Write about: the donor.
Today ended up being another day off from the garden for me. We're more or less on top of things out there, so I don't feel overly guilty about it. Just a little.
Back to harvesting once again tomorrow, this time for Saturday's Penticton market. Hopefully the weather cooperates with me and the potential thunderstorms decide to visit elsewhere.
"The donor wishes to remain anonymous."
I should have called the whole thing off then and there. The lawyer making the offer was bad enough, with his Italian suit that cost more than my house and reeking of cologne that was probably made from the blood of enslaved unicorns. But the amount being so generously offered was so far beyond anything I could have expected that it should have been obvious something sinister was going on.
But, of course, I did not muster a word of protest.
Maybe I was blinded by dollar signs. Maybe I was too focused on what could be accomplished with that sort of financial backing. Maybe I was so disoriented by the lawyer's stench that I just couldn't think straight.
Whatever the reason, I accepted the offer. My little business was officially a go. Childhood dreams were dancing to life and I was caught up in the moment. And the many moments that followed over the course of the next two years.
And then, inevitably, late one night the anonymous donor came calling. He was there to make me another offer I couldn't refuse, but he didn't bring his lawyer this time. There was no need.
The photographs of my daughter, bound and gagged in the trunk of a car, were more than enough incentive to do as he wished.