All That Really Matters

by Nicole Deese

  “Thanks for the tip,” I said. “And I’m perfectly fine to wait for him while you see to your other tasks. It was good to meet you.”

  “You too.” And then Glo stopped and twisted back, a huge grin on her face. “Kitten heels, huh?”

  “You should really give them a try,” I called out after her. “You just might love them.”

  Her wheezy laugh echoed down the corridor, then faded quickly, leaving me with nothing but the sound of my own breathing for company. I scrunched my lips together. Fifteen minutes until the interview—the perfect amount of time to do a little exploring to better acquaint myself with this place and its inhabitants. Though I typically used any wait time in my day to check in with Val or compare my last live video stats with other trending fashion videos on Instagram and YouTube, this gigantic house was much too fascinating for me to ignore.

  It made me miss my Mimi something fierce. She would have loved this place.

  With quiet footsteps, I trailed past a set of worn fabric couches and a twin pair of built-in bookshelves—but apart from a handful of plaques featuring businesses and organizations around town, most of the shelves were empty. A shame, really. They were practically begging for books.

  Though the custom carpentry of the manor was stunning, the chosen furnishings fell short of its grandeur by a mile. How had The Bridge purchased such a magnificent property?

  My intrigue soared as I reached a cork board hanging on a back wall, displaying an open brochure of colorful pictures mounted by a thumbtack. Something tugged in my chest as I skimmed over some of the faces I’d seen on the internet. All young adults varying in size and shape, skin color and gender. An older man with a Santa-type beard and a plaid shirt posed in the bottom left corner, his arm slung around an African-American boy. Oddly enough, the jolly-looking lumberjack was exactly who I’d pictured Mr. Whittaker to be. A gentle soul with friendly eyes and a relaxed demeanor, as if there wasn’t an issue in the world that a few corny jokes couldn’t solve. No wonder Miles liked the guy so much. Nobody disliked Santa.

  I scanned the rest of the candid shots, wondering about the stories of each. The mission statement on the website for The Bridge said, “We are a program dedicated to co-partnering with youth ages 18–21 as they make a successful transition into independent living through life skills classes, mentorship, and spiritual guidance.” Did these young people have families they were still connected to? From what I’d read online and gathered from my brief conversations with Miles, many of the residents here had lived through difficult life situations, growing up in foster care or group home environments as teenagers.

  Something pinged against the large window beside me, pulling me out of my spinning thoughts. I shifted the curtains back and split the blinds apart, catching a glimpse of a group of people wearing sweatshirts, goggles, and multicolored beanies, all of them darting in and out of the forest beyond my vantage point. I moved down the hallway, glancing out each window, until I reached a set of French doors. Stepping onto a patio that led to a cobblestone path, I quickened my steps toward the lush lawn area and then farther still to the edge of a thick forest of pine trees.

  I strained to hear something other than the whistle of wind through pine needles or a random bird call. Strangely, there was nothing. No sound and no people scurrying about like I’d seen from inside. Disappointed I’d missed all the excitement, I turned back to the Clue Mansion.

  “There they are! Go! Go! Go! Attack!”

  A rush of voices paired with pounding footsteps charged at me from every direction. I didn’t have time to distinguish the type of projectiles that two groups on either side of me were shooting, but it was clear the instant a round of neon darts pelted my upper back that I’d stumbled into a wrong-time-wrong-place scenario. I threw my purse to the ground and crouched low, covering my head and yelping each time a rubber-tipped dart peppered my torso, backside, and legs. Holy heavens, how was it possible for foam to hurt this badly? Wasn’t foam used in pillows and mattresses and other comfort items? Certainly not this brand of foam. Ouch! I flinched as one death missile after another pinged off my limbs.

  “Cease fire! Cease fire!” A masculine voice cut through the chaos, followed by a quick succession of footsteps.

  I had the strangest desire to raise my hands above my head and plead not guilty as the attack finally halted. Instead, I remained in the duck-and-cover position, peeking out through my curtain of blond beach waves in time to see a man standing over me, his arms spread wide like a human shield.

