Some of the girls were arranging dishes. Others were preparing drinks and setting out food. Through the windows that looked out on a strip of grass and some lawn chairs, Emily saw two of the girls talking earnestly to the counselor.
“Everyone,” Cammie said loudly, “this is my friend Emily, who’s joining us for dinner. She knows a lot about organic food and cooking healthily, and we can learn a lot from her.”
Emily, smiling nervously, set the bag on a small side table. She wore a Make Love, Not Trash T-shirt with a long skirt and a pair of sandals. Her pulled-back hair emphasized her pink, freshly washed face.
The girls stared at her in silence.
“Look who’s coming to dinner,” Takira muttered. “Taylor Swift.”
“Takira,” Cammie warned quietly.
“Well, she ain’t no hoodrat,” added another girl.
A smattering of giggles.
“Hey,” said another, “be easy on the bougie.”
Marc looked around and smiled, although you could see his patience was thinning. “My name’s Marc and I’m Emily’s father.” He put a supportive hand on her back. “She’s here because she wanted to meet you. In fact, she brought organic food to share with you. But if you can’t speak respectfully to her, she’s leaving.”
Cammie had never seen so many eyes grow wide, but Marc was right. The girls had behaved badly, probably out of jealousy, and Cammie should have stepped in first to put a stop to it. She was, after all, the one in charge here.
“Girls,” she said, “let’s—”
“Anybody else have something to say?” Marc said.
She started to override his churlishness, but stopped when she saw the fiercely protective look in his face. This wasn’t about him being rude or defensive, this was him being a father defending his daughter.
“Because I invite you to step forward and speak your mind,” he continued. “But one caveat—I challenge you to share something meaningful and important, because it doesn’t take much intelligence to deride others.” He looked around the room, making eye contact with each and every girl. “On the other hand, it takes character, a person destined to be a leader, one who chooses to educate and uplift her fellow humans, to take the floor. Who would like to speak now?”
Amber drifted forward, her large dark eyes staring intently at Marc as though to ensure he was properly listening.
“The world’s going to end in 2016,” she said quietly.
A crash shattered the silence.
“Shit, it’s ending now!” one girl yelled as she dove for cover. Several girls ran squealing into the dining room, others fell to the floor. Air rushed through a hinged window that had been blown open by a fierce blast of desert wind, the force propelling the window against the wall and shattering its panes. Dust swirled, papers fluttered, glasses smashed onto the floor. Instinctually, Cammie gathered Emily and a few other girls and made them crouch low to the ground, their hands over their heads as if they were in a plane that was about to go down.
Air rushed through the room. A steel bowl rattled across the floor.
Then, silence.
Cautiously, Cammie looked up.
Marc stood at the broken window over the sink, pressing the top of the side table over the gaping hole to block the wind. His shirt had ripped at the armhole, exposing a tanned, muscled deltoid. He looked over his shoulder at Cammie and grinned.
“When I lifted the table, caught the leg in my sleeve. Tore the shirt getting it loose or I’d have gotten to the window sooner.”
The way his hair fell over his forehead, that isn’t-this-just-the-damnedest-thing grin and that flash of muscle, he looked like a rugged, save-the-day hero on a romance book cover.
There was a time she would have found such an image to be silly or superficial, but at this moment it hit her completely differently. He’d been quick thinking, strong, protective. No paperback hero, but the real deal.
She straightened, trying to ignore the small, hot thrill in the pit of her stomach. “Everybody okay?” she asked, helping the other girls up.
“Fine.”
“Yes, Miss Copello.”
“Got a toolbox around here?” Marc asked.
“There’s one downstairs,” Takira offered. “I’ll go get it.”
As she jogged out of the room, Cammie said, “Let’s get things cleaned up.” Everybody pitched in without a single gripe.
The counselor and the two girls entered through the back door, their hair tousled, looks of surprise on their faces. Cammie assured the counselor that the girls were okay, explained how Marc had closed the broken window.
“Could one of the other windows blow?” one of the girls asked.
The counselor shook her head. “We’ve all known that window needed fixing. Should’ve secured it weeks ago.”
“Is there a piece of plywood around?” Marc asked. “Something large enough to nail across here?”
Cammie thought for a moment. “Got a piece of wood that might work in my car. I use it to stabilize the camera on surveillances.”
Marc laughed. “You’re like Felix the Cat. Always got something in your bag of tricks.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” As she left, she noticed Amber and Emily working together to sweep up the broken glass. Funny how those two girls, who seemingly had little in common, had gravitated to each other and were working so well together.
Reminded Cammie of her and Marc. When they met, they were near opposites, yet they’d ended up working well together.
But would they work well together again?
Only time would tell.
