attend a lot of events, which translates to my picture showing up in the tabloids. Usually back pages—I’m not high drama enough.

Jonathon escorts me onto the stage and to the podium.

“All right, class,” he says, his firm voice quieting the auditorium in seconds. “Many of you know her last name—or her father’s, I should say, as Hughes Hall is named for him.” Polite laughter sounds, as well as a smattering of derisive snorts. “What you might not know is that the woman beside me is one of the foremost fundraising giants in Los Angeles. What does this mean? I’ll let her tell you. Please give a warm welcome to Ms. Candace Hughes.”

Butterflies cartwheel in my stomach, then fade as I step up to the microphone. “Hi there. Does anyone know what the word philanthropist means?”

A few hands go up. Someone shouts, “You’re rich!”

Everyone laughs, including me.

“Actually, you don’t have to have money to be a philanthropist. Quite literally, the word means lover of men.”

And… they’re mine.

* * *

After the lecture, Jonathon takes me to an early lunch. We reminisce about college years. I tease him for never having left, and he teases me for dating like I never did.

Mid-meal, my phone rings. I almost ignore it, but Jonathon waves nonchalantly.

“Lifestyles of the rich and famous,” he says in a godawful accent.

I smirk and dig my phone out of my purse. The number on the screen belongs to Charity House, an organization with several women’s recovery centers in Los Angeles. They also run a handful of other projects, all catered toward victims of domestic violence, addiction, and the affected families and children.

“This is Candace.”

“We have a problem,” says Bethany Wright, the head of the gala committee.

My throat squeezes. “Tell me.”

“The revised budget came back this morning. It’s ridiculous. The board at Franklin Theatre is going to hell. I’m so freaking pissed right now I can’t see straight. I broke my favorite pencil, Candace.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, as I think furiously. “What’s the bottom line?”

“Seventy-five thousand.”

“Son of a bitch,” I hiss. “That’s fifteen thousand over their initial quote.”

“I know.”

“Where is this coming from?”

“I think they know we’re desperate since our venue fell through. We have to book and send out address corrections by the end of the week. This is a fucking nightmare.”

My hand slams onto the table, rattling silverware. I want to do it again, but see Jonathon’s shocked face. Grimacing apologetically, I tell Bethany, “I think you hit the nail on the head. They’re going to squeeze us because they can. Vultures.”

I don’t say it aloud, but we both know they’re skyrocketing the venue costs because of me. Because of my family’s money. And they know that if all else fails, I’ll cough up the cash.

This gala has been in the works for two years, and has the potential to secure necessary capital for Charity House to not only update several older shelters, but hire medical professionals, therapists, onsite security staff, and open two new locations.

Bethany and the other committee members have poured their hearts and souls into it. As have I, slaving to secure the heavy hitting guest list of Los Angeles elite. I must have made a thousand badgering phone calls to personal assistants, secretaries, managers… to corporations, production companies, firms, and banks. The freaking governor is coming.

“What are we going to do?” whispers Bethany.

“Give me the afternoon. I’ll make some calls. And…” I take a deep breath. “Don’t worry. Nothing is going to derail this gala.”

She heaves a grateful sigh. “Thanks, Candace. I feel terrible. You’ve already given us so much.”

“I’d do it a thousand times over. I’ll call when I have news.” I hang up and look across the table. “Any chance you have fifteen thousand dollars in your back pocket?”

Jonathon snorts, knowing I’m not serious. “Why don’t you just cover it yourself?”

The question is a valid one, but the answer is complicated and almost impossible to articulate. It’s more than the practical difficulty of writing a check of that size. There are personal reasons, too.

I donate an ungodly amount of money each year—so much that my father annually lectures me about it. But the deepest reason for my hesitance is that philanthropy isn’t just about giving money away. It’s about encouraging and inspiring others to do the same.

“If it comes to that, I will,” I tell Jonathon. I glance at my half-eaten sandwich. “Mind if I take this to go?”

“Not at all,” he says gently.

I hail the server.