by Nicole Deese
And then the answer was clear: The man had ordered his library by height and thickness of the spine. Interesting.
“You have quite the personal library,” I said, twisting around to reveal my sweetest of smiles, as if that action alone might thaw the iceberg that had encased Silas sometime between the courtyard and his study. The charming Zorro who’d used his body to shield me from my unintended assassination and plucked a bullet from my hair was long gone. This man, who assessed me like a knockoff handbag, was one-hundred-percent business.
Good thing I knew a thing or twelve about charming the hard to thaw.
“I spent many summers as a kid just twenty minutes or so from here at my grandmother’s house, but I never knew this road—or this manor—existed.” While there was no encouragement for me to continue, I did anyway. “To be honest, I expected something quite different when I pulled up the address this morning.”
“How so?” he asked evenly.
“I suppose I expected something a bit more institution-like. Bars on the windows and high-level security. Although Glo definitely surprised me at the front door with her talking hidden camera.”
“The Bridge isn’t a prison, Ms. McKenzie. Our goal is not to cage our residents inside, but to equip them as they transition to mature, contributing members of society in the outside world.”
Ah . . . so we were going with formality now.
Silas pulled out his desk chair, an obvious nonverbal that he was ready to get started with the interview since it was probably three whole minutes past eleven by now. I moved toward the chair opposite him and settled into the cushioned seat, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap. If he chose to be a crab apple, so be it. But little did he know that I’d held my own in many a business meeting run by power-driven men. I wasn’t easily intimidated.
“Yes, I understand that’s your mission, but the other government-subsidized transitional programs I read about online looked vastly different from this one.”
“We don’t aim to be like the majority of programs already in existence.” He leaned forward in his chair and set a hand on the folder, drawing my attention once again to the thick scar winding up his forearm. “We aim to be a home.”
I couldn’t help but laugh, which apparently was the wrong reaction by the way he hiked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I don’t know many people who grew up in a place the size of this one.” Some of the celebrity parties I’d been invited to were held on private islands smaller than this place.
“The home life we hope to exemplify has less to do with the accommodations we provide at Fir Crest Manor and more to do with the faith-centered atmosphere we work to create—connection, care, community, conscientiousness.” He slid the folder toward him and opened it. I recognized the contents inside immediately: my fourteen-page application. By the handwritten notes in the margin, this was not his first time seeing it.
“A large part of that atmosphere,” he continued, “is dependent on the expertise and professionalism we strive to uphold here as a staff. The Bridge is a state-licensed facility for the sole purpose of referrals, and as such, our board receives a small percentage of federal funding each year. But our establishment is privately owned and operated in all the ways that matter. Our reputation in equipping young adults in critical life skills, interpersonal connection, conflict resolution, and stress management is unparalleled in our community and in much of the country.”
“That’s impressive. How long have the residents been in?” I immediately regretted the phrasing, realizing I’d once again managed to liken the young adults to prisoners.
“The majority here now have been with us for nearly a year. Our program usually follows the traditional school year from fall to summer, though a few have stayed on for a second year due to their studies, and one young lady has only been with us since last winter.” He glanced down at my application. “You seem to have a lot of credentials.”
I beamed at his praise. “The only thing I enjoy more than making goals is crushing them.”
He blinked and cleared his throat. “Miss McKenzie—”
“Please, call me Molly.”
“Molly, there are a few standard questions we like to ask our volunteer candidates in person, but first I’d like to go over a few of your responses—for clarification purposes.”
Were there any questions left to ask outside of blood type and the color of my favorite pajamas? “Of course. I’m happy to answer anything.”
“On question seven, under ‘Please describe your relationship with alcohol’, you wrote, quote: ‘I enjoy the occasional glass of red wine but refrain from drinking cocktails (with the exception of New Year’s Eve).’ End quote.” He glanced up, his expression unreadable.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m a red wine girl. Hard alcohol isn’t really for me.”
“Unless it’s New Year’s Eve,” he repeated dryly.
I smiled, sensing he was trying to make a joke, though I wasn’t quite sure what it was. “I can assure you, I haven’t taken a Jell-O shot since college, and I’ve never danced on tables for money.”
“While that is reassuring,” he cleared his throat again, “our residents sign an alcohol-free statement as part of their contract to live on campus. They agree to ten such guidelines in total, but our policy for alcohol consumption while participating in the program is zero tolerance. The statistics for substance dependence in our residents is higher than most—one out of every two young adults here—so it’s important for our staff and volunteers to uphold the same expectations we ask of our residents.”
“So,” I began, drawing a line through the dots he hadn’t explicitly connected. “I would also need to sign an alcohol-free statement? In order to volunteer?” Miles had definitely left that little detail out of our phone conversation last night.
“Would that be an issue for you?”
Was that a trick question? If I answered yes, would he automatically put me in the same category as an addict? But then again, if I said no, would it really mean zero glasses of wine for an entire summer? I straightened my spine, unwilling to let him in on my mental flailing. “Of course not. It’s not like I’m in the habit of drinking a bottle of wine each night before bed.”