  In the silence that followed the command, I assessed the pile of orange shafts pooled around my heels and handbag. As I lifted my head, a lone one swung from the curled end of my hair like a fashion accessory gone horribly awry.

  “Ma’am? Are you all right? I’m afraid you were caught in the crossfire of our final showdown. I apologize we didn’t detect you sooner—the nightshade goggles are a part of today’s challenge, a lesson in team building and communication.”

  He reached a hand down for me.

  Half blinded by my hair, I involuntarily accepted the same challenge as the residents to view my surroundings with obstructed vision. My gaze settled first on a bronzed wrist and climbed up a scarred forearm to land on a corded bicep tucked under the sleeve of a slate gray T-shirt. And then, finally, I saw him. My rescuer.

  “Um . . .” I swallowed, blinked, and stared straight into the eyes of a much younger, much sexier version of Antonio Banderas. He was Zorro, but unmasked. If this man were an Instagram influencer, his dark eyes alone could sell any number of products. Ethan called this rare trait marketable presence. Zorro’s naturally toasted skin and raven hair glistened in a way that could put even my most reliable photo editing filter to shame.

  “Ma’am?” Concern pinched his brow. “Are you . . . hurt?”

  I took a breath and demanded all my brain cells back to order. “No, no, I’m okay.”

  I straightened my dress on my hips, and his eyes followed the movement.

  “I’m not sure your knees would say the same.”

  I glanced at the thick smear of dirt and grass on my kneecaps and dusted them off, aware of the heavy scrutiny from the tree line. “Perhaps next time I take a walk outside the house, I’ll remember to grab my bulletproof vest.”

  “Might not be a bad idea.” His eyes lingered on mine for a few beats more, before a muffled catcall and cough sailed through the air, causing our attention to shift from each other to the gathering crowd around us. Unsure of my role, I waved and offered a hearty, “Hello there, it’s so nice to meet you all.”

  With weapons lowered to their sides and shaded goggles lifted, the mix of males and females met my greeting with mumbled hellos and perplexed expressions. By the locked-down stoicism shared by this group of barely adults, it was plain to see that this crowd was not the same smiling, joking, kumbaya-singing-around-a-campfire bunch I’d seen advertised on the lobby’s cork board. Not possible. Though The Bridge advertised themselves as a reputable program to aid young adults in their successful transition to adulthood, a few of these individuals looked to be a step closer to incarceration than independence.

  “Again,” Zorro said, clearing his throat as if to cover up their obvious lack of enthusiasm and warmth, “we apologize for the mix-up. It’s not common we host many guests at the house during group time.” He reached down and lifted my nine-hundred-dollar purse off the damp grass and handed it to me. “I’m guessing you’re the new representative sent from SCC? Our house manager, Glo, usually holds our student advisory meetings in the joint office just past the dining hall. I can have one of our residents escort you if—”

  “Oh no. I’m not from the community college. I’m here for the mentor interview with Mr. Whittaker. At eleven. I arrived a little early.” I smiled and shrugged. “Thus my detour outside.”

  “You’re . . . Miles McKenzie’s sister?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m Molly. You know my brother?”

  “I do.” A h
int of confusion crossed his features before he glanced down at his watch. “Would you please excuse me a moment?”

  “Of course.”

  He rotated to address the group. “Let’s take five, everyone. Diego, you can lead our wrap-up in the Plaid Room. Also, Wren, would you hang back a minute and kindly walk Ms. McKenzie to the lobby?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary. It wasn’t a far—”

  But before I could finish the statement, his eyes were focused on me once again, or rather on my hair, as he gently removed a neon missile from my now tangled tresses. “It’s a safety protocol—for our guests, as well as for our residents.”

  “Oh, of course. Sure.” But seriously, it wasn’t like they didn’t have security cameras lining every hall and doorway.

