youthful appearance that this woman was in her early seventies.
“My dear, I certainly cannot take all the credit,” she’d said in answer to my question regarding the shelter. “Reverend Gleason, who’s the pastor of the Valley Chapel along with a lovely, lovely lady by the name of Violet Mendoza were absolute saints in helping me get it started.” She explained that the pastor had donated the space and Violet had managed the daily activities of the shelter. Through further questioning I learned that an anonymous benefactor five years earlier had provided the funds needed to purchase the house which was now the Desert Harbor Shelter. That happy event had been tempered by the sudden death of Violet Mendoza when she’d been struck down one night by a hit-and-run driver.
“Shortly after that terrible tragedy we were blessed, absolutely blessed, to get a woman like Claudia Phillips to take her place, and frankly, I’m surprised she’s stayed on so long considering the small amount we’re able to pay her.” But,” she added hastily, wagging a well-manicured finger, “she’s very efficient.”
She applauded my idea for a series on runaways and suggested I talk to Claudia as soon as possible.
When asked about the upcoming fund-raiser she spoke enthusiastically about her son, Eric, and how successful the gala event had been last year raising money for not just the shelter, but other local charities.
“I’m so glad you’ll be attending,” she said as she showed me out the door. “My son makes sure everything is first class. It is the social event of the season,” she finished, her voice filled with pride.
The interview with Claudia Phillips proved to be more difficult. When she didn’t return my third phone call, I’d hopped in the car on Tuesday afternoon and driven to the two-story wooden house on Tumbleweed Trail.
A weather-bleached sign announcing the name swung back and forth, squeaking softly, as I walked under it. I noted the narrow, dead end street had only four houses set back from the curb on large lots. It was quiet and deserted.
I knocked on the ragged screen door, thinking the rather dilapidated house could certainly use some repairs. Nothing happened for a minute, so I knocked again. Finally, a stocky young woman most likely of Mexican descent answered with “You need help? ¿ sí ?”
I said I’d like to see Ms. Phillips. Smiling, head bobbing, she led me into a small office, pointed to a chair and then backed out the door. Apparently, she spoke little English.
Even though the room was sparsely furnished it gave me comfort to know there existed in these harsh surroundings a sanctuary. Had my young blonde hitchhiker made it here for help?
I’d already formed a picture of Claudia in my mind. She’d be plump, fiftyish, benevolent, overflowing with motherly compassion… My thoughts halted as a tall, slim woman dressed in an expensively cut cream-colored suit glided into the room and froze. I wondered if I wore the same look of surprise on my face.
“Yes?” Her voice was low and husky. The glint of suspicion in her eyes remained even after I’d introduced myself.
“I’m sorry to come without an appointment, but I have a four o’clock deadline to get this in tomorrow’s edition and since you didn’t return my calls…well.” I smiled, but she continued to stare at me coldly. When I mentioned I’d spoken to Thena Rodenborn, her attitude thawed a bit. With the grace of a panther, she seated herself behind the desk and needlessly smoothed her dark hair, already pulled tightly into a silky chignon.
“I’m extremely busy today, Miss O’Dell…but since Mrs. Rodenborn requests it, I can speak to you for…” She hesitated, glancing at her thin gold watch. “Ten minutes.”
I wanted to say, “Well, whoop-de-do! Don’t do me any favors, your ladyship.” Instead, I mustered another professional smile and launched into a series of questions concerning runaway girls and what
“My dear, I certainly cannot take all the credit,” she’d said in answer to my question regarding the shelter. “Reverend Gleason, who’s the pastor of the Valley Chapel along with a lovely, lovely lady by the name of Violet Mendoza were absolute saints in helping me get it started.” She explained that the pastor had donated the space and Violet had managed the daily activities of the shelter. Through further questioning I learned that an anonymous benefactor five years earlier had provided the funds needed to purchase the house which was now the Desert Harbor Shelter. That happy event had been tempered by the sudden death of Violet Mendoza when she’d been struck down one night by a hit-and-run driver.
“Shortly after that terrible tragedy we were blessed, absolutely blessed, to get a woman like Claudia Phillips to take her place, and frankly, I’m surprised she’s stayed on so long considering the small amount we’re able to pay her.” But,” she added hastily, wagging a well-manicured finger, “she’s very efficient.”
She applauded my idea for a series on runaways and suggested I talk to Claudia as soon as possible.
When asked about the upcoming fund-raiser she spoke enthusiastically about her son, Eric, and how successful the gala event had been last year raising money for not just the shelter, but other local charities.
“I’m so glad you’ll be attending,” she said as she showed me out the door. “My son makes sure everything is first class. It is the social event of the season,” she finished, her voice filled with pride.
The interview with Claudia Phillips proved to be more difficult. When she didn’t return my third phone call, I’d hopped in the car on Tuesday afternoon and driven to the two-story wooden house on Tumbleweed Trail.
A weather-bleached sign announcing the name swung back and forth, squeaking softly, as I walked under it. I noted the narrow, dead end street had only four houses set back from the curb on large lots. It was quiet and deserted.
I knocked on the ragged screen door, thinking the rather dilapidated house could certainly use some repairs. Nothing happened for a minute, so I knocked again. Finally, a stocky young woman most likely of Mexican descent answered with “You need help? ¿ sí ?”
I said I’d like to see Ms. Phillips. Smiling, head bobbing, she led me into a small office, pointed to a chair and then backed out the door. Apparently, she spoke little English.
Even though the room was sparsely furnished it gave me comfort to know there existed in these harsh surroundings a sanctuary. Had my young blonde hitchhiker made it here for help?
I’d already formed a picture of Claudia in my mind. She’d be plump, fiftyish, benevolent, overflowing with motherly compassion… My thoughts halted as a tall, slim woman dressed in an expensively cut cream-colored suit glided into the room and froze. I wondered if I wore the same look of surprise on my face.
“Yes?” Her voice was low and husky. The glint of suspicion in her eyes remained even after I’d introduced myself.
“I’m sorry to come without an appointment, but I have a four o’clock deadline to get this in tomorrow’s edition and since you didn’t return my calls…well.” I smiled, but she continued to stare at me coldly. When I mentioned I’d spoken to Thena Rodenborn, her attitude thawed a bit. With the grace of a panther, she seated herself behind the desk and needlessly smoothed her dark hair, already pulled tightly into a silky chignon.
“I’m extremely busy today, Miss O’Dell…but since Mrs. Rodenborn requests it, I can speak to you for…” She hesitated, glancing at her thin gold watch. “Ten minutes.”
I wanted to say, “Well, whoop-de-do! Don’t do me any favors, your ladyship.” Instead, I mustered another professional smile and launched into a series of questions concerning runaway girls and what
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