The Mischievous Mrs. Maxfield

Chapter Twenty-One: Phantoms Of The Past

A/N: Hello everyone! Here goes another chapter in Charlotte's and Brandon's story. We're all used to the happy times but any roadtrip in life has a few bumps along the way. As happy as everything seems, it's far from perfect. 

I hope you all like it. Please vote and comment as usual, I appreciate it. 

I want to dedicate this specifically to anotherdamnstory for making me see something special in what I do.

This also goes out to all of us who wished at one time or another that we could conquer the world instead of letting it conquer us—only to find that courage in someone's example. To those who consider Charlotte an inspiration, I'm truly humbled and blessed that I'm able to share her with you and shine some of her light where you need it in your life. =)

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“It’s an octagon. Okto means eight.”

My brows raised at Mattie’s confident statement as he leaned over the table and pointed the tip of his pencil to each side of the polygon on Rose’s coloring book, counting them out loud.

Rose scrunched up her little nose as she followed Mattie’s finger during his count. She peered up at him, her brown eyes big with curiosity. “Is that why the okthopus has eight arms?”

Mattie smiled and nodded. “Yes. That’s one reason they gave it that name.”

The little girl nodded solemnly, as if digesting that bit of information and filing it away with grave intent.

Everything’s strange and fascinating in the eyes of a child. They see the world without the filter of painful experiences. I sometimes envy that.

I couldn’t help the smile on my face as I watched the two resume their coloring.

It was several days later and I was baby-sitting both kids.

Martin had to go out of town for the weekend to see a new specialist in Seattle and Aimee had a graveyard shift at the hospital. 

I rounded up the kids and took them back with me to the condo where I set them up to bunk with each other in one of the guest bedrooms that had two twin beds.

The two of them were now sprawled on the floor, dressed in their pajamas and hunched over their coloring and sketch books. I was sitting on the couch and reading through the request letters of the two-hundred-plus charities vying for the Championettes’ assistance. 

Yes, that many.

The Society wasn't a charity in itself really. It was originally patterned from a sort-of gentlewomen's group, ergo, socialites who had time and monetary resources at their disposal. They started endorsing charity groups until it eventually became the main thing the Society was known for. 

Hundreds of requests come to the Society but they only picked one to add to the three they constantly did every year—the Art Foundation, the Children's Hospital, and the St. Bartholomew Youth Home (for children who couldn't stay in foster care). 

The privilege to become the fourth and biggest charity fundraiser the Society did each year was much coveted, and it was up to the board to select among the requests the one that would best benefit from it so long as they met certain qualifiers—they needed to be high-profile and high-class.

Which is bloody ironic if they're supposed to be a charity.

During our first meeting yesterday, I'd argued that the shiny gloss on a charity group shouldn't be a consideration but most members insisted that the Society needed to maintain a certain image in order to keep attracting the same deep-pocketed benefactors.