Chapter One
After I returned from running a successful Family Free clinic in Honduras, I was determined to obtain the funding I needed to do the same at home. Health care should be a right, not a privilege, and, with this in mind, I began to lobby the richest corporations, asking…begging that they fund my initiative. Two years later, and living off the last dregs of my mother’s estate, I found myself on the edge of giving up. I’d lobbied JSG BioPort Labs yesterday, standing in their conference room with my PowerPoint presentation and staring at a table full of disinterested male faces, knowing that this was my last chance. In the end, I’d walked out, holding my head high, knowing I had failed. Or at least I thought I had.
To my utter shock, I had received a phone call from the company’s CEO, James Gordon, requesting a private meeting. Mr. Gordon was a billionaire visionary, who had revolutionized the industry by spearheading advances in drug formulations, medical devices, and research. I was slightly intimidated to meet the man who had developed Demetril, which was a new breast cancer drug, with an eighty percent success rate.
I got dressed, wearing pantyhose, a gray pencil skirt, and a brown and black blouse. I usually downplayed my looks, but instinct told me I would need them today, so I took my time applying makeup and styling my shoulder length, chestnut hair. Sliding into black, sling back heels, I appraised myself in the mirror, satisfied with the overall result. As I left the apartment, nervous bundles of energy pricked me, adding an anxious spring to my step. My briefcase contained a business prospective, which I had agonized over. A nonprofit organization was a hard sell, because it went against the grain of what a business model should look like, since there was no clear projection of growth and revenue. It was entirely reliant on donations, and those were hard to come by in this economic environment. If my meeting with Mr. Gordon proved unsuccessful, I would have to get a job immediately. He was my last chance.
I took a cab to a restaurant near the Steppenwolf Theatre in downtown Chicago, checking my face in a compact and applying more lipstick. Then I fussed with my hair, which looked perfectly fine.
This isn’t a date!
Actually, I hadn’t been on a date in months; the last experience was a disaster. I had moved out of Peter’s apartment more than a year ago, our relationship having run its course. My luck with the opposite sex was legendary; the horrors were too numerous to count, although, if I had any skill at writing, I could pen a humorous memoire of my misadventures. It would probably be a best seller. I paid the cabbie and took the stairs, entering an elegantly decorated reception area, which was furnished with comfortable looking sofas and muted lighting.
“I’m Gretchen Fox. Mr. Gordon is expecting me.”
“Yes, of course. Right this way,” said a woman dressed in black pants and a crisp white shirt.
I followed her through the restaurant, noting the yellow-beige walls, darkly framed mirrors, and rows of neatly stacked glasses on shelves. I’d never dined here, because it was pricy and my meager budget left little for frivolous spending. I saw myself in passing, noting a tall woman with an anxious expression.
Wipe that scowl off your face! You’re never going to charm his socks off and get the funding you need looking like that, Gretchen.
I took a deep breath and tried to relax my mouth, moving my jaw from side to side. The maître d' led me to a table occupied by a dark-haired man. Introductions weren’t necessary, since I had been reading about Mr. Gordon all week in preparation of my proposal. He was a graduate of Columbia University, obtaining his masters in business from Harvard. He’d worked his way up the corporate ladder, rescuing one company after another, until acquiring the wealth to buy his own.
He stood, gesturing to a chair. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone deep and velvety. “I don’t shake hands. I’m glad you could make it, Ms. Fox.”
His smile caught me off guard, my stomach flipping over. “Mr. Gordon. I’m surprised you wanted to see me.” He doesn’t shake hands? Is he Howard Hughes weird or something? I placed the napkin in my lap.
“We’ll have the Chateau Latour,” he said to the waiter.
“Yes, Mr. Gordon.”
I left the briefcase near my foot. “I have the prospectus, if you want to see it. The details were covered in the presentation, but I don’t think you were at the meeting.”
“I wasn’t. Your document isn’t necessary.”
That was odd. “Then why am I here?”
“I want to know about Honduras. You opened a clinic with your sister.”
“Yes, in Santa Rita. It’s mostly self-supporting, although the drugs aren’t cheap.”
“How are you paying for that?”
“My mother left us money. We get the medications from Mexico and Canada. The trust fund is still solvent…for a while.”
“I see.” Our wine arrived, and the server poured the burgundy fluid into rounded glasses. I would have the Tuscan kale salad with glazed duck, and Mr. Gordon ordered the seafood salad and smoked mackerel. His look was assessing. “Why did you leave?”
“I helped set up the clinic. Emily’s the Florence Nightingale of the family. I’m like Donald Trump. Someone has to manage the business. We immunized thirteen hundred people in six months. What I’m most proud of is persuading a surgeon friend of mine to help for a few days. Ten kids don’t have their cleft palates anymore.” I took a sip of wine, enjoying the richness of the flavor. He held his glass to his nose, sniffing delicately. I had downed my drink, as if I were sitting at a bar. The wine probably cost a fortune. He stared at the table thoughtfully. I took the opportunity to appraise him, noting the handsomeness of his face, his surprising youth, and the understated timepiece around his wrist. I didn’t see a wedding band. He was an intensely private man, and besides his educational and business history, I knew nothing else about him. “Mr. Gordon, I’m really impressed with Demetril. I wish…I wish they had it available for my mother. She died of breast cancer six years ago.”
“I know. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“It could’ve saved her.” I stared at a couple sitting at the next table, not really seeing them. “You’re performing miracles in people’s lives. I love that. It’s what I try to do. It’s what I want to continue to do. There’s no reason why these kids can’t get antibiotics or asthma medication. It’s senseless seeing someone die from an infection that can be treated.” I glanced at him. “How did you know about my mother?”