He stared, unblinking.
“I’m kidding.”
“Forgive me if I don’t find alcohol abuse a humorous topic.”
Was anything a humorous topic for this guy? I was beginning to think I’d completely imagined his infectious smile during the team-building session outside. “Fair enough. Point taken.”
He reviewed my application for several more seconds, his finger dragging lower and lower down the page until he flipped it over and scanned the next one. “Ah, yes. I was curious about your check mark on the bilingual box. We represent many cultures and languages here at The Bridge, but you didn’t specify which languages you speak.”
Had I checked that box? My eyes must have been crossed from all the heavy reading and essay writing. Yet something told me that if I admitted such a mistake now, I’d have no more strikes left with Mr. No Humor. I wracked my brain, searching for any possible half-truth I could offer in reply. Even a crumb. And then I had it.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m bilingual.” For the number of times I’d been made to listen to my college roommate—a music major with a minor in Italian opera studies—practice La Bohème and Tosca in our shoebox of a dorm room, I could have been her understudy. “I learned Italian in college.”
“Italian?” He looked up from the application, his expression unmasked for the first time. I’d wowed him. Finally!
“Yes.”
“Well, that is unique. Most volunteers who check the bilingual box usually have two or three semesters of Spanish or French under their belt.” He did not sound impressed by those volunteers whatsoever. “But Italian is a first for us. Did you spend time in Italy?”
“I haven’t yet, no, but it’s a dream of mine to go someday.” Now, that was the hone
st truth. “I’ve always wanted to taste their local wi—” I caught myself before finishing the forbidden word while in his presence—“mozzarella and fresh baked bread. I hear the food is out of this world.”
“Traveling abroad takes language study to the next level. Conversing with people in their native tongue is a powerful way to connect. I highly recommend it.”
I smiled but kept my mouth shut. The flare of passion in his voice, in his brown-sugar eyes, made me want to know more about his experience in this area. Where had he traveled? What languages did he speak?
He closed the folder and sat back in his chair, his overall demeanor seeming to have warmed by at least half a degree.
“So why do you want to volunteer at The Bridge, Molly?”
For a man who seemed smitten by an application form I was quite certain he’d authored himself, this was about the most anticlimactic ending to an interview I could have imagined, seeing as I’d answered that particular question in written form at least six times in six different ways. I tamped down my internal frustration, remembering that I was a professional, a businesswoman with a goal. “Because I care about my community and the needs of the kids who live in it.” There. Simple, sweet, and to the point.
“And what needs do you believe you can help with . . . specifically?”
Specifically? “Well.” I smiled. “I think we’ve already established that when in a pinch, I can easily double as a human target.” I chuckled, but he did not. Fine. If he wanted serious, then I’d give him serious. “Mr. Whittaker, I built a self-made business from the ground up—first by researching how to upload tutorials to YouTube while filming some daily makeup, hair, and fashion tips from the kitchen pantry of my first apartment. Nobody knew my name or my face and nobody cared a lick about what I thought I could teach women in the beauty arena. My first few videos were only viewed by my friends and some family members. But little by little, I grew a following who shared those videos and commented with their encouragement for me to continue. My first sponsor—a protein bar catering to women’s health—found me ten months and a hundred and fifteen videos in. Their partnership provided me better camera and editing equipment, and about seventy-five percent of my daily sustenance, too. I now have a hundred and twenty-four companies who have partnered with my brand and my vision to bring a new level of honesty to the beauty industry worldwide, and with over half a million followers who engage in my weekly videos and livestreams, that number continues to grow daily, as do the products and retailers I endorse. So . . . what I have to offer your residents is a lesson in grit and determination.”
If Mr. Whittaker was impressed by any of that, he certainly did not show it. Instead, he leaned forward in his chair and released an exhale that had me itching to pull out my phone and tap into my Instagram account to prove I hadn’t exaggerated a single word of it.
But something told me it wouldn’t matter.
“You want to teach . . . grit?”
“Well, yes, and—”
He gave the tiniest shake of his head and sighed. “Miss McKenzie—Molly,” he corrected. “While I can appreciate your ambition and marketing abilities, I’m afraid that grit is not a quality our residents lack. Grit is how most of them survived their childhood. Grit is the common denominator for every child who’s ever lived through trauma. It’s kept them breathing in times most people would wish themselves dead. And it’s also kept many of them from experiencing deep and meaningful relationships, because the same instinct that tells them to push away potential failure and hurt has become the only instinct they know how to trust. The youth in our program don’t need more grit. They need more grace—to be seen, heard, known. To be real.”
It was suddenly difficult to swallow, much less speak. There was so much to digest in what he’d just said, so much to process and make sense of that—
“I want to thank you for your time, Miss McKenzie. Please give your brother my regards, and if we have a need for your services in the future, I’ll have Glo give you a call.”
He rolled his chair back and made to stand, but my legs refused to obey the signal my mind transmitted. He’d denied my application? I’d failed the interview process?
