TheBillionaire's Touch(2)

 

As she read the hastily written note to check for errors, she hesitated on how to sign the letter. Writing from her email at the Center, she could be anonymous, a worried citizen. Everyone in the town of Amesport had access to email here in the tiny computer room of the Center, and Randi had her own free email address she’d created only for business here. She rarely utilized it except for sending progress reports to the parents of the students she helped tutor after hours as a volunteer. Unfortunately, she was fairly certain most of the parents didn’t even bother to read her correspondence.

 

She ended up simply signing the email: A Concerned Resident of Amesport.

 

Hitting the “Send” button with a heavy sigh, she watched as the letter was sent off into cyberspace, wondering exactly who would read it. Probably an assistant who would delete it without another thought. The Sinclair Fund was an enormous charity. They were in the business of raising funds for large nonprofit organizations, not giving them out to a small town in crisis.

 

Randi signed herself out of her email for the Center and shut down the computer. She’d promised Emily she’d watch over the activities here while her friend was approaching Grady Sinclair to try and raise the funds they needed to save Christmas for Amesport and the surrounding villages. Unfortunately, Christmas wouldn’t be very merry if they couldn’t get the funds back for presents for needy children and the annual Christmas party. For some of the kids, whatever they got from the Center would be their only gift, and the food provided at the Christmas party their main Christmas dinner.

 

Randi pushed the dreary thought from her mind as she looked at all of the decorations around the old building. Emily had brought life into the aging structure, even though the tired Center desperately needed maintenance. Colorful wreaths and Christmas decorations were everywhere, hung with love for the season by its employees and volunteers.

 

Peeking into the area where the senior citizens held their bingo sessions, Randi’s stomach rumbled at the enticing smells coming from the room. She’d come to the Center, straight from her teaching job at the local school, to tutor a few students who were struggling with their studies, and she was starving.

 

Sneaking quietly into the room to snatch a few chicken wings and some cake without being detected by some of the sharp old ladies was never easy, but she was up for the challenge. Snatching food had become almost an art for her in her early teenage years.

 

After a nervous week of checking for an answer with no return message, Randi completely forgot about the email she had sent in desperation . . . until she finally got a reply . . .

 

 

 

Two Months Later . . .

 

 

 

Evan Sinclair might have laughed at the ridiculous email he’d just finished reading—if he was actually the type of man who found humor in anything . . . which he didn’t. Ever!

 

He stared at the email, frowning as he read it for the second time. What kind of person would have the gall to ask a charity raising big money for cancer research, abused women, and the several other urgent causes that the Sinclair Fund actually helped, for money? And it wasn’t even for a good cause, in his opinion. It was for a small coastal town that needed Christmas funds. Did the author of the missive really think he was some sort of friendly elf to grant her Christmas wish?

 

Hardly!

 

Evan didn’t believe in Christmas. If there was a modern-day version of Scrooge, it would be him, except he wouldn’t ever have the apparent epiphany that old Ebenezer experienced. In fact, the holiday did irritate him and always would. It meant a disruption of business, and scheduling meetings around the frivolous, commercialized season. It hadn’t been a pleasant holiday when he was a child, and he abhorred it almost as much as an adult.

 

Normally, none of his brothers or cousins looked at the mailbox for the Fund, and they certainly didn’t answer letters personally; they had employees for that. But the email had caught his eye when his assistant had written to him about a complaint a big donor had mentioned over the quality of assistance he was getting via email from the website. Evan had logged in to the mailbox from home to evaluate how some of the inquiries were being handled. They couldn’t afford to lose important donors, and especially not people who donated millions.

 

He could hardly miss the subject line “Help Us Save Our Town” as he scrolled through old emails.

 

Intrigued, he’d opened the missive.

 

Now, he was scowling at the correspondence in front of him. The email’s author was anonymous, the email address generic, simply signing the short explanation and plea for help with “A Concerned Resident of Amesport.”