No Weddings (No Weddings #1)(39)
With this level of wealth came power and responsibility. The money, if well managed, grew exponentially. And because we didn’t believe in squandering, we needed the ideal conduit to have that money flow where it was needed the most—which meant mingling with the social elite, networking on golf courses, and an occasional tennis match.
Them. Not me. I did not play tennis.
But I got the idea. I’d swing a club every now and then for a good cause. And I’d put on a tux when the situation warranted. Not that I ever enjoyed it, but it’s what we Michaelsons did for the greater good.
My mother addressed the crowd. “Hello, everyone. Thank you all for coming tonight with generous hearts and open pocketbooks. This cause has become one near and dear to us and affects adults and children worldwide. I’m talking about human trafficking. Don’t think it’s not happening in your neighborhood, because it is.”
Murmurs and gasps rippled through the crowd at Mom’s strategic pause—the woman delivered a speech with flair.
“Remember when one of our own—Felicity Williams—ran away from home as a teenager? Luckily, the police found her in time, but she’d been abducted within twelve hours of wandering the streets by some very bad men. A ring of predators are waiting for the right opportunity to ‘help’ innocent children who are temporarily lost and looking for anyone to believe in them. Our children.
“And for all of you who have housekeepers and gardeners from other countries, imagine if they’d never made it to your home. Many struggling immigrants hand over thousands of dollars on the promise of a better life, only to be whisked away into slave labor under the threat of harm to them or their loved ones, money stolen, promises broken.
“And the Super Bowl we had a few weeks ago? It is the largest event worldwide for human trafficking, with criminal rings flying girls in from around the world to service clientele willing to pay, thereby creating demand. Human trafficking is a horrific tragedy, and we need to use our money and influence to stop it. The Unity Foundation is a parent foundation, funneling income down to underlying charities doing hard work on the ground where their efforts are needed the most, helping to capture perpetrators and to rescue and rehabilitate victims. A list of charities supported with all funds collected by The Unity Foundation is on the billboard on the easel beside me. The event tonight is only the first of many to bring attention to the cause and to help gain your involvement. I hope you join us with your generosity.”
A round of applause roared. When it died down, she gestured to the side. “This evening we’ve been lucky enough to have our event thrown by a new company that my children have formed, Invitation Only. And they’ve been blessed to have a talented artist on their team whose creations are causing a stir in the media. In fact, the press is here tonight, not only to support the charities, but also to witness and share in the unveiling of the baker’s latest work of art. I would like her to say a few words. My friends, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Hannah Martin.”
Polite applause followed. The crowd always held back their approval of outsiders. They rendered judgment on their own set of rules, some biased by class beliefs, others by ego. The phenomenon was a psychoanalytical study in human behavior.
Hannah stood behind the podium, her shoulders back, head held high. If she was nervous, she hid it well. Her gaze scanned over to me and held for an instant. I smiled and nodded. She beamed a megawatt grin at me. Oh yeah, she’s got this.
“Thank you, Victoria, and thank you all for inviting us here tonight. I can think of no greater cause than showing kindness to those souls who are lost in this world, who have been trapped against their will, who may have lost hope.
“We are their hope. We are one, worldwide.”
At the last words, Hannah stepped back, the lights on the crowd and podium went off. Special halogen lights beneath the eves illuminated, casting bright spotlights on the table that held the cake behind an ivory curtained wall.
Hannah stepped to the corner of the cake and pulled the curtain away.
Gasps followed.
Rainbows shot everywhere, refracted from unseen crystals. The crowd pressed in closer to get a better look.
A four-foot-tall globe rose up from the table, pure white and sparkling. This time, Hannah had run the entire idea by me before she’d begun the undertaking. She’d wanted to know my opinion. I’d thought it was brilliant. And it was, literally.
The entire world, frosted in white, spun slowly on a mechanism beneath the base. Sugar crystals formed the continents done to scale and with such detail, Rand McNally would be proud. White cream frosting painted the oceans, with tiny waves peaking in their centers. And where the globe ended at the bottom and the base began, ever-widening pedestals of white were coated in Swarovski crystals, catching the beams of light.
Hannah wound her way through the crowd toward me, but her path was lost to a crush of new fans wanting to know more about our baking prodigy. Through the sea of heads, she cast me a helpless glance.
I laughed, watching her. Unless Derek Johnson tripped on Sophie Madsen’s trailing hemline as they jockeyed for position to speak to her, Hannah would be safe. Regardless, I worked my way through the guests between Hannah and me, shaking hands and sharing in the praise of both the cake and the event.
Mrs. Hopkins, an elderly widow, pulled me down to her four-foot-ten height to whisper, “That Hannah is a stunning woman.” She pursed her lips together, tilting her head toward her topic.