by Nicole Deese
The Viking propped his arm on Silas’s shoulder, making him appear much shorter than the five or six inches he had on me. “Wow, that sounds like a winning idea to me. I’m Jake Whittaker. Molly, was it?” Jake held out his mitt of a hand, and I shook it, acknowledging that, yes, he had my name correct.
Jake studied the syllabus in Silas’s hands. “I like this one here, too.” He pointed at the paper. “‘Talk Like a Pro: How to trade the ums and uhs for confident speech.’” Jake peered down at me again. “These are all super creative. Usually the Tuesday night classes are titled things like ‘Baking with Gene.’”
Jake laughed; Silas did not.
Jake read on despite his brother’s lack of shared amusement. “‘Food Flair: How to assemble a meal for one, two, or a dozen or more.’” Jake smiled and asked, “Are you a chef?”
I shook my head, aware that Silas was tuned in to us, though his eyes still scanned the pages I’d given him. “I do really like to cook, but I actually enjoy assembling food even more. It’s a lost art, really—how to arrange food to be an experience and not just a five-minute shovel and go.”
“Shovel and go?” Jake chuckled again. “That’s probably how my fiancée would categorize my eating style. Maybe I need to take your class—I’m sure Clara would appreciate it.”
I was grateful for his interest and flattery, but the growing sinkhole between Silas and me seemed to be expanding.
“There’s also ‘Decor 101,’” I said, jumping aboard the moving train Jake was conducting. “Which is less about decorating and more about how to orient a space to make it homey, which I define as both functional and aesthetically pleasing.” I glanced back at the girls’ cottage. “I noticed a few minor changes that could be made to the cottage that could be a hands-on application component to this class.”
Jake looked down at Silas and then back at me. “Honestly, that sounds right up Silas’s alley. He’s an organizational freak of nature, and—”
Silas shot him a narrowed side-eye glance that quickly shut him up.
“What does this asterisk mean at the bottom of the syllabus?” Silas asked.
“Well, I wasn’t sure what the financial or physical needs are at The Bridge, but I’m guessing since you mostly rely on donations and sponsors, all of these classes could culminate with a fundraising event I’d be happy to host at the end of the summer. I’ve fundraised for many of my brother’s mission trips—for him and the teams he travels with—and I grew up in a home where fundraising was a necessary evil to put food on the table.” I stopped there, unwilling to unpack any more personal details regarding my parents or childhood. “I could do the same thing here. For The Bridge. And the residents could all participate by managing specific jobs for the event.”
Jake’s eyes grew rounder and rounder as I spoke, and even Silas’s silence seemed to shift into something of a more stunned nature.
And then out of Jake’s mouth came a whispered phrase I had zero reference for: “Um, Silas, does this mean I’m prophetic?”
9
Silas
Molly had returned to Fir Crest Manor with a typed syllabus. A part of me was still trying to wrap my brain around that fact alone. The effort she’d put into the formatting, font, and bulleted list following each bolded class title proved it hadn’t been thrown together. It had clearly taken her hours to analyze the feedback I’d given her in order to create five specific classes that fit five specific skills she possessed.
It was impressive to say the least.
Which, of course, I hadn’t been able to say, since Jake had filled every breath break with small talk.
“I’m not sure what Silas has told you about the other volunteers here,” Jake began on yet another change of subject. “But they’re all great. I met my fiancée during a Tuesday night class a few years back, actually. I was here tearing out a wall in the fireside room, and Clara was here to teach a class on how to open a bank account. She’s a manager at a credit union downtown and a total math wizard.” He looked at Molly appraisingly. “What do you do for work?”
Molly glanced my way, as if waiting for me to butt in with my two cents. But I wouldn’t. “I’m an online fashion and beauty influencer.”
“Wow, like on YouTube? I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who’s made a career that way—although I’m guessing there must be a lot of you since so many people subscribe to social media channels.”
Molly remained quiet for a beat, and I discerned from her reticent expression that it wasn’t the first time a comment like this had been made regarding her chosen profession. Far from it, I gathered. But just as I was about to remind Jake of his awaiting garbage disposal duties, she answered him. “While I can’t speak for every vlogger personality on the internet, I can say that often the people who start uploading videos because they think they can turn a quick buck without a strategic marketing plan are almost never the same people who stick it out for the long haul. As my manager says, ‘If your numbers aren’t growing, somebody else’s are.’”
“You have a manager, too? Is that a requirement?”
“No, it’s not. Finding quality representation can be difficult in my industry, but a good agency partnership allows their talent to focus on what they do best. It’s been a positive experience for me overall,” she explained. “Unlike your fiancée, knowing the numbers behind how everything works isn’t my favorite part of being an influencer, but it is a necessary part. I’m glad I don’t have to figure out the math anymore.” Despite Jake’s overstep, the smile Molly offered my brother looked genuine.
“I bet she’d love to meet you—Clara, I mean. She’s always watching videos on how to tie a scarf or how to dress for certain events or . . . oh, what do you call that thing with the . . .” Jake’s voice trailed off as he mimicked a spastic brush stroke at his cheek, which had my eyes rounding. “It’s something to do with dark and light coming together.”
