Chapter 8
“There’s something about this center I haven’t told the board,” Alexander said.
The words landed harder than I expected. I looked down at my notes, where I had written questions families had trusted us with. Transportation. Meals. Hours that worked for caregivers. What staff would do when someone needed more help than the program could provide.
“Is it something they need to know before they consider the pilot?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t they know?”
He didn’t answer immediately. The conference room was nearly empty now. Beyond the glass wall, people moved through the Carter Holdings offices carrying folders and coffee, going on with their day as if the future of the center were just another item on a schedule.
“I have a plan to fund it independently,” he said. “Not as a Carter Holdings project. I want to endow an independent nonprofit that can provide community-based support without being treated as one of my company’s properties.”
I searched his face.
“You want to give the center your own money?”
“I want to establish a lasting source of funding. The company’s board would not own the nonprofit, and the nonprofit’s work wouldn’t be tied to promoting Carter Holdings.”
His voice was measured, but his hands had tightened around the edge of the table.
“I haven’t worked out every legal detail. I haven’t asked anyone to accept the money. But that’s the structure I’ve been working toward.”
I remembered what he had said in the café: he wanted to offer me an opportunity, not a handout. I remembered the contract he’d signed with me, including the line that let me disagree with him without risking my pay.
“You told me the board had questions about cost and whether the center could last.”
“They do.”
“But the funding plan changes those questions.”
“It may answer some of them.”
“It may create new ones,” I said. “Who controls the money? Who decides what the center does? What happens if your plans change? Does the nonprofit keep going if you stop paying?”
He nodded once.
“You’re right.”
I felt a sting of frustration anyway.
“If this is the plan, why have we been preparing a proposal without knowing it? The people at the library told us what they might need. We’re trying to figure out what’s possible. We can’t do that honestly if we don’t know what funding could look like.”
“I was trying to protect the proposal from becoming a family publicity story.”
“By keeping the funding plan secret from the people trying to build it?”
He looked away.
“I thought the board would dismiss it as sentiment if I raised it before we had a pilot proposal.”
“Maybe they will. But they’re being asked to review a plan while missing a piece that could matter to them. And I don’t think you get to decide that everyone else should work without that information just because you’re worried about their reaction.”
For a moment, his expression hardened. Then it softened—not into a smile, but into something closer to understanding.
“No,” he said. “I don’t.”
I set my notes on the table.
“I’m not saying the idea is bad. An independent nonprofit might protect the center from becoming a company project. But the funding and governance need to be clear before anyone is asked to trust it.”
“You’re right,” he said again. “I’ll disclose it to the board.”
“Before they vote on anything?”
“Before I ask them to consider the pilot.”
“And the people who shared their questions?”
“I won’t present your notes as evidence that they support my plan.”
“Good. They didn’t agree to that.”
He sat back, his shoulders still tense.
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
It wasn’t a dramatic answer. It wasn’t forgiveness, either. He seemed to understand the difference.
“I’ll make sure the written proposal separates what we know from what we still need to learn,” he said. “And I’ll explain that the nonprofit is a funding proposal, not an approved source of money.”
“Put that in writing.”
“I will.”
I gathered my notes. The board had asked for a capped budget, a timeline, services to test, and limits on what the results could prove. Now we also had to be honest about which money existed, which money was only planned, and who would hold the authority if it came through.
On my motorcycle ride home, I thought about how easy it was for a good intention to sound like a complete answer when it came from a wealthy man. Alexander could provide money most of us couldn’t imagine. But the people who might rely on the center would still need to know whether it would be there next month—and whether they would have a say in what happened inside it.
The next few days filled with calls, estimates, and careful revisions. Our planner compared possible community spaces and contacted transportation providers. I stayed within my contracted hours, fitting work around my café shifts and checking each cost against the information we actually had. Every time a number was still uncertain, we labeled it that way.
Alexander drafted a statement about his proposed endowment. I read it before he shared it with the planner.
“You say the nonprofit would be independent,” I told him. “But who would make decisions?”
“I haven’t named a board.”
“Then don’t write as if independence is already guaranteed.”
He crossed out the sentence.
We added that the nonprofit’s governance had not been established, the endowment had not been approved, and no pilot spending had been authorized. It was less impressive on paper. It was also true.
That Friday, the board chair invited us to a follow-up meeting. I brought the revised pilot outline and the anonymized list of questions from the library. Eleanor joined us, carrying her own folder. She had agreed to attend as a participant in the discussion, not as proof that the project had her blessing.
Alexander spoke first.
“I need to disclose a funding plan I have been developing privately,” he said. “I intend to explore an endowment using my personal assets to support an independent nonprofit. I have not finalized the structure, secured approval, or committed funds. It is not a Carter Holdings asset, and it is not an approved source of money for this pilot.”
The chair leaned back.
“Why did the board hear about this only now?”
“Because I was afraid you would see it as a personal project before you saw the needs the center could address.”
“That is not a reassuring reason to withhold material information.”
“No,” Alexander said. “It isn’t.”
The quiet that followed felt different from the silence in the earlier meeting. This time, nobody pretended the problem had already been solved.
One board member asked whether a nonprofit could operate without depending on Alexander’s ongoing contributions. Another asked who would appoint its directors. The planner explained that she could not responsibly estimate long-term costs until the proposed services and hours were defined. Eleanor spoke when she was ready, making clear that she was not asking the board to use her experience as a guarantee of success.
The chair listened, then turned to the pilot outline.
“This is not yet detailed enough for a funding vote,” he said. “The proposal needs a capped budget with documented estimates, a defined timeline, and a clear account of which services you would test. It also needs to explain what the pilot can measure—and what it cannot.”
“We can revise it,” Alexander said.
“And the independent nonprofit?”
“Any endowment proposal would require separate legal and governance work,” he replied. “I won’t present it as settled.”
The chair closed the folder.
May you like
“Then I’ll schedule a formal vote after the board receives a complete pilot proposal. Until then, no spending is approved.”
I glanced at the papers in front of me. We had a path forward, but it was narrower than the one Alexander might have purchased on his own. And if we wanted the board to take the next step, we would have to show exactly what we were asking it to approve—and what we were not.
