“Inspiring how? The shave-your-head-wear-a-sheet-give-all-your-money kind of inspiring?”
Calista snorted. “Not quite.” But she had to admit, it was pretty close. And that was a scary thought. Because if there was one thing Calista Sheffield did not do, it was play “follow the leader.” She stared out at the snowy peaks of the Rocky Mountains, letting Jackie’s light conversation wind around her. There was nothing else to do except make sure her focus stayed on the mission and not on the director. That gorgeous smile could turn anybody’s head but he didn’t need another groupie. He needed someone who could raise some cash. And that was what she was going to do.
Chapter Seven
“Hello, mijo,” Marisol said, loading a giant aluminum pot into one of the three commercial-grade dishwashers. Grant reached over the petite woman and positioned the pot. The steam from the last batch of dishes snaked out of the metal machine in tiny wisps. He slid the door closed and flipped the switch, careful to avoid the hot metal of the utensils in a small green basket she had just removed.
“Looks like you have experience. You want to be the new dishwasher?” Marisol’s teasing tone helped the knot ease at the back of Grant’s neck.
“Anytime. At least this doesn’t include any long meetings.”
Marisol laughed, a light, carefree sound that seemed to belong to a much younger person. “No, gracias a Dios, no meetings.” Tucking one dark brown hand into the pocket of her apron, she waited for him to speak. He rarely came into the kitchen unless he had a purpose there.
He cleared his throat, looking for the right words. He’d heard Calista’s version, now he wanted to hear what Marisol had to say.
“Why did you tell Calista I was busy, but she had a chance with me if she showed her feelings?” He didn’t know if he was asking out of insanity or sheer curiosity. Part of him wanted her to give a perfectly normal explanation and another part—the part that had him thinking about Calista nonstop since the moment he’d seen her—wanted Marisol to tell him Calista cared for him.
“She said you were perfect. I was just making her feel better because she look so sad.” Marisol shrugged, as if that statement hadn’t knocked Grant’s world for a loop.
He felt his eyes go wide. “She said those words, those exact words?”
Marisol beamed again. “She did. I knew you would like that.”
“No, Mari, I’m not perfect. You know I’m not. I’m so far from it that I should come with a warning sign. I get wrapped up in my work, I care way too much, I have a temper.” He ticked off his faults in rapid-fire, while holding up one finger at a time.
To his surprise, Marisol laughed, the sound mingling with the clanks and clatter of the busy kitchen. “I know that, you know that, but she doesn’t know that.”
“And lying to her is okay with you?” He couldn’t stop the bitter note of accusation that accompanied his words.
She sighed, and reached out a hand to touch his arm. “Mijo, I would not lie to the girl. And she is not one to believe a lie. But when the heart first loves, it only sees perfection. With time, the love remains but the heart knows the truth—no one is perfect. Only God. That is what I mean.” Her brown eyes were wide with earnestness. “So, when she says you are perfect, and those were her words, it made me happy. That is always how it is in the beginning.”
Grant wanted to tell her that she had no right to discuss his personal life, especially with a woman he barely knew. He wanted to be angry that she could laugh about Calista thinking he was perfect, when he was so far from it. But he couldn’t. A strange sensation had crept over him while she spoke. It was a mix of yearning and dread, of excitement and fear. He felt as if he were standing on the edge of a cliff.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He worked to get his voice under control. “A lot of people throw that word around.”
Marisol nodded in a way that didn’t fool him in the least. Her eyes were still bright as she turned to accept another large pot coming from a worker. “You are right. We cannot jump ahead. Let us go one step at a time.”
Which made his stomach drop again, like he really had just jumped off a cliff. Because the next step was going to be seeing more of Calista. Maybe he should ask Lana to assign her some scheduled hours when he was sure to be out of the building. If they never saw each other, then their friendship would never turn into something else. And she would never know he was anything less than perfect, which might be what he really wanted, a small voice reminded him. He heaved a sigh and resigned himself to the fact that he had to trust God. He knew what He was doing. Even if it looked like He was trying to throw Grant off a cliff.
* * *
Jackie poked at her iPad, tapping and scrolling through screens. Another crazy Tuesday morning. But Calista didn’t mind because she had tomorrow morning at the mission, which was absolutely the best part of her week. “I’m assuming you’re not attending this year’s Christmas party,” Jackie said, not bothering to glance away from her glowing screen.
“Actually, I think I will.”
If Jackie had been the excitable type, she would have bolted from her perch on the armchair and let out a screech. But all she did was raise both eyebrows and let her mouth fall open a little in surprise.
“And stay for a while.” Calista dropped the words into the space between them as casually as if she had been present for every single VitaWow party for the past five years. Which she hadn’t. Well, not really. She would show up for fifteen minutes, shake some hands, watch the party fizzle out to almost nothing, then make her exit. Last year, she swore she could hear sighs of relief on her way out. She was the original wet blanket.
