by Nicole Deese
I swiped the ball out from under his arm. “Oh, so now you want to get technical?”
He sighed. “How about you cut the drama and just tell me the truth.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his face unflinchingly sincere. “Does this have something to do with Mom and Dad? With your endless quest for their approval? Because if so, then I think we should talk about—”
“Reverend.” In saying that single word, I’d just called a truce, one that pledged our highest level of honesty to each other. “This has nothing to do with them.” Reverend Carmichael was the most devout believer we’d ever known—a man who could quote Scripture the way my brother could recall every lyric from every Christian rock band of the early 2000s. Reverend Carmichael’s skin had been as brown as his beard had been silver, and the animated way he’d moved his hands had been a special kind of mesmerizing. Those same hands had baptized us in the Spokane River just two days after our seventh-grade summer began, and neither my twin nor I would have dared breathe a lie to him for fear of instant smiting.
“Okay,” Miles said on a deep breath. “I believe you.”
“Good.” Satisfied that I’d finally captured his complete attention, I added, “Because I do want to make a difference in my industry—to do something more with the following I have.” A declaration that sounded as right as it felt.
“What about taking a short-term trip to Mongolia with our missions team next month? You can post all about it.”
A quick recall of the many slideshows Miles had made me watch of dirt floors, thatched roofs, threadbare clothing, and soups made of literally any scrap of food flooded my mind. My skin instantly grew hot and clammy and prickly all over.
Miles burst out laughing. “I’m joking, Molly. Relax. I wouldn’t do that to you.”
My cheeks warmed. “Oh, ha. Right.”
I searched for a positive deflection, something that would throw Miles off the scent of an alternate motivation. And then I knew exactly how to plead my case. “But aren’t you always saying that we’re all supposed to live as missionaries? At our jobs and in our homes?”
“Yes.” A questioning look crossed his features then, and I was fairly positive where his thought trail had led him. Sure, I was the only person living in my home, but hey, not everyone in the Bible was married with children. And sure, my work was almost exclusively online, but I did interact with my virtual assistant multiple times a day through live video chats. Oh, and last week I gave Val a paid day off so she could go on a field trip with her son. That should definitely count for something, but . . . Hmm. I crimped my brow and tried to think of a single instance of when I’d helped my community in the last . . . ever.
“Why do you look like you’re trying to divide fractions without scratch paper?”
“I’m not, I’m just . . .”
“You’re just what?” Miles probed.
“Do you think I’m selfish?” I blurted out.
“What? Uh . . .” He swallowed, his attention shifting uncomfortably. “Where’s that coming from?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter where it’s coming from. I’m asking you as my brother. Do you think I’m selfish? It should be a simple question to answer.”
He actually laughed. “Nothing with you is ever simple.”
I crossed my arms, unwilling to let it go.
He gripped the back of his neck, tugged. “All of us are prone to selfishness. It’s our sin nature.”
I waved a hand at him dismissively. “Don’t ‘sin nature’ me, Pastor Miles. Just tell it to me straight.”
He exhaled for longer than a human lung should be able to hold air. “On occasion, you have a tendency to be a bit . . . self-focused.”
Self-focused. I tried on the hyphenated word like a fitted jacket, instantly annoyed by the confinement of the material. Self-made—now that was an adjective I’d wear proudly. But self-focused? That certainly wasn’t how I wanted to be described by the people who knew me outside of Makeup Matters with Molly.
“It’s an understandable struggle,” Miles continued. “Given your profession. You have a million followers vying for your attention and your approval at all hours of the day. You’ve worked hard to build a career brand, and you’ve been generous with your—”
“Six hundred thousand.”
“What?”
“I don’t have a million followers.” But I needed to by the end of summer, according to Ethan.
He chuckled. “Still, six hundred thousand in just a few years is an astounding number.”