“Contouring,” Molly interjected with a light laugh.
Jake snapped his fingers. “Yes, that’s it. Contouring. Can’t tell you how many different tutorials I’ve watched since we set a date. Anyway,” he chuckled and shook his head, “she’ll be here Tuesday. I hope you get a chance to meet her.”
Molly crinkled her brow slightly, and once again her glance flitted to mine before returning to Jake. “Oh? So is she teaching for the summer classes?”
“She’ll be doing some mentoring and teaching. She was originally planning to take most of the summer off, with our wedding in September and all, but Clara didn’t want to leave Silas stranded. She’s a big supporter of what they do around here, and she loves the residents.”
“Sure, right,” Molly said slowly, as if breaking down her assumptions into bite-size pieces. “That’s great.”
I gave Jake a hard pat on the back, a reminder that he had elsewhere to be. “The kids will be showing up soon, and Glo will be wanting access to that kitchen for dinner.”
“Which means she’ll be wanting a functioning garbage disposal.” Jake sighed. “See what kind of grunt work I get stuck with when I show up out of the goodness of my heart to help my big brother for an afternoon?”
“Nice try. You lost a bet,” I reminded him. “One you set the stakes for, too. Maybe you’ll think twice about challenging me next time.”
“It was good to meet you, Molly. I’ll tell Clara to keep an eye out for you,” Jake said as he retreated several yard-stick-sized steps backward. “And don’t worry too much about that one.” He pointed at me. “He’s all bark. Well, mostly anyway.”
“Thanks for the advice.” Molly looked straight at me while Jake took advantage of the moment and pointed at her back with the kind of zeal no self-respecting man should possess, mouthing the words Black Widow more times than I cared to count.
“So,” Molly said, eyeing her portfolio in my hand. “It sounds like you may have already filled your summer mentor opening with your brother’s fiancée?”
If there was a hint at nepotism
in her query, I wouldn’t back down from it. “With Clara’s long history at The Bridge and her expertise in financials, she’s become an asset around here.”
“Sounds like it.” Molly’s chin remained squared, never dipping an inch, as if nothing I could say would challenge the new shade of resolve she wore. Not even a dismissal.
I respected that more than she knew.
“Our intent was always to have someone train as a mentor under Clara for however long she’d be willing to do that, given her need for flexibility this summer,” I said. “But until today I wasn’t sure we’d have a candidate I could recommend to her.”
I didn’t hate being the reason something sparked to life in her eyes.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that if you’re interested in apprenticing as a mentor for our summer program, then I’d be open to discussing the terms with you—”
“Really?” She pressed her hands together as if in prayer and brought the tips of her pointer fingers to her shimmery mouth.
I redirected my attention.
“I like the majority of your class ideas. Like Jake said, they’re original and creative, and still relevant to our program. Our continuing residents will appreciate the new subjects. And if you’re open to broadening your audience, I’m certain a few of our male residents will find some of these topics appealing, too.”
“Of course. I like men. I mean . . .” She shook her head. “Male people are fine with me.”
“Male people? Will that term be included in your ‘Talk Like a Pro’ class?”
She peered at me as if trying to read something on my face. “Is that a joke?”
Working to mask the twitch in my left cheek, I moved on and tapped at the second class from the top, the one she and Jake hadn’t yet mentioned on this ten-week syllabus she’d handed me. “I’m also interested to hear more about this class here.”
She read it out loud. “‘How to Master an Interview: Five Simple Steps to Landing the Position You Want.’” She looked up at me again, her cheeks brightening. “To be fair, my interview with you that day was an anomaly and—”
“I’m teasing you.”
She stopped abruptly. “You are?”
“I’m impressed by your work here. It’s good.” I held up her portfolio, and something inside me softened at the way she exhaled. “But I think before you officially sign up for the summer, we should use Tuesday’s class as a trial. Make sure it’s a match—on both sides. If our residents respond well to you, then we’ll go ahead with all the necessary documentation in my office. And then on Friday afternoon, you and Clara can tag team a small group of six young ladies. That will give you some extra experience and Clara some flexibility to attend to other priorities.”
“I think that’s fair. Thank you.” Molly nodded and stuck out her hand, the gesture so unexpected that the grin I’d been fighting since she’d shown up looking like she was ready to take on the Oval Office couldn’t be stopped.
“Silas?” Glo called from the path to the Lavender Cottage. “Cecilia from the board called, wanting to confirm a few things on the meeting agenda. I sent her to your voicemail.”
Both Molly and I turned to address her at the same time—Molly giving her an excited wave and a thumbs-up while I . . . What are those shoes doing on Glo’s feet? No matter how I tried to tear my eyes away from them, I couldn’t stop staring. In nearly seven years of working with Glo in some capacity or another, I’d never seen her in anything but Birkenstocks or snow boots.
I blinked. “Uh . . . thank you. I’ll call her back in a few minutes.” I definitely had some agenda changes I needed to discuss for the upcoming board meeting.
