By the third meeting of the day, I was ready to fling my Manolo heels out the tinted window of the Pontiac and walk barefoot through Manhattan traffic.

Three meetings. Three of the biggest potential fundraisers. Three rejections.

Felicia sat across from me in the car, tapping notes into her iPad like we had just negotiated peace with terrorists in the Middle East, rather than received polite refusals wrapped in complimentary biscotti.

I groaned, throwing my head back against the leather ...