Unbreak My Heart (Rough Riders Legacy #1)(88)

Stupid whiskey. I didn’t recall saying…all of that. Yet I couldn’t defend myself because it did sound like something I’d say.

“Given that you’re so proud of the time you spend volunteering at Phoenix Collegiate Entrepreneurs, I expected better.”

How had she heard of PCE? “What is it you want from me, Mrs. Nash? An apology?”

She sniffed. “It wouldn’t be sincere. The point of me coming here is to educate you.”

I hadn’t been expecting that. “You’re going to educate me.”

“Yes. You call yourself a feminist but do you truly know what that means? And I’m not looking for a definition in the historical context. You’re proud to be a feminist, Ms. McKay. It’ll surprise you to hear that I’m a proud feminist too.”

She’d piqued my interest. “I’m listening.”

“Your generation is so determined to slap labels on everything. To declare ‘this’ is definitively wrong and ‘that’ is absolutely right. You all claim to be so open-minded, but the mind is only open to those women who are exactly like you. Anyone who isn’t on the same path is…antiqued.”

“Are you talking in generalities? Or specifically about the work I’ve done at PCE?”

“Both. But as far as PCE specifically? Would you ask me to volunteer as a mentor?”

I didn’t quite mask my reaction fast enough.

She shook her finger at me. “I couldn’t possibly offer any useable skills because I’m helpless myself, right? As ‘just’ the wife of the CEO of a multi-million-dollar brokerage I have no skills to offer. I’m only in his shadow. I lunch at the club. I futz around in my garden. I walk my poodles. I have an old-fashioned poured and waiting for my husband when he arrives at the house cleaned by my staff. Is that an accurate assessment of what you imagine my life to be?”

“So tell me I’m wrong.”

“You’re wrong. Not entirely, I’ll admit. I do futz around in my garden and walk my dog. I also organized a food drive for the no kill animal shelter. I secured funding—over a luncheon—for a transitional home for women leaving prison. I sponsored a botany class for underprivileged children.” She paused. “That was what I accomplished last week.”

Holy crap.

“But what we—women like me who volunteer—do isn’t seen on the same level as what you do because I don’t earn a paycheck. We’re not workers. We don’t belong to the workforce.”

I suspected any argument I offered would be countered with a better one.

Oh Sierra, you rattled the wrong cage this time.

“Giving back isn’t just accomplished by writing a check. Out of our husband’s checking account, of course, because we’re not savvy enough to handle our own finances.” She cocked her head. “I’m the interim treasurer for a charitable organization that provides scholarships to women in need. I am proud of the fact that I can write checks for tens of thousands of dollars each month—money we earned. While working our tails off. Yet…my tax return shows zero income. So is that my worth?”

My mouth had gone dry. Probably from my face flaming hot out of embarrassment.

“This has been an argument among women for several generations—what constitutes real work and value. It’s not us against you, or you against us. All women should get to choose whatever path in life makes them happy and fulfilled. If that’s donning a power suit or a police uniform and leaving their home, then they should be compensated on the same level as men doing that same job in the workplace. Women in the workplace don’t have the right to look down on women who choose to stay home with their children or who choose to volunteer their time rather than charge for it.”

I cleared my throat. “Would you care for coffee? Or water? I’ll need something to wash down all the crow I’m about to eat.”

She laughed and I was completely charmed. “Got my point across, did I?”

“And then some. Look…I’m sorry for the snap judgments and assumptions I made and erroneously pontificated about on Saturday. Your indignation is justified. And while I’m embarrassed, I’m also grateful that you had the guts to call me to task. Please. Accept my sincerest apologies for offending you.”

She blinked at me. “You are not reacting at all as I expected.”

“I’m nothing like my mother,” I said sharply.

“You don’t have to tell me that, dear.”

“Sorry. That—she—is a touchy subject with me.”

“I imagine. I’ll phrase this as…delicately as I can. But are Ellen’s tendencies part of the reason you were so adamantly against anyone who might have surface similarities?”

I laughed. “God no. My opinion was based on ignorance and assumptions. No one can shoulder the blame for that except me.”

“Ms. McKay. I am delighted to hear that. No excuses, no qualifications. Just the admission that you messed up. I appreciate the apology.”

Would she leave now? I hoped not, because I wanted to pick that shrewd brain.

“I knew your grandmother Daniels.” Mrs. Nash studied me.

“You did?”

“Yes, actually I served on several boards with Grace for many years.”