“There’s a special charm to it,” Lyssa agreed. “I wonder if altering it might extinguish some of its magic?”
“You’ve said exactly what I’ve been feeling but couldn’t put a name to,” Dane said. “This place is magic.”
Cal nodded. “Lyssa knows magic when she sees it.”
And she did. Last night had been magic. And maybe she was still under its spell.
Then Dane waved his hand. “On that note, let’s skip the small talk. Talk to me about the foundation.”
Lyssa got out her laptop, putting it on the table next to the coffee service. “We’ve put together a presentation—”
“Please,” he said, “no presentation.” He looked at her, then Cal. “Just give it to me from the heart.”
Cal didn’t miss a beat. “Gideon Jones is the most honorable man I know. Instead of pocketing the money he received for the Miguel Fernando Correa painting, he’s putting it to work for foster care children, like his fiancée once was, and for veterans like him. He’s seen PTSD firsthand. He lost comrades and witnessed the aftermath of what their families endure. He’s seen the struggles of those who were injured, their lives radically changed. While Veterans Affairs does what it can, this foundation can do so much more.”
Dane raised one dark eyebrow. “He got sixty million for that painting, and it’s not enough?”
Lyssa couldn’t keep from jumping in. “Honestly, no. Not for what we want to do. We envision rehab facilities, social groups for veterans’ kids, aid for widowed families. We can’t expect people to come to us. We have to bring these services to them in cities throughout the U.S. Can you imagine what one facility costs?” She rattled off a number, and Dane’s eyes widened. “If we want to put one in every major city, sixty million is like a dandelion in the wind.” She blew on her fingers as if she were blowing away dandelion fluff.
“I see your point, Lyssa. Tell me more.”
“As you know from our brochure, Gideon Jones was a veteran himself. He lost a whole squad in Afghanistan. He joined the army to take care of his little sister, Ari, and his mother. But it was hell over there, and when he returned stateside, he couldn’t find his sister. He didn’t know she’d gone into the foster care system. And he also couldn’t face himself due to suffering through his own fair share of PTSD from what he’d been through.”
She knew Gideon wouldn’t mind her revealing this. He wanted his story out there. He wanted donors to know how necessary their contributions were.
“It took Ari ten years to find him. She tried through the army, sent letters everywhere, did searches. In the end, my brother Matt helped her, and that’s when they finally found Gideon. He was a man who couldn’t let go of his guilt. That’s what PTSD can do to you, leaving you with guilt for the things you didn’t do, the comrades you couldn’t save.”
Her emotions were rising, but it was impossible not to let the story move her.
“A friend of his over in the war zone gave Gideon the painting, and a week later, she was killed right in front of him. The foundation is dedicated to her—Karmen Sanchez.”
Gideon hadn’t told her the story, but she knew it from Rosie, who had fallen in love with Gideon with all her heart, and his sister, Ari, who had loved him all her life.
“It was a long journey back for him. But he found his family, Ari and the Mavericks, my brothers. All of this is why Gideon wants to help soldiers who returned with terrible scars, both inside and out, and help the families of men and women who will never return. That’s what Gideon’s Lean on Us Foundation is all about—helping people who gave their all for their country, as well as children in foster care. Both his sister and his fiancée were in that system. And Gideon knows how much those kids need scholarships, job training, education. But we can only continue the work with generous donations from people like you.”
For several moments, Dane was silent. And she worried that maybe she’d been too emotional, that she’d veered too far from cold, hard facts.
Finally, he spoke. “My grandfather came back from the Second World War a changed man.” His voice was soft, infused with reverence. “I never knew the man he used to be before he went away. But my grandmother claimed he could make her laugh so hard she’d nearly wet herself. After the First World War, they called it shell shock. After the Second World War, he was never the same. He jumped at loud noises. He woke in the middle of the night screaming from terrible nightmares. He never talked about his experiences over there. But he was at the liberation of Auschwitz.”
Lyssa swallowed hard, holding back tears. Just the thought of it was tragic.
“He was an old man when I was a kid, but he had me watch this movie with him, The Best Years of Our Lives, about veterans returning from World War Two. A young guy who lost his arms. An older man, a banker, who couldn’t find his place in the world again. A pilot who’d flown fighters and screamed out in nightmares. I once asked my grandfather if it was like that for him. He said no.” Dane paused. “It was so much worse.”
The three of them sat in silence a long moment, the pain and the anguish of both Dane’s grandfather’s story and Gideon’s story swirling around them.
“Maybe if my grandfather had an organization like yours to turn to,” Dane said in a low voice, “he could have healed. I’d like to hope so.” His words tugged at her heartstrings as he added, “I wanted to hear what both of you had to say. I wanted to make sure your foundation is legit.” He rose. “I have something to show you.”
They followed him out of the parlor, up the grand staircase, taking the left fork past the painted noblewoman. The rugs were lush, the hardwood dark, the walls highlighted with carved moldings. And yes, there was definitely magic here.
He opened the door to a study at the front of the house. The paneling was an ancient wood polished to a shine, with a desk against the wall, and while the rolltop was an antique, the laptop was state-of-the-art, including two monitors.
Above the desk hung a twelve-by-twelve painting of two angels, one light, one dark, their fingertips touching as if they were bringing the world together with peace and prosperity for all.
“It’s Gideon’s painting,” Lyssa said with reverence—and surprise.
“Yes,” he said, turning to both of them with a wide smile. “I’m the anonymous buyer.”
* * *
The artist was Miguel Fernando Correa, who’d created the magnificent piece in the mid-1770s. The tale was that he’d also painted a portrait of Karmen Sanchez’s great-great-great-something-grandparents, and Karmen’s mother, Ernestina Sanchez, had provided authentication papers for the painting Dane had purchased.
Amazingly, Mrs. Sanchez had never tried to claim the painting, saying that Karmen had given it to the person who was supposed to have it. And Gideon had used it only for good.
“I suppose you could say I brought you here under false pretenses,” Dane said. “But I have a proposition for you both. And for Gideon Jones.” He pulled out the desk chair, pointing to the two leather chairs in the room. “Please, sit and let me explain. When I heard how Gideon Jones planned to use the money, I immediately wanted to be a part of it. After I’ve enjoyed the painting for a time—” He waved a hand at the wall. “—I intend to have it displayed, making the rounds of museums or maybe art galleries. Everyone should enjoy it. I find it amazing that Gideon Jones would use the money to start a foundation. But I still wanted to meet you because I needed to be certain that the foundation wasn’t created simply for financial gain. You know the kind of thing I’m talking about, don’t you? Paying huge salaries, making purchases in the foundation’s name, like private planes and retreat homes.”