Sweet Manipulation

Celeste arrived on a Monday with a Tupperware of lemon bars and a binder labeled LIGHT in gold marker. She wore a sweater the color of robin’s eggs and looked every person in the eye as if rediscovering a friend she’d worried over all weekend.

“I’ve heard such beautiful things about The Lantern,” she told the staff. “I just want to serve. How can I be useful?”

Jonah, operations manager, watched her lay the lemon bars by the sink. He’d seen saviors before. They usually didn’t bring napkins.

“Let me fix the coffee machine,” she said, already rolling up sleeves. “It’s loud. It should purr.”

“It’s been grumpy for months,” said Maya, the program director. “Be my guest.”

Celeste touched the machine like a violin. It hissed, then settled. People laughed—soft, grateful. She learned names like music, repeating them under her breath, and when she listened, she put one hand over her heart, as if holding in all the care. By lunch, she had a desk. By Friday, the board chair was calling her the missing piece.

“Donors want a story,” Celeste said that first week, scribbling on a legal pad. “We’ll rebuild our narrative. We’ll be inevitable.”

Maya glanced at Jonah. “Our story is that we keep the lights on for after-school art. It’s not broken.”

“It’s not broken,” Celeste said, smile gentle, “it’s just quiet. Quiet doesn’t get us a new kiln.”

That afternoon, Celeste sat with Mr. Rhee, a meticulous donor who’d been on the fence. She folded her hands, eyes shining.

“I grew up in an apartment with a door that didn’t latch,” she said. “Art class was the first room that felt safe. I want that for every kid.”

“You did?” Mr. Rhee asked, moved.

She nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “We were always moving. The Lantern’s stability could be a miracle for so many.”

Jonah watched through the glass conference wall. After Mr. Rhee left, Celeste closed the door and leaned against the table, rubbing her wrist where a watch worth three months of their rent flashed in the afternoon sun.

“Hooked,” she said softly.

“It’s true, then?” Maya said from the doorway. “About your childhood?”

“Truth is a compass,” Celeste replied, snapping the binder shut. “You can face north without describing every tree.”

Maya blinked. “That’s not really an answer.”

“It’s the right one,” Celeste said, smile unwavering.

In meetings, Celeste’s empathy drifted like a warm current. “How is everyone’s energy?” she’d croon at the start. “I’m sensing some tightness.” When Jonah brought up the red line in their budget, she touched his forearm.

“Thank you for holding the numbers,” she said. “Consider the abundance that’s arriving.”

“Paperclips are not abundance,” Jonah said. “We’re short two teaching artists next week.”

Celeste nodded solemnly. “I hear the fear. Let me sit with it.”

By October she had dinners with the board. By November, she was “liaising” with donors without CC’ing anyone. She was always careful to include the team in her sentences—our win, our vision—while tightening the circle around the credit.

When the gala planning began, Celeste took the head seat without asking.

“I’m going to tell the story of that kid with the clay birds,” she said. “How his hands stopped shaking.”

“That was Rina’s student,” Maya said. “She should tell it.”

“Rina hates public speaking,” Celeste said. “She told me. It would be cruel.”

Rina, passing by, heard her name. “I didn’t say that.”

Celeste touched her heart. “I’m so sorry if I misheard. What I’m hearing now is that you’d be uncomfortable. Which I honor.”

“I literally just said—”

“We can circle back,” Celeste said brightly. “No pressure, honey.”

The night of the gala, Celeste floated through the room in a pale silk dress. She wove donors’ anecdotes into a shimmering tapestry that led, inevitably, to their checkbooks. When the microphone came, she teared up on cue.

“As a girl,” she said, voice breaking, “I slept under a table with a lamp we weren’t supposed to leave on. The Lantern is the lamp. We are the table.”

People stood. People gave. People believed.

Backstage, Jonah found her dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. She dropped it when she saw him, expression composed in a heartbeat.

“Good haul?” she asked.

“Record,” he said. “Your story—was it under a table or behind a couch? You told Mr. Rhee behind a couch.”

She chuckled. “Jonah. The imagery is what lands.”

“We’ll need receipts to reconcile pledges,” he said. “Also, you sent an email to the board saying Maya delayed the kiln purchase? That wasn’t—”

Celeste stepped closer, voice softening until it felt like a hand on the back of his neck. “She did delay it. With her energy. She’s been resistant.”

“She wanted three bids,” Jonah said. “That’s policy.”

“And as a leader, I sensed urgency,” Celeste murmured. “We can’t be held hostage by processes.” She tilted her head. “Is something else going on? I’m feeling a charge from you. Do you need to take space?”