“It’s not enough,” I said absently at first, and then more strongly as something warm lined my lower stomach. “It’s not enough, Miles. I want to be more than a pretty face with an addictive personality. I want to be seen as the real deal. Someone who uses their influence to pay it forward. For good.”
“Wait a minute, I never said you were a pretty face with a—”
I shook off his confusion. “I know you didn’t. And that doesn’t even matter. What matters is finding a cause I can partner with inside our community.” After all, I’d built a nearly seven-figure business from the ground up. What was stopping me? I didn’t have to pledge my life to the call of full-time church planting like my parents to do something right in the world. Nor did I have to go to seminary. I could be fully me and still be seen as a good person—couldn’t I?
“A cause,” he echoed, narrowing his eyes once again.
“Yes, a cause.” Why was that such a hard concept for him to understand? “You work at a church, Miles. You must have contact with tons of needy people. I’m simply asking for you to give me everything you have in the underprivileged youth category.”
“Everything I have in the underprivileged youth category,” he repeated slowly, unhelpfully. “You’d like me to just hand over a list to you.”
“That would be great, yes.” I held out my hand as if he had some sort of Santa-size scroll of needs tucked inside his jersey shorts ready for the taking.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are protocols for this kind of thing. It’s not like I have some sort of Santa-size scroll ready to hand over to you.” He laughed at the face I pulled. “Wait, that’s literally what you thought, isn’t it? Oh wow. Okay.”
“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes.
“Usually when there’s a need in our community, an organization or an individual will call the church and then Susan will take down their information. I follow up with a phone call first, and then schedule a visit to get more information—”
“I’ve aged twenty years in the time it’s taken you to talk about your protocol.”
He snapped his attention back to me. “Silas Whittaker.”
“Who?”
“I met with him a couple years ago during an outreach downtown. He’s a good guy, sharp and ethical. He manages a house for young adults who’ve aged out of the foster system and are now transitioning to independent living. They’re looking for some volunteers for their summer program to help the residents learn life skills like budgeting, cooking, cleaning, job interviewing skills. That kind of stuff. I guess he’s short on female mentors. But he runs a super tight ship—”
“A summer mentor?” I smiled, already imagining picnics and trips to the lake while talking about goals and dreams. “I can so do that. Consider it done.” I could see it now as a clickbait article: Makeup Matters with Molly becomes a mentor to young women transitioning from the foster system, saves them from a life of crime and sadness.
It couldn’t be more ideal if I’d planned it myself.
Again, Miles studied me, this time seeming to reconsider his offer. “On second thought, I’ll call you when I’m back in my office, see what else I can find. Maybe something a little less . . . involved.”
Hands on my hips, I glared back at him. “Less involved? Why? This sounds perfect for me. Val has most of my video posts edited and scheduled out through the middle of July, so
I have a bit more time and flexibility right now. Plus, life skills are totally my thing.”
Miles seemed less than sure about this, but that was just Miles.
“Silas Whittaker.” I cemented the contact name in my brain. “Text me his contact info, and I’ll call him this afternoon, okay?”
“Molly, listen, the residents there . . . a lot of them have had hard lives—some harder than others. If you go out there for the summer, it needs to be because you feel called there specifically. Not for any other reason.”
“Of course, I know that.” I stared him down, daring him to come at me again with an accusation of trying to please our parents, parents I hadn’t even seen face-to-face in nearly two years. They were in Panama. Or maybe it was the Philippines. Since they took their church-planting ministry abroad, it had become increasingly difficult to keep track of their whereabouts.
Without hesitation, he hooked an arm around my back and pulled me in for a hug, squishing my cheek against his sweat-damp T-shirt. “I’m proud of you for taking this step, sis.”
I wiggled out of his hold, working to leave behind the twinge of guilt his words caused as I retreated several steps. “Thanks.” I smiled. “And don’t forget to text me that info, okay?”
“As if you’d ever let me forget.”