* * *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Emily was at the kitchen counter, showing Amber and another girl how to make hummus. Other girls were cutting slices of the gluten-free, organic bread, while others were setting up plates of avocado and cheese slices, bean sprouts and other items for make-your-own sandwiches.
On the opposite counter, Marc and Cammie were chopping lettuce and tomatoes for a salad.
He’d hesitated to stay, because this evening was about Emily, but the counselor Carolyn had insisted. Out of earshot of the girls, she’d said, “We like the girls to experience a positive family environment when it presents itself.”
So here he was, the symbolic father figure in a family of a dozen or so girls, some of whom had that look of ghetto hardness he recognized from criminal cases he’d handled. Children who had learned, some before they could even talk, that only the strong survived and only fools trusted. These kids never seemed to relax, their bodies tense, their eyes constantly darting about, their brains always juggling life’s stacked odds.
He’d challenged Emily to show people respect, especially hardworking people, which these girls were, because they were trying to change for the better. It made him proud that Emily was meeting the challenge.
He glanced over at his daughter explaining to several girls that, although she didn’t eat meat, she supported organically fed livestock because they weren’t fed antibiotics or genetically modified foods.
“Why’s that so good?” asked a girl.
“Means you’re eating healthier food,” Emily said, “plus the animals are raised humanely.”
“What’s humanely mean?” another girl asked.
“Like how we’re being raised here,” Amber said, who had positioned herself next to Emily, “and not like what we experienced before.”
After a moment of silence, Takira said, “For sheezy!” which got a laugh.
Lowering his voice, Marc asked Cammie, “What’s for sheezy?”
“For sure,” Cammie said.
“I’m never going to have children,” Amber announced. “It’s irresponsible to add to a world that is already overpopulated.”
“Fewer people,” Emily
added, “less ozone depletion.”
“Exactly,” agreed Amber. “You have a mother?”
“Yes,” Emily answered.
“Does she work?”
“Not if she can help it.”
“What does she do?”
“Marries men who have money.”
Marc moved his head closer to Cammie. “For sheezy,” he muttered.
Cammie shot him a smile, which he returned, but as they resumed their chopping, he mulled over Emily’s response. As much as his ex-wife irritated the hell out of him, it hadn’t felt good hearing Emily’s toss-off remark. If that’s how she viewed her mother’s “career”—as marrying for financial gain—how would that affect Em’s future relationships with men? If only he could have more time with Emily, help her nurture more positive views of men and women.
If only.
“What about your mother?” Emily asked.
“She’s dead,” Amber said matter-of-factly.
Marc darted a look at Cammie, who gave a slight shrug.
“I didn’t know,” Emily said. “I’m sorry.”
“No big deal,” Amber said. “She died when I was little. I barely remember her. I’ve lived in a lot of foster homes. Nobody wanted to adopt me but I don’t care. I didn’t want to be adopted by any of them, either. Nobody cared about changing the world, just consuming it.”
Takira and some of the other girls started singing a rap song, “Hate It or Love It,” and the mood in the room lifted as they danced and sang. Cammie silently congratulated Takira for keeping her moves G-rated.
“Em and Amber are connecting,” Marc said. With all the commotion in the room, they could safely talk without being overheard.
“Amber’s found a kindred spirit.” She paused. “And Emily, too. Maybe Amber is somebody she can genuinely relate to.”
He nodded, appreciating Cammie’s insight into Em.
He’d always known Cammie to be independent and driven, but here at Dignity House he was seeing her sensitive side, too. She was good with these girls. He supposed that could be due to her being a caretaker for her mother, but this felt different. More nurturing, intuitive. Shame that someone who had such natural mothering instincts was adamant that she never wanted to have her own children.
“I overheard them talking earlier about an Eco-Glitter rally,” he mentioned, switching gears. “What’s that?”
“You’re asking me? I still eat meat and sugar, and wonder if vegans are distant cousins of Vulcans.”
“Sounded as though Amber wants Em to go with her.”
“Ain’t gonna happen. Amber is a house resident, meaning she never leaves the facility except for supervised group activities.”
“Sorry to hear about her mother.”
Cammie looked around, then said quietly, “Actually she’s not dead. But Amber tells everyone she is.”
“Did her mother abandon her?”
“Yes. In a Dumpster. Amber was only a month old, so she doesn’t remember the incident, of course, but she knows the truth and it hurts to know she wasn’t wanted.”
He chopped in silence for several moments.
“Unlike us,” Marc said quietly. Both of them had had their parental issues, but at least he and Cammie had both known they were wanted and loved.
“Yes,” Cammie said softly.
Their eyes caught, and in that singular moment, he realized they shared a secret.
They yearned for family.
Maybe because they’d both come from broken homes, they were still searching to fix that as adults. Or maybe they’d been orbiting in their own worlds for so long, they wanted to return to a home base, to make the circle whole. He wondered if her volunteering at Dignity House—even though it was court-ordered—partially fulfilled that need within her. Without a doubt, his proposing to Gwen had been a badly thought-out plan to fulfill his. He’d been looking for someone who needed him, and Gwen did an excellent impression of helplessness.