  The residents moved like a swarm of bees across the grass, all except for a young woman with waist-length hair the color of wet pennies in sunlight, braided into an elaborate double Dutch plait. She slipped away from the mob and focused intently on the ground as she walked. Her voice was the faintest whisper as she passed me. “It’s this way.”

  I felt obligated to follow the poor girl, even though I could literally see the French doors from where I stood.

  “I’ll meet you in the lobby, Ms. McKenzie. At our scheduled appointment time,” the man at my side said with a distinct air of professionalism that snapped my earlier assumption wide open: Mr. Whittaker wasn’t a bearded Santa look-alike with a jolly grin and a rounded belly. Mr. Whittaker was Zorro.

  “You’re the director?” I clarified, my voice a bit weaker than I’d intended.

  “I am.” He held out his hand, and this time I shook it with a much different understanding. If I took this position, this man would be my supervisor. Which would be fine, of course, just not at all what I’d been expecting. An ongoing theme with this place, it seemed.

  “Miles speaks highly of you,” I said.

  “Your brother’s a respectable man.”

  “He is.” A good sign of commonalities to come, I hoped. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today.”

  He responded with a simple nod.

  Not everybody made the instant connection between my twin brother and me, but then again, if Mr. Whittaker had been expecting the female version of Pastor Miles, then he would be sorely disappointed.

  As we reached the French doors, Wren moved aside to let me go in first. She might be a bit unsociable, but her manners were intact.

  “The color of your hair is gorgeous. It’s natural, isn’t it?” I asked as she stepped over the threshold into the house.

  Her eyes flicked up to mine, and her porcelain skin flushed pink within a few blinks of her lightly mascaraed eyes. “Yes.” She touched the twin ends of her braids.

  Unlike the majority of the girls I’d seen on the lawn, Wren’s face was almost makeup free. She could benefit from some coral rouge, an auburn eyebrow pencil, and some tinted lip gloss to highlight her best features, but even with a nearly naked face, the girl was uniquely pretty. Her body was curveless, no hips or chest to speak of, but she had the kind of svelte frame most people could only duplicate with Photoshop.

  “If I had natural color like yours, I’d never dye it,” I said. “It’s siren hair.”

  “My mother used to call it that,” Wren said in a voice so low it was barely audible.

  “Did she?”

  Wren nodded. “She was Irish, but her hair was a lot more . . . carrot color. And a bit frizzier than mine. She used to complain about it a lot. Wished she could be a blonde—like you.”

  The past tense of her mother’s description chilled me. Where was Wren’s mother now?

  “Well, don’t tell anybody, but I’m not a natural blonde. I’m a brunette.” I smiled. “Actually, that makes it sound prettier than it is. My natural color is more like . . . hmm.” How did I describe such a shade of boring brown? “It’s more like the color of mud when it dries on the bottom of rain boots.”

  Wren cracked a smile and gave a lift of her shoulders. It almost could have been classified a chuckle . . . if there’d been any sound to it. “I can’t imagine that.”

  “Good. Because I’ve paid way too much money to a hair wizard named Charise so that nobody can imagine it.”

  This time Wren did more than shrug. She laughed. It was only a tiny squeak of a sound, but it definitely qualified. Yet as quickly as the humor had lit up her eyes, her face downshifted to an expression that looked as if she wanted to become one with the wall plaster. “Silas should be out here to meet with you soon.”

  “Is that what you call him?”

  “What?” she asked nervously.

  “Silas.”

  “Yeah . . .” She drew out the word as if searching for the hidden meaning in my question. “All of us here call him Silas. Only guests call him Mr. Whittaker.”

  I found it interesting that a man with so much authority would approve of being addressed so casually. Then again, that had little to do with the timid girl still waiting for some sort of explanation for my curiosity. I smiled extra big to put her at ease. “Sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” I said. “Thanks for walking me back to the lobby, Wren. I appreciate it. Maybe we can chat a bit longer the next time I’m here.”

  Something opened in her expression. “Will you be teaching a class here?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “What will you teach?”