“Oh, and Jake’s got Alex and Diego in the kitchen using power tools, FYI. They both arrived home from training early. It’s quite the comedy show in there. See you soon I hope, Molly,” Glo said as she turned and clacked away in a pair of black miniature heels.
“I’m sure it is,” I replied absently, still unable to understand what my eyes were seeing.
But then it all made sense. Slowly, I pivoted toward the woman who’d been on the premises for less than three total hours and yet had already managed to hack the closet of my most dedicated staff member. “Those ridiculous shoes are your doing, aren’t they?”
With a full-steam-ahead smile, Molly said, “You’ll have to be more specific. I can honestly say I’ve seen zero pairs of ridiculous shoes today.”
I sighed and ran a hand over my hair. “Never mind. I’ll see you Tuesday evening at five.”
“I’ll be there.”
10
Molly
The instant I sent my latest video off to Val to edit—a compare/contrast of the five most popular, budget-friendly denim brands on the market today—Ethan called me. I quickly saved the file, took a swig of my sparkling water, and answered.
“Molly? You there, babe?”
“Yes, sorry, I was taking a drink. Been a long day.”
“Oh, yeah? Finally working on those posts for The Path?”
I chuckled, ignoring his slight at the word finally. I’d been up since dawn trying to get everything in for my day job so that I could manage my new unpaid job located at Fir Crest Manor. “You mean The Bridge?”
“Oh, right. The Bridge.”
“Not quite yet, no. I’m still working on gathering what I need from them.” Like signed social media releases and permissions from a certain director. “Actually, I really can’t chat long right now.” I glanced at the time on my laptop and made a break for my bedroom down the hallway. I had less than fifty minutes to build the most teacher-worthy outfit I could for my big debut. “I have class tonight.”
“Well, this news will make your charity work feel a whole lot sweeter, because I just secured a killer new campaign for you. And if all goes according to plan, not only will it be the biggest check Makeup Matters with Molly has ever received, but it will also broaden your reach and visibility by a landslide.”
“Oh?” I flung open the door to my walk-in closet and flipped on the light. A rush of endorphins warmed my cheeks as I surveyed the options before me. “Who’s it with?”
“The Fit Glam Kit.”
I paused my perusal of appropriate blouses. “As in the monthly subscription box with the famous personal trainer who does random workouts in cities across the U.S. in random locations like parking lots and bridges and beaches and parks?”
“Yes, Sophia Richards. She has an incredible branding team.”
“Well, that’s, wow. That’s . . . surprising.” Especially considering I was not a personal trainer, nor was I interested in working out till I vomited up a lung. “And her company is wanting me to do what for them, exactly?”
His laugh was light, as if I’d just asked the most obvious question in the world. And perhaps I had, but he also knew how I felt about modeling workout gear, so I sincerely hoped his answer wouldn’t be—
“To model some of their summer workout gear. They’re looking for a fresh new face with a loyal yet trendy audience. I’m still working it all out with their marketing team, but basically, they’ll send me a list of things they want you to promote—specific poses with some of their gear and whatnot. They’re set to offer your viewers the biggest collaboration discount yet for this special box subscription. But they want you to be natural, of course. They know your face and personality are what sells the products.”
I sat back and stretched my neck side to side, wondering what he might be leaving out. He only talked a thousand miles an hour like this when there was something unpleasant he was withholding. I’d overheard several one-sided conversations with his clients while riding shotgun next to him to recognize what this hyperspeed meant.
Before I could ask him the specifics, he hit me with, “Molly, are you hearing me, babe? This deal could be huge. Bigger than huge. As in buy-your-parents-a-houseboat-for-their-retirement kind of huge. Imagine it with me: your face on a box, your quote on a water bottle, your body on a step-by-
step guide on how to stay trim and cool in the hot summer sun. This could be a permanent collaboration if we play our cards right. I just sent back their initial offer, and I have high hopes they’ll take my renegotiated price.”
Before I could laugh at the idea of my parents retiring from full-time ministry to live on a fancy houseboat, my attention snagged on his last sentence. “You already renegotiated? But I hardly know anything about this yet.”
“What do you mean? I just told you about it.”
“No, like, I want to know what they expect me to do, what they want me to wear.” Because he knew just how much I loathed active photo shoots that involved jogging in place while wearing stretch pants and a sports bra. It just wasn’t me. And my viewers knew it. I was their go-to girl for makeup trends and fashion alerts and how-to guides. And while I was all about supporting a healthy body image for young, impressionable girls, I was just as passionate about staying true to my brand. And to my own body comfort level. “I find nothing natural about me sweating on camera and talking about how comfortable workout wear is while I huff and puff and jiggle in places I don’t want jiggling in front of the whole wide world. I’m just not the type of gal to promote workout wear, Ethan.” I reached for a black pair of straight-leg dress pants and a gauzy cream tunic blouse with a tie at the natural waist. I held the blouse up to the mirror, then tossed it on my bed in search of the right shoes.
“You don’t need to worry about any of that. I know what your preferences are. You can trust me. I haven’t led you astray yet, right?”
True. “Send me what you have, and I’ll try to look it all over tonight when I get back.”