Power and Passion (3 page)

She turned back to the TV, where Joan seemed
to be finishing up her speech. She gripped her statue firmly in one
hand, the other one balled into a fist that she shook in the air as
she spoke. Her passion for what she did was so obvious that it
showed in every move she made. She had a fire in her eyes, an edge
in her voice that made people listen.

She embodied honesty, kindness, and
compassion—the same ethics Sara practiced. The ethics of
humanity.

If Sara had a role model in this field,
someone she would aspire to be like, Joan was it: a strong,
independent woman fighting for what was good and right and
getting it done
. Above all, that was the most important
part. Joan was effective. She made things happen. Sara could only
wish that one day she would be able to make a difference in the
world the way Joan was doing.

"What's the award for?" Ali asked, squinting
at the television screen.

"Maybe if you put your glasses on, you would
know," Soraya replied, shooting her husband a sidelong look. As
Sara's father aged, his eyesight had gotten worse, but he did not
like to wear his glasses. Now he simply waved a hand at his wife,
dismissing her, but they both grinned. Sara did too. Her parents so
rarely argued that she did not even know what a real fight between
them would sound like.

"Looks like…" Sara read the scroll across
the bottom of the screen. "She's being honored by a women's
organization for a cancer awareness campaign she designed."

Soraya nodded her head. "That's such a good
thing. People on this side of the world need more information on
things like that." She paused for a moment, glancing at her
daughter. "Hey, Sara, why don't you call this Joan up? Ask her for
some advice on how to get the Special Olympics some more
attention."

Sara sighed once more. "Believe it or not,
back when I met her, we had talked about doing a project together.
Nothing specific, but she was very open to letting me pick her
brain for ideas. But it just never came to pass. I was busy—it was
right before the final competitions that year— and she of course
was
super
busy, being the director of her company and all.
We just couldn't make it work, and after a while I let it go. I
couldn't force it. And I doubt she's any more available now."

She looked back at the TV, where Joan was
now shaking hands and thanking people as dozens of camera flashes
popped. Sara was so happy for her; Joan deserved every award she
won because the work she did was truly phenomenal. But at the same
time, a pang of jealousy hit Sara hard in the chest, so real she
brought a hand up to rub her sternum absently as she continued to
watch the news. She loved her job so very much. The Special
Olympics had become not simply employment but an integral part of
her life. She received her monthly salary, sure, but that was not
why she worked. It was about so much more than that. The people she
represented, the ones she planned these events for, were the real
stars of the show. Everything she did was for them, to bring them
the glory they deserved. She even spent her days off at the office,
at sporting events, wherever she was needed to make sure the
organization's goals were met and the athletes were successful.

Watching Joan on TV now, waving to the
audience, all of them on their feet and giving her a thunderous
round of applause, Sara wondered how the older woman had gotten to
that place. She was sure Joan was not in it for the money either;
no one entered the nonprofit world with a goal of becoming a
millionaire and retiring early. No, often this was a thankless job,
especially regarding remuneration. There were no big paydays, no
bonuses or commissions. People did these jobs for the love of the
cause and nothing else.

So why was Joan such a celebrity? Granted,
her cause had almost a built-in audience: cancer awareness always
got a lot of press simply because it was so important, and, as
Sara's mother had implied, it was a fairly new topic in the Middle
East. While such health issues were already almost old hat in the
Western world, there they were just beginning to come to light, and
so the media was all over them. Every news station, magazine, and
website wanted facts about cancer, advice from doctors, and
statements from people like Joan about what to look for and how to
avoid the dreaded disease.

While Sara knew what the SO organization did
was important, she realized it was not as imperative as Joan's line
of work. No one's health was at stake. So how was she supposed to
get the public's attention?

"She's not from around here, huh?" Sara's
mother asked, breaking into her daughter's thoughts. "Is she
American?"

Sara nodded, her eyes still on the screen.
"Yeah, I believe from California. Came here like we all did—for
work." She turned to look at her parents. "I mean her husband's
work. He's an architectural consultant. Came to the Emirates for an
opportunity like you did, Dad. They've been here for a long
time."

Her parents nodded; this was a typical expat
scenario in Dubai. As the city had sprung up from the desert, job
opportunities had begun to appear in all sectors, from industry to
real estate to entertainment and everything in between. So many
people from Canada, the United States, and all over Europe had come
to see what the place had to offer—and then ended up staying
because it was so amazing.

Sara looked back at the TV, remembering her
initial meeting with Joan, when she'd learned all this about her.
"Maybe you're right," she conceded with another sigh. "Maybe I
should call her again."

However, she did not think she really would.
Joan was obviously in demand and might not have the time. Besides,
Sara thought, this was something she really ought to do for
herself. She had never been one to rely on others; she had been a
go-getter since childhood, and that had never changed. She had just
gotten herself into a rut lately, she thought, was letting herself
get too bogged down by negative thoughts—always thinking that she
couldn't do it, that she wasn't good enough, that others were
better than she was.

That has to change
, she told herself,
sitting up straighter on the couch, planting her feet firmly on the
floor. She could not only think about this issue; she had to start
to do something about it. The Special Olympics needed her; the
athletes needed her.
I am ready
, she thought.
I am
capable. I can do this.

Now she just had to think of what it was she
should do.