“Is it because it’s being held at the Grant-Humphreys Mansion? You said you didn’t really care, so I thought it was time to make a change from the Ritz.”
“Now you’re making me feel unwelcome.”
“No, I think it’s a great idea.” Jackie nibbled a nail, still focusing on her boss. “Are you bringing a date?”
She pasted a noncommittal look on her face and shrugged. “I’m sure someone will pop up.”
“Right.” And with that, her assistant dropped her gaze to her lap and continued jotting notes.
Calista swiveled in her office chair and gazed at the scenery outside. Little fluffs of white snow were falling lazily from the sky and the peaks in the distance were almost obscured by the low, heavy clouds. Was it possible that she could combine work and play? Just once? If she brought Grant to the party, he could really make some contacts. Enough with the fifty-dollar-a-month donations from old ladies down the block. The man needed to find some serious donors. The guest list had some very influential business owners, and she could certainly pull in a few more. A very small part of her insisted that she wasn’t being completely honest. To thine own self be true. She sighed and admitted that, just for a moment, it would be nice to go to a party and have a good time. Maybe dress up and dance a little.
The corners of her mouth tugged up. She would ask him today. Her stomach gave a shiver of nerves but she straightened her shoulders. She was done investing time and effort into projects that didn’t make her happy. The mission made her feel useful, and she’d made friends there. And Grant... She didn’t quite know if the feeling she got around him could be contained in that one word, but happy was definitely part of it.
* * *
Grant stared at his desk calendar and counted back the days. Almost Thanksgiving already. It had been three weeks since Calista Sheffield had walked into the mission. She was coming more than once a week now. Even though she spent a lot of time in the filing room at the end of the hall, there was a standing need in the nursery on Friday evenings, when the women’s Bible study was held in one of the classrooms. Thursday evening was the grant-writing team meeting and they worked side by side perfecting the applications. And Saturday morning was Ma
risol’s cooking class and Calista had been thrilled to find out there was still a place for one more.
At first, he tried to ignore her. Impossible. He found himself staring into those bottomless green eyes, just seconds after he had decided to ignore her, again. The days when she wore her hair soft and loose, he swore he could smell the delicate scent of her shampoo when she passed his door.
Avoiding her worked a bit better, except that he never saw Marisol when Calista was around because the two had become fast friends. And he could never quite seem to forget she was here, in the building, somewhere close by.
So, finally he decided he would treat the situation like a twelve-step program. The first step is to admit you are powerless. He couldn’t control his emotions when she was around. It was useless to try. He would just turn it all over to God.
Of course, that didn’t mean he was luring her into his office for another near-miss kiss. It just meant he couldn’t fight what he was feeling. It was a huge relief. Now all he had to do was battle the insane impulse to follow her around, just to be in her presence.
And he wasn’t going to let himself go there, because she was going to leave. Maybe not today, maybe not after Thanksgiving, but for sure when the Christmas tinsel came down and reality set in. If the mission could stay open that long. He might not even have to worry about Calista leaving if he didn’t get some big donations real soon.
What if they had met at some sort of business function, not as director and volunteer? Would they have had a chance? There was that edge-of-the-cliff feeling again. He grimaced and tried to calm his breathing. But nothing would be able to get past the fact that she believed in the power of the almighty buck and he didn’t. He didn’t think he could be with someone who spent all their time making money.
He rubbed a spot in the middle of his chest, a dull ache. Was it stress or something else? He chuckled at the question and then a knock on the door made him nearly jump out of his skin.
Lana rolled her chair toward his desk, an envelope in one hand.
“This came in the mail today and I wanted you to see it before the board does,” she said, her blue eyes narrowing with anxiety.
Grant frowned and took the plain manila envelope. The paper inside was folded in thirds and as he spread it against his desk, the first thing he noticed was the crude handwriting. The next was the message scrawled in black ink.
I know who you are, Grant Monohan.
Under that was a line that made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.
Time to make Daddy’s little boy pay.
Lana waited, watching Grant with worry etched in every line of her face.
“I guess it’s time, then,” he said. “This is the fourth one this month and now there’s a threat attached.”
She nodded and reached for the paper. “It was bound to come out sooner or later.” She folded the paper back into its envelope. “There’s nothing for you to be ashamed of, you know.”
He rubbed a hand over his face, feeling the stubble that appeared right around this time of day. “I know, but it doesn’t make it any easier. People will come to their own conclusions, no matter how I spin it.”
“Then let God handle it, no spin required.” Lana was unshakable in her faith and Grant loved that. He felt as if he was holding on to his by a thread most of the time. No, he had plenty of faith, but the doubts were constant reminders of how far he had to go.
“Right. Will you help me craft the statement? I’ll give this to the board tonight. We can set up a media announcement for Friday morning. Then we have to turn it over to the police.” Standard procedure when there was a threat of any kind. And a big place like this attracted a lot of crazy stuff. Good thing their financial statement was up to speed. Last year’s audit was ready if the press started slinging mud.
