Home for the Haunting(59)

“I can pay for it,” said Ray Buckley from the doorway.

“I hate to ask for you to pony up more money, Ray,” I said as I turned to him. His suit was wrinkled, as though he’d slept in it—but then I studied his face, which looked as though he hadn’t slept for days, besuited or otherwise. “You’ve already done so much.”

“The point is to fix up Monty’s house, right? He is obviously in need, and I can give more. In fact, that’s why I stopped by, to drop off a check for further projects.”

“That’s very generous of you,” said Jennifer, “but we really can’t take your money for Monty’s house. The way our program is structured, all the money coming in now goes toward next year’s budget—”

“Never mind; I can arrange for them on my own,” I said, conceding defeat.

“And I’ll pay for them,” said Ray. “Seriously, a lot of us would like to do more good in this world. Projects like Neighbors Together have given me an outlet for just that. I don’t have a lot of time, but I have money that I’d like put to good use.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That would be wonderful. I’ll just ask you to foot the bill for the rentals. It won’t amount to too much.”

For that matter, I thought, I could have paid for the rentals through Turner Construction and written it off as a charitable expense, but I had thought Neighbors Together might be able to arrange for a special deal. Still, since Ray seemed so determined to complete his good deed for the year, I decided to let him do so. Ultimately, he was right: If you’re wealthy, it’s easier to give money than time.

Ray handed Jennifer an envelope with the check he’d already written to the program, and she invited him to come back in the fall, look through the files of eligible projects, and decide where he’d like his money to go.

“That makes it more personal,” she said. “Otherwise, I’ll just put it in the general fund.”

“That’s fine,” said Ray. “Thank you, again, for all you do.”

“You should come in early, too, Mel, and pick out your client for next year!” said Ashley, the recruiter who’d gotten me into this whole mess months ago.

“Um, yeah, maybe,” I mumbled. It seemed to me a faux pas not to let volunteers forget their trauma before suggesting they come again next year. I had decided volunteering for a project like this one was like childbirth. You might need a few months to forget the pain and decide to do it again.

Ray and I walked out into a sunny but cool afternoon, where the breeze was carrying a slight stench from a stack of shiny black garbage bags spilling their dubious contents onto the street. Like a lot of nonprofits, Neighbors Together had its offices in a “transitional”—by which they really meant gritty—part of town, in the neighborhood dubbed “Dogpatch.” There were a lot of artists’ lofts and industrial arts groups that had found refuge here from the city’s astronomical rents, and following them came cafés and restaurants. So it was a neighborhood in transition, but it was nevertheless notable for its urban grime.

“Could I buy you a cup of coffee, Ray?” As thank-yous went it was a meager offer, but it was a little too early in the day for a stiff drink, which is what he looked like he needed. He was gazing off down the street, a vague look on his face that reminded me of Hugh.

After what felt like a token protest, Ray agreed. I let Dog out of the car, put him on a leash, and we all walked to one of my favorite nearby restaurants, called It’s For You. I tied Dog to the lamppost, where he had his choice of sun or shade and where I could keep an eye on him from the window.

“I’m telling you, I’m not a big one for breakfast foods of any type,” I said, “but they’ve got New Orleans–style beignets and strong, chicory-laced coffee here. A person could go far on food like that.”

Ray smiled halfheartedly, taking his seat at a table next to the window overlooking Twenty-third Street.

We both ordered coffee, and I asked for an order of beignets over Ray’s protests that his waistline would suffer.

“Seriously,” I said. “These things are made fresh and then doused in powdered sugar. You really shouldn’t live in San Francisco without having these once a year or so.”

“I just can’t stop thinking about . . . everything,” Ray said, bringing an abrupt halt to my chatter about sugar-laden fried foods. He shook his head as he added cream and sugar to his coffee, stirring with one hand and with the other rubbing his knee absentmindedly.

“I’m so sorry about Linda,” I began. “And I feel terrible that you had to learn about it like you did.”