“Wait . . . does that mean you’re not approving my application? You’re rejecting me as a volunteer?” The very idea was ludicrous. Who rejected a volunteer?
“I don’t think you’re the right fit for our program.”
“Not the right fit?” Stunned, I shook my head. “I’m not a shoe, Mr. Whittaker. I’m a human being, one who filled out your entire fourteen-page application and answered every lengthy question to the best of my abilities. I’m willing to forgo paid work hours to volunteer at your establishment every week for an entire summer—for free. Am I missing something? Have you already filled the summer mentor slots? Because my brother seemed pretty convinced that you were in need of help.”
We were both standing now, nothing but a three-foot-wide desk between our egos. “As I’ve mentioned previously, we have a standard of professionalism to uphold—”
“Professionalism or perfectionism?” I didn’t know exactly where the words had come from, but there they were, like a slap across his face.
He reared back.
“Listen,” I continued, “regardless of how you might feel about my use of the term grit, I’ve proven that I know how to think—and thrive—outside the box I grew up in. Isn’t that what you want for all the residents in your program?”
“I won’t allow our young women to become brainwashed by some social media Cinderella fantasy they can’t possibly attain.”
“I’m not offering them a fantasy, I’m offering them relatability.”
“Relatability?” A huff of a laugh escaped him as he scanned the length of me. “Perhaps in all the confusion today with the Nerf darts, you didn’t get the best view of the young women in our program in need of a mentor. None of them own impressive clothing or shoes, and most of the possessions they do own have been passed down, bartered, stolen, or are worth less than the coins in your wallet.” He clamped his mouth closed and then restarted. “So, in short, no. I have a hard time believing that any of them will find you or your beauty brand the least bit relatable.”
“Every young woman wants to be beautiful. To feel beautiful. It’s one of our most basic core needs.”
He paused, as if unsure how to address such a statement. “Seventy percent and three percent.”
“Excuse me?”
“Those are just two statistics out of many that we fight against every day—the first being that seven out of ten aged-out foster girls become pregnant before their twenty-first birthdays, and the second that, despite government funding, only three percent of the twenty-three thousand teens who age out of the system each year will earn a college degree. Those are just two of the facts that determine how we focus our efforts within the program.” He flicked out the fingers on his right hand one by one. “How to budget, how to prioritize a weekly schedule, how to study for an exam, how to fill out a job application and interview for a position, how to cook a meal with more than three ingredients, how to trust another human being and be trusted in return. That’s just a sampling of the critical life skills we teach.”
“Being confident in your own skin is also a critical life skill,” I said passionately, recalling my Mimi’s favorite quote and arranging it to fit the context of this heated discussion. “‘When a person feels good in their own skin, they’re far more likely to want to help someone else feel good in theirs.’”
“I disagree.”
“I doubt Wren would disagree,” I snapped back.
His sharp eyes locked on mine. “You know nothing of her story.”
“You’re right, I don’t. But I do know what it’s like to feel trapped in my own life circumstances. And I certainly know how it feels to be judged for my appearance and not for my worth.” I let that last sentence hang a few extra seconds before continuing on. “Wren wants something . . . and she likely doesn�
��t even know how to discover what that something is yet. I don’t have an MBA, but I do have experience with being an insecure woman who found confidence by making something out of her life despite opposition and disapproval. Both are life skills I’ve learned the hard way. I hope better for Wren, and for all the kids who live here.” I lifted my purse off the floor and pulled the strap over my shoulder. “I’ll see myself out.”
If only my pride had held in that final statement. Because the truth was, I would be lucky to find my way out of this labyrinth before next Thursday if I went at it alone. But that’s exactly what I did as I pushed through Silas’s door and into a hallway that looked no different than all the others I’d walked down today.
5
Silas
She turned the wrong way.
Miss McKenzie—Molly—should have taken a right, but in her hurried departure, she shot out my office door and swung a left. I didn’t stop her.
Eventually, the woman would dead-end at the locked doors of the theater room, having no choice but to turn back and walk past my office in search of the main staircase. For as much as Fir Crest Manor had been a godsend to our organization, there was a garish lack of efficiency to its floor plan.
Even still, I doubted her dramatic exit had accounted for a U-turn.
Listening to the tap of those impractically tall shoes against the parquet floors, I swiped her file off the desk and dropped it into the wastebasket. Though she’d hardly been the first applicant I’d turned away over the last five years, she’d certainly been the most vocal. And quite possibly the most disappointing. I’d trusted Miles’s recommendation of her, trusted his judgment as a friend and as a fellow servant to our community. But family ties could blind the best of us, a flaw I knew a thing or two about.
I pressed my palms to the cool glass overlay of my desk, seeing her fake charm of a smile in my mind once again as she shot a live video in the lobby of our private establishment for her own personal gain. And without a second thought. I’d been leery of her self-proclaimed career title as an Influencer on her application, and I was even more so now. Nothing real or authentic ever came from the personal kingdoms we built online, especially kingdoms that paid as well as hers appeared to.