No truer words. With that, I pushed out the gymnasium doors and breathed in the fresh May air. I would do this. I would partner with a worthy cause like Ethan suggested, and I would become the best volunteer Miles and his church had ever commissioned into the real world . . . and perhaps, I might also inspire a following of 600,000-plus to go and do the same.
3
Molly
I glided into a parking space and searched for my notebook to double-check the address once more. Silas Whittaker’s receptionist had rattled it off so quickly I wasn’t entirely sure I’d written it down correctly. Then again, I wasn’t entirely sure about several things regarding The Bridge Youth Home.
After completing their fourteen-page Become A Mentor! application online, I no longer wondered why volunteers weren’t flocking to this establishment in droves. The process was ninety-five percent interrogation, five percent request for unpaid help. I hoped to address this catastrophic marketing mistake with Mr. Whittaker once I passed the initial volunteer interview set for eleven this morning.
I’d already warned Miles that if any staff members came at me with syringes or a urine sample collection cup, I’d be looking for a new community service venue STAT.
His only reply was #dramaqueen.
I slid my Coach sunglasses down the bridge of my nose and scanned the oversized locked mailbox at the edge of the road. The address stenciled along the side matched the one I’d written down: 589 Fir Crest Lane. Much like the majority of my expectations thus far, the building ahead of me was not at all what I’d been anticipating. The setting was as fairy-tale as you could get in this part of town, with its rolling hills and farm-like landscape. Nobody would guess that the industrial blue-collar districts of Spokane were only a few miles away. Yet it was the massive craftsman-style home parked in front of me that was beyond anything I could have imagined. It certainly was not the typical Band-Aid–beige government institution with barred windows and a cement slab for a yard. No, The Bridge Youth Home was a gorgeous display of crimson and buttercream brick laid between tapered columns, sweeping balconies, and exposed rafter tails, framed by turrets worthy of a Disney princess collection.
I knew this architect’s work well. My Mimi had taken me on a tour of all the mansions in this area when I was seventeen years old. All built by the same man. Only I’d never been to this one. Of that I was certain.
As I locked my car and crunched over the gravel in my nude peep-toe sandals, my phone buzzed against my palm. Ethan. I shot him a quick text stating I’d call him when I got back home to my office. I had a mission to check off my list today.
The sun warmed my back as a stiff breeze caught the underside of my midi chambray wrap dress. I pinched the light linen fabric closed and climbed the porch steps. Taking in the solemnity of my surroundings, I reached for the buzzer on the side of the front door, noticing the gold lettering above the doorjamb: Fir Crest Manor. A tiny, rectangular wooden sign to the side caused me to hesitate for only a moment: No soliciting.
I pressed the shiny black button, and an instant later, a female voice crackled over a speaker I couldn’t locate.
“May I help you?”
“Uh, yes. Hello, I’m Molly McKenzie. I have an interview at eleven with Mr. Whit—”
A pleasant two-note chime sounded from overhead, and the front door unlocked. “Come on in, Miss McKenzie. I’ll be out to meet you in the lobby shortly.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.”
The heel of my sandal caught in the tight weave of the welcome mat, and it took me three hard yanks before I could free myself and open the door. I hoped whoever was on the other side of that hidden camera had missed that little faux pas. But the instant I was inside the lobby, all thoughts of shoe shenanigans disappeared. This place had the kind of grand entrance that should require a butler named Jeeves, someone who’d offer to take my coat and handbag and then quickly show me to the drawing room for crumpets and mid-morning tea. A mansion like this could make a person question which Clue character they were supposed to represent upon entry. Was it Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?
The space before me was vast yet sparse, first drawing my gaze upward to an elaborate chandelier surrounded by an ornate stained glass skylight, then to the mahogany spiral staircase that led to many doors and windows I could only catch a glimpse of from the first floor. I spun in a slow circle, continuing to marvel at the details of the home’s architecture.
“Welcome to The Bridge.”