  Honestly, I hadn’t narrowed it down to a single topic yet. I always had more ideas than time to plan. “I have a few thoughts, actually, so maybe you can tell me what you’d like to learn.”

  She rubbed her lips together for a few seconds, her eyes flashing with a hope I understood so well. “I dunno . . . like maybe something to do with how to talk to people or whatever.”

  How to talk to people? That’s what this girl wanted to learn?

  “Okay,” I said, trying to sound like her suggestion was totally normal. “Well, I’ll do my best to work that into my curriculum.”

  Another faint smile. “Okay. Cool.”

  She looked behind her down the hallway. “I should get going. I have chores to complete after our group session, so . . .”

  “Oh, sure. I won’t keep you, then.”

  Slowly, she retreated a few steps, her eyes lowering to my hand. “You probably shouldn’t put that down while you’re here.”

  “What?” I followed her gaze and lifted my left arm. “You mean, my purse?”

  She nodded. “Not if you like everything inside it.”

  “Wren! Are you coming? We have chores.” A female voice hollered from some unknown location.

  “Sounds like your friend needs you.”

  She glanced up at me, her eyes saying so much more than her words. “She’s not my friend.”

  With a quick wave, she turned and jogged down the hallway.

  “Bye, Wren,” I murmured after she’d gone.

  I squeezed the handle of my purse in my hand and wondered at the world of secrets a girl like Wren must know about The Bridge and its inhabitants. Because chances were high that a house as large and as lofty as this one could put Nancy Drew and all her detective work to shame.

  I took out my phone to do an Insta story with the remaining moments I had left before the interview. Searching for the best lighting, I did a quick scan of the lobby and had just begun to tease my upcoming partnership with this lovely establishment when Silas cleared his throat behind me.

  4

  Molly

  With minimal fanfare, Silas ushered me from the lobby at eleven o’clock sharp. I followed him up a spindly staircase and down at least three hallways, though I lost track of how many turns we made in total. I hoped the conclusion of this interview process would come with a survival-type goodie bag—one filled with a compass, map, two-way radio, and plenty of snacks in case of an accidental all-nighter in a dimly lit corridor.

  “This place is massive—I think I’d have to hire a guide to find my way around,” I ma
rveled as he pushed open the large mahogany door to his office. “I’m guessing it was built sometime around the end of the nineteenth century?”

  “Your guess is correct,” he remarked, allowing me to take the lead—at least for the moment. Silas didn’t seem the type to give up control often. Or easily. “The main house was originally built in 1897, but it has undergone several renovations.”

  “And the cottages?” I hadn’t seen them from the parking lot or even from where I’d been standing in the courtyard, but the two modest cottage-style homes could be seen from the hall windows on the second floor. “Were those added to the property recently?”

  “They were built five years ago when we acquired the house. They’re the sleeping quarters for our residents.”

  I wanted to ask more about them. In truth, I could have asked a billion more questions about the house and all its rooms and passageways. I grew up reading Mimi’s hand-me-down historical romance novels in settings much like this—just one of our many bonds outside of our shared love for all things fashion. But it was becoming increasingly clear that Silas wasn’t interested in small talk. The atmosphere between us had cooled since his retrieval of me from the lobby, and though I hadn’t a clue as to why, I wasn’t about to sit down with him until I figured out the right angle to play.

  I strayed from the desk, where a single manila folder waited, and pointed to the opulent bookshelves at the back of the pristine office. “May I?”

  After a brief hesitation, he nodded. I brushed my fingertips along the tiny details engraved in the woodwork. Unlike the shelves in the lobby downstairs, these were filled to capacity. I studied his impeccable organization system, wondering at his chosen method of arrangement. There wasn’t a single book stacked haphazardly or laid on top of another. Each book had its own perfectly allotted space. Though I’d often prided myself on being an organizational freak . . . this was next level. I scanned the names of each author—not alphabetical and not grouped by genre, either. His diverse collection included biographies of world-famous leaders, books on teaching trades and social justice, and the random how-to guide. Unwilling to give up my quest, I took a step back and examined the whole picture again.