Lana ran a hand through her short gray-purple hair. He felt himself relax at the sight of the familiar gesture. The secretary had been a good friend these past years, like a steady rock in the storm. “The day after Thanksgiving? Well, that will be a way to avoid Black Friday sales, for sure. I’ll get right on it. Short and sweet?”
“Probably better that way, don’t you think? It’s going to cause enough publicity as it is.” His stomach twisted at the thought of making a public statement about his personal life, the past he’d been hiding. No, not hiding but avoiding.
“Grant, you know we all love you.” She fixed him with a steady gaze and Grant felt affection for her well up inside, his anxiety replaced with gratitude. His throat closed a bit and he said huskily, “I know, Lana, and I won’t forget it.”
She smiled a little sadly and swiveled the chair toward the door. She turned back for a moment and said, “You’re used to expecting the worst out of the world. You just might be surprised about how this all turns out.”
Grant nodded and she wheeled out the door, strong arms propelling the metal chair across the threshold. He stared for a moment at the space she’d left behind. Maybe she was right, but years of seeing the worst in humanity had trained him to prepare for disaster.
When he announced to the world that he was the only child of the wealthiest businessman in the state, his life would never be the same. He gazed around the small, plain office and shuddered at the thought of paparazzi camped out in the lobby, harassing the homeless people. The preschoolers would be frightened and confused by the camera crews. The everyday folks who came here for addiction counseling and spiritual support would feel too intimidated by the cameras to get near the door. He dropped his head in his hands and tried to slow his breathing. Maybe it would be best for everybody if he resigned. Maybe he could continue to work in some other capacity, like board members did.
But the thought of leaving the only place he had ever felt at home made him sick to his stomach. The father who had abandoned him to an alcoholic mother, who’d never sent a penny in support, who’d jetted around the world while his own kid had dug in Dumpsters for food, was not going to run Grant’s life.
Grant straightened up and took a deep breath. Lord, You’ve been with me every step of the way. Help me to remember You’re the only father who matters. Wherever You want me to go, I’ll go. He closed his eyes and waited in silence, feeling as if words had failed him but knowing God read what was unfinished in his heart.
* * *
The file room at the Downtown Denver Mission was a little gray box with scratchy carpet and a window too high to let in much light. After twenty minutes that first day, Calista started to sympathize with the VitaWow employees who worked in the basement. She would never again complain about the fact that her office got a blinding dose of afternoon sun. As soon as she’d returned to her office, she’d authorized some very nice coffeemakers and a new set of leather couches to give their break room some extra perks. For the past three weeks, she’d also thrown in movie tickets for every basement-level employee, to sweeten the deal.
But no matter how nice VitaWow’s basement was now, this little file room was still a claustrophobia-inducing box. She’d never liked small spaces, especially after the house fire. Her mind flashed on the old wooden porch, blackened and listing to one side. Before she could stop it, images flickered of the living-room floor burned through, the basement where the fire broke out, where her mother had been doing laundry. Finally, where her mother had been trapped when the old wooden steps into the low-ceilinged basement had collapsed.
Calista took a breath and closed her eyes. Lord, I trust in You. That was all she could pray when the images began to flash before her, especially in the middle of the night. There was no way she could try to explain why her mama had to die like that. She was a gracious and kind woman, who brought dinner to sick folk and took in stray dogs. How could it ever be made right? But her faith told her to trust that it would be made clear someday. Right now, all she could do was trust.
* * *
&nbs
p; Eric knocked and opened Grant’s office door at the same time. He stood there looking exceptionally grouchy. His best friend’s bright red hair stuck up in tufts like it always did when he’d been clutching his head. It would have been funny except for the frosty glare underneath.
“Hey, what’s up?” Grant waved him toward a seat and grabbed two sodas from the mini fridge. Maybe a cold drink would buy him some mercy. He was pretty certain he knew what prompted Eric’s visit.
“So, you dumped Jennie and now you won’t even talk to her?” He didn’t make a move to sit down or take the soda.
Grant winced. “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too. I told you that she wanted—we both wanted—to be friends.”
“She just paid me a visit to complain that you weren’t answering her phone calls.”
“I’m not.”
Eric’s frown intensified. “Well, must be a story there because you’re not usually the type to freeze someone out. Spill it.” He plopped his lean runner’s body into a chair.
“Well, she said I was too religious, decided we should be friends. Then she called here, saying she was my girlfriend. I think she knows there’s something more to be gained by dating a poverty-stricken shelter director after all.”
Eric sighed. “Wow. So you think she knows about your father? She seemed so wounded this morning, she was almost crying.”
Grant almost snorted soda up his nose as he thought of how many tears would be shed when he made that announcement. “I have no doubt she was.” He straightened his shoulders and rolled his neck, trying to ease some of the stress in his muscles. “I’m holding a press conference tomorrow.”
Eric’s eyebrows shot up. “Time to get it out in the open?”
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