Off Season

Chapter Two

Just after 2:30, photographers from all four TV stations, two reporters, a radio reporter, someone from the Cincinnati Enquirer, and a couple of website reporters milled around in our shared eating space, waiting for our honored guest. I offered a couple of them coffee and pastries, then changed into a fresh apron and waited, too.

Part of me also decided that, after all of this effort, Harrison Shaw wouldn’t show up. It wouldn’t have shocked me.Harrison had a reputation, and not a clean one. People like him lived in their own world.

The local must have agreed with me because after about fifteen minutes of awkward silence, Greg Sanders, a longtime reporter in town known for his comb over, turned to me and lifted his chin. The corners of his mouth turned down and he had the expression of somebody who was used to getting screwed over.

“While we’re waiting, Miss Reeves, we might as well get our interview with you out of the way.” He motioned to the photographer who stood next to him. “Does that work for you, Jim?” Jim nodded, and Greg’s eyes fell on me again. “Just a few quick questions. Won’t take long.”

I agreed, of course. I’d been on TV other time in my life, back in high school, when the volleyball team I captained made the state championship. This, though would be worlds different. Much more at stake. This was a chance to get real exposure for the ragtag charity I ran. We might get donors or volunteers out of this. It mattered.

As Jim pulled his camera equipment close to me, the other reporters followed suit, until I only saw cameras, microphones, and weary journalists in front of me in a semi-circle. My mouth felt drier than pavement on a hot summer day. I swallowed a few times. No help.

“Easy question first,” Greg said. “If you could please just tell us your name, and your title.”

Another gulp from me. “Allison Marie Reeves.”

A pause.

“Your title?” Greg said.

“Right,” I said, shook my head, already so annoyed with myself. “Executive director, Miracle Meals Kitchen of Avondale.”

“And what exactly does Miracle Meals Kitchen do?” said the reporter from the Enquirer.

“We provide a quality, community based dinner twice a week that people here in Avondale can attend for free.”

“Community based?” Greg said.

“Yes,” I said, turning my attention back to him as my hand slid down the side of my leg and found the hem of my apron. I gripped the corner and twisted it. Nervous habit. “We grow many of our own ingredients and cook the meals right here. We try to use fresh, organic produce and provide a balanced meal that is more than a soup kitchen.”

“Try?” said another reporter. I couldn’t tell which one that time.

“We succeed,” I said, growing more aware of the lights from the cameras with each breath. “We spend Mondays planning the meals, then cook and serve them on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“How many people a week?” said the Enquirer reporter.

“About 400, sometimes 5.”

“And what do you do on the other days of the week?” said someone else. The questions had started coming much faster.

“We deliver boxes of fresh produce to clients on Fridays. About a hundred on the list.”

“Where do you get your funding?” said Greg.

“Mostly donations. A few grants. And we were blessed with a large donation from an anonymous donor last year.”

“What about community impact? How do you think Miracle Meals helps the community?”

“We provide hope through a shared meal,” I said, reciting the answer in my head that I had practiced in the mirror at least a hundred times over the previous week. “Its the one way we—”

I stopped talking because the door just behind us opened, bathing the old sanctuary in a large swath of light. My expression must have changed, too, because every person in front of me turned their heads to see what had my attention.

There in the doorway, flanked by two men in suits, stood Harrison Shaw. 

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