He stared. “No. I need you to stop rewriting records.”

She sighed, compassion deepening like a trench. “I’m worried about you, Jonah. The scarcity mindset can be corrosive.”

When Maya’s performance review came, there was a section about “team trust.” It cited “feedback” that she was difficult, not a team player, that she “withheld” enthusiasm.

“I cried in your car when my mom was in the hospital,” Maya said to Celeste, slid into an empty conference room. “I told you I was overwhelmed, not unenthusiastic.”

Celeste put her hand over her heart. “I’m so grateful you trusted me. It’s important to separate our personal storms from our professional skies.”

“You told the board I’m sinking ships,” Maya said.

“Metaphor is tough,” Celeste said. “I can see how you’d take that personally.”

“Because it is personal.”

“I’m naming patterns,” Celeste said, gentle as a lullaby. “This is an invitation to grow.”

Two weeks later, Maya resigned. She left her fern on her desk, a note tucked into its leaves: Please water weekly. The kids asked for her. Celeste stood with them in the doorway, voice hushed.

“It’s okay to feel big feelings,” she said. “We’re all still a family.”

After Maya, it got easier. A teaching artist who questioned the gala invoices was “not aligned.” A volunteer who asked about the “under the table” line was “obsessed with facts to avoid heart work.” Celeste’s narrative tightened around herself like a dress she loved.

Jonah started to collect things: duplicates of invoices, meeting notes; he set rules for himself—no late-night emails, no fights without witnesses. He talked to Rina in the stairwell.

“I can’t keep losing people,” he said.

Rina looked at him, then at the door to Celeste’s office, where laughter like a chime drifted out. “We’re already lost,” she whispered.

At the next board meeting, Celeste presented a slide deck titled THE FUTURE IS WARM. The third slide said THE PROBLEM IS JONAH.

“I want to talk about culture,” she said gently. “How we hold each other. Some of us,” she glanced, apologetic, “are attached to control. When that’s named, it can feel violent. I’ve felt unsafe in operations. I’ve considered leaving.”

The chair leaned in. “Unsafe how?”

“I won’t relive harm,” Celeste said, eyes shimmering. “But I have receipts.”

Jonah opened his folder. “So do I,” he said, and laid out copies: altered minutes, donations routed through a new “stewardship fund” Celeste had created, the vendor she’d steered the kiln contract to—her cousin. He spoke carefully, as if he were lowering a glass onto a crowded table.

“I’m not attacking,” he said. “I’m describing.”

Celeste looked stricken. “This is heartbreaking,” she whispered. “To be painted as manipulative when all I’ve done is love this place.”

She turned to the board, palms open. “Ask yourselves: whose story feels expansive? Who is inviting you into possibility?”

“You told Mr. Rhee you grew up with a door that didn’t latch,” said a board member softly. “Your mother’s obituary mentions the lakefront condo.”

Celeste’s eyes filled. “We moved later,” she said. “Is that a crime?”

Silence folded over the table. It lasted a beat too long. Finally, the chair cleared her throat.

“We’ll need to audit,” she said. “Effective immediately.”

Celeste stood. Her smile returned, smaller now, but perfect. “I’ve actually been offered an opportunity,” she said. “It breaks my heart, but I think my season here is complete.”

That afternoon she packed briskly, slipping the gold LIGHT binder into her bag. She hugged Rina, forehead to forehead.

“You’re a star,” she whispered. “Shine.”

She touched Jonah’s arm, eyes wet. “I hope you heal,” she said, and walked out into the slice of winter sun as if it had been lit for her.

The audit worked its way through numbers like cool water through grit. It found nothing illegal and everything corrosive. Mr. Rhee withdrew. The gala’s glow dimmed. The kids kept making art. The coffee machine went back to hissing.

Months later, Jonah stood by the sink where the lemon bars had first appeared. Rina came in, sleeves dusty with chalk.

“She landed at the bigger arts center,” Rina said, scrolling her phone. “They’re calling her a visionary.”

“Of course they are,” Jonah said.

Rina tipped her head. “We still have to tell a story.”

“I know,” he said, and reached for the filter. “Let’s tell one that lets the facts breathe.”

He pressed the button. The machine groaned and then, grudgingly, purred.

- Julie O’Hara

THANK YOU for reading my work. I am a global nomad/permanent traveler, or Coddiwombler, if you will, and I move from place to place about every three months. I am currently in Chile and from there, who knows – probably Argentina? I enjoy writing articles, stories, songs and poems about life, spirituality and my travels. You can find my songs linked below. Feel free to like and subscribe on any of the platforms. And if you are inspired to, tips are always appreciated, but not necessary. I just like sharing.

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