I shifted my attention from the minimally furnished room to search out the owner of the same voice I’d heard on the porch speaker. A middle-aged woman with long silvering hair tied loosely at the base of her neck entered the room. Her coppery complexion was so dehydrated by the sun I wanted to dive into my handbag to offer her an SPF moisturizer sample. Black Birkenstocks slapped against the hardwoods unapologetically as her open flannel revealed a faded ribbed tank top and a pair of worn mid-rise jeans.
“I’m Gloria Harvey, the house manager at The Bridge.” She stuck out her hand, and I quickly obliged. “Though most folks around here just call me Glo.”
“It’s great to meet you,” I said. “This house is beautiful.”
There was a beat of silence as Glo scanned the length of my dress and bottomed out on my shoes. “You wear shoes like those often?”
I glanced down at my feet, confused. “Like what? Sandals?”
“You call those sandals?” She chuckled and tapped her own sandaled foot. “I own plenty of sandals, but none of mine have a heel that could knock me flat on my face if I lost my balance.”
So, it would appear my little issue at the doorstep had not gone unnoticed. “Believe it or not, I’m actually more comfortable wearing heels than I am flats.” I shrugged sweetly, and Glo’s eyebrows twitched. “That is, aside from an occasional confrontation with a welcome mat.”
“You know,” she said with a puckered side smile, “I’m not sure I’ve ever worn a pair of heels in my life, and I’ll be fifty-eight in September.” A warm, raspy sound sputtered out of her, followed by a hacking cough she tried to mute with her elbow. “I haven’t had too many occasions to wear something that fancy, I guess.”
“Oh,” I said, my mind sparking to life at her comment. “But not all heels require a fancy setting. Take kitten heels, for example. They pair lovelily with a casual denim blend or even a flexible knit pant.” I pinched my thumb and forefinger to show her the heel measurement I referred to. “Most are only about a half inch high or so, but they can add so much pizzazz to almost any outfit.” I stopped myself from adding “like the one you’re wearing today” because something about Glo’s expression told me she didn’t discuss fashi
on trends on the regular.
“Kitten heels, huh?”
I nodded encouragingly, and again she smiled so wide that the skin around her eyes forked into four distinct lines. Most women I knew her age had already Botoxed those wrinkles out upon first sighting—with the exception of my mother, who was far too pragmatic for anything anti-aging related. And maybe it was that same sensible quality in Glo that I found so inviting now.
She tilted her head, her face softening as she took me in. “How much do you know about our mission here at The Bridge, Miss McKenzie?”
“A fair amount,” I said confidently, hiking my purse higher up my shoulder. “I’ve read through all the online materials, and I share a mutual acquaintance with Mr. Whittaker.” I wasn’t exactly sure how well Miles and Mr. Whittaker knew each other, or the full extent of their relationship, but whatever I’d learned about The Bridge was a drop in the bucket compared to the information they’d obtained about me.
“Ah, well good.” She nodded, though her curiosity seemed to climb. “We’ve been needing some fresh faces for mentoring around here for a while now.”
“How many are there? Mentors, I mean.”
“We try to keep a rotation of three to five, since not every girl bonds with the same mentor. But for various reasons, we’re down to only two ladies this summer. And one is getting fairly close to delivering her first baby.”
“Oh . . . well, I can see how that might pose an issue.” I was just about to ask how many young adults called The Bridge their home when an alarm on her digital watch beeped.
“Ah, that’s my meeting reminder. We have a new community college rep headed here in a minute, an advisor to help the kids get squared away with summer credit options. I need to get a few things set up for her arrival.” She slowly began her retreat down a corridor I couldn’t see the end of. “You have about fifteen minutes to kill before your interview time, but Silas will take you to his office for the interview as soon as he wraps up the morning session. Feel free to help yourself to the water cooler over there, or we have some drip coffee on the table in the back corner . . . but between you and me, I’d stick to the filtered water.”