T
hese thoughts kept Sara up all night. She
tossed and turned in bed, throwing her duvet off and then
scrambling to retrieve it. She put on some music, hoping it would
soothe her nerves, but she only found it grating and distracting.
She lay in silence for a while, staring up at the dark ceiling,
trying to calm her racing mind.

There had to be something she could do.
Something that would help the Special Olympics, not for her own
professional gratification but because the organization
deserved
the attention and needed the help. Its athletes
depended on her and her colleagues to keep the whole thing going,
and that included garnering public interest and support. That was
part of her assignment as the agency's events programmer. So why
couldn't she think of anything now?

Looking out the window near her bed, Sara
watched the night sky and the myriad of still-twinkling city
lights. It reminded her of her visit to New York and the inspiring
tour of the UN headquarters building. People always said New York
is the city that never sleeps, but obviously none of them had been
to Dubai. Whereas once its economy, much like that of many Middle
Eastern nations, had been built on the booming oil industry, it had
shifted more to tourism and retail in recent years, two fields that
go hand in hand. Thus there were malls and hotels and restaurants
that were open around the clock or at least well into the night,
all of them full of people having a good time while Sara lay there
in bed, her mind a boiling pot.

What time is it anyway?
she wondered
and shifted so she could reach her cell phone where she had left it
on the nightstand. Swiping to turn on the screen, she saw that it
was just before midnight, and she let out a quiet sigh. She should
have been asleep an hour ago and had to be up at five to get ready
for her early breakfast with Pierce.

"Oh," she said involuntarily. Just the
thought of her fiancé brought a pang to her heart, and she pulled
up his picture on her phone to see his smirking face. She hadn't
seen him in person in days, and she missed him. Was it too late to
call him now?

Before she could contemplate the question,
she was hitting his number on the phone's contact list, and he
picked up on the second ring.

"Hey, babe," he said, his voice softer than
it had been earlier. The soothing sound of it made Sara's heart
melt.

"Hi," she replied, curling up into her bed,
feeling suddenly more relaxed. "What are you doing? Please don't
say you're still at work."

Pierce laughed a little. "Well, you know
me—I'm a workaholic."

"Hey, you said you wouldn't stay past ten
o'clock anymore." Sara tried not to sound too scolding, but she
hated how much he worked. Pierce so rarely got a good night's
sleep, and when he was awake, he was running from one appointment
to the next, making endless phone calls, and subsisting some days
on little more than caffeine. All that was bound to take a toll on
his health.

"I know, I know," he said, but still there
was that sweet tone in his voice. It made Sara smile again to hear
him speak so gently to her. "I promise I'm almost on my way out.
Anyway, what are
you
doing awake at this hour?"

Sara rolled over again and gazed out the
window, imagining she could see his office lights shimmering out
there in one of the city's many skyscrapers. "Thinking about work.
I can't sleep. My mind won't turn off."

"What about work? Something go wrong
today?"

"Oh, no," Sara replied quickly. It was rare
she had a bad day at this job she loved. "It's just…I feel like I
have to do something, you know? Something more than what I'm doing
right now. Perhaps even some event that will get the organization
some attention and hopefully some money."

"How about a fundraiser? Some sort of gala?"
Pierce offered easily.

Sara sat straight up in bed. "A gala?"

"Yes, a gala," he repeated. "You know, fancy
dress, fancy food, people with big hearts and bigger
checkbooks—"

"That is an excellent idea," she said a bit
breathlessly, amazed by how simply he had come up with it. But then
she deflated a bit. "But I don't know the first thing about it. I
mean how does one go about planning a gala?"

Pierced laughed lightly again. "You're the
events coordinator," he told her. "Go ahead and figure it out."

That made Sara laugh, too, and they chatted
a while longer about similar events Pierce had been to back in
England and what they had been like. Most involved silent and live
auctions, dinner, music, and dancing as well as presentations and
speeches. The food was always sumptuous, the guests' attire formal.
Everything was top of the line.

"I remember one," he said with a bit of a
laugh, "where they auctioned off a Mercedes Benz. The man who won
the bid actually had three already, so he donated it right back to
the charity, and they auctioned it again, raising even more funds
and applause. Can you believe it?"

Sara gave a small laugh. "Wow, that was a
generous gesture." She could not imagine what it would be like to
have so much personal wealth. She thought of all the projects and
programs a person with money could fund and support all over the
world. What a huge difference one individual could make. There in
Dubai—just like in the rest of the world, really—people with money
were held in high esteem. But perhaps the ones who used some of
their wealth or status to improve the lives of others wielded the
greatest power and respect. Her thoughts wandered to Melinda and
Bill Gates, Warren Buffet, Oprah Winfrey, and Ellen Degeneres. Not
surprisingly they were on the list of the most-powerful people.

"Pierce," she finally said, "do you really
think I can do this?"

"What?" he said, but his voice was distant,
as if he had pulled away from the phone. Then Sara heard another
voice in the background. There was a short conversation then Pierce
returned. "Oh, uh, of course you can, Sara. Of course you can.
Listen, I have to go. They're locking up the building for the
night. I'll see you in the morning, okay? Love you."

"Love you too," Sara responded, and they
said their goodbyes. She wished he'd given her a stronger vote of
confidence. That was Pierce, though—always distracted by something.
If she was going to marry him, she would have to get used to it at
some point.