He observed Cammie’s profile as she focused on her dicing and chopping. No one would ever call her helpless. He noticed the feathery texture of her eyelashes, the strong line of her nose. He lingered on the lips that he’d almost kissed earlier today.
At the time he told himself he’d pulled back because he was out of control, acting juvenile. Now he realized he’d gotten too close to something that felt too real.
Just because he yearned to complete the circle, didn’t mean he was ready for it.
In fact, he was terrified of it.
CHAPTER TEN
WHEN CAMMIE ROLLED PHIL into Bergstrom’s Bridals’ parking lot at 9:30 the next morning, Delilah’s red Fiat 500 was already there. No Prius. Good. She wanted a few minutes alone with the older woman before Emily and Marc arrived.
The front door was large and white with the words Bergstrom’s Bridals scrawled across it in shiny gold letters. Cammie turned the knob. Locked. After punching the bell, she heard distant bells playing “Here Comes the Bride.” Moments later, a middle-aged gentleman wearing a buttoned-up suit with a matching bow tie opened the door.
“You must be Miss Copello,” he said, enunciating each word. “I’m Mr. Bergstrom.”
They shook hands.
“We keep the door locked during appointments so I can give my undivided attention to the bride. Please come in and make yourself comfortable. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Cream.”
With a twitch of his manicured moustache, Mr. Bergstrom exited quickly.
Walking into the bridal salon was like going snow-blind. Except for the polished hardwood floors and a crystal chandelier that looked like an upside-down Vegas showgirl’s headdress, everything was a shade of white. Over the speakers, violins trilled in a classical piece.
A high-back white couch faced a small white stage surrounded by floor-to-ceiling mirrors. On the glass coffee table was an arrangement of off-white roses.
From behind the mirrors, Delilah sashayed out wearing a cream-colored caftan that blended into the decor, giving her the eerie impression of being a floating head and cleavage.
“Darling,” she cooed, carrying two cups of steaming coffee, “Frankie told me you’re feeling a tad uncomfortable trying on these dresses. So I put a little comfort in your coffee.” She set down the cups on the table, then settled on the couch. “Come, sit.” She patted the seat next to her.
“What kind of comfort?” Cammie asked, sitting.
“Frangelico. Just a drop.”
She took a sip and coughed. “More like six or ten.”
“Enough to take the edge off.”
Delilah had a valid point. After taking another sip, she set the cup down. “Delilah, I need to ask a favor. I know you’re thinking of me, but please...no more matchmaking.”
The older woman gave a who-me look.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Cammie continued. “Promise me you won’t say anything this morning that even hints at Marc and me getting together.”
“Getting together,” she repeated slowly, as though she’d never before heard those words in the English language.
“I know you know what I mean,” Cammie said, speaking through her teeth. “The other night you left me in the restaurant, alone with Marc, who would have had to drive me home if—” She didn’t need to go into what happened in his hotel room. How he’d rejected her. How she’d walked out and grabbed a cab.
“I know my uncle has told you I had a crush on Marc for a long time, but not anymore. Well, soon it’ll be not anymore. I’m working on it. For the record, he had a chance to kiss me yesterday and he didn’t want to.” She waved off Delilah’s interruption. “What matters is that he and I are business associates. I ne
ed to keep that line firmly drawn in the sand—” she drew the line in the air with her index finger “—because he’s the boss, I’m the employee, and that’s that.”
Delilah picked up Cammie’s coffee cup and handed it to her. “Have another sip, dear.”
Cammie did. It seemed the right thing to do.
They shared a companionable silence, occasionally nodding with the music or staring off into space. It was actually quite pleasant. Surprisingly so. Cammie didn’t know if she’d ever been this comfortable around Delilah. Maybe there was something to this Frangelico.
Finally, the older woman stood and adjusted her caftan. “I won’t say anything to him, dear. I promise. Although I’ve already told Emily that I’ll need her help in the dressing room, so please know my whisking her away isn’t part of some wicked matchmaking scheme.”
Cammie nodded. “Thank you. He and I will sit out here going over the case. When you need me to try on something, give a holler.”
“Wonderful.”
Electronic bells played “Here Comes the Bride.”
Mr. Bergstrom appeared from behind the mirrors, walking purposefully toward the front door.
“That’s my bridal assistant and her adorable father,” Delilah said in a singsong voice as the gentleman passed. “Please bring my lovely assistant to the dressing room. The father will stay out here with his business associate.”
And with that, Delilah floated away, merging with the white.
* * *
MINUTES LATER, Marc and Cammie sat by themselves on the couch. They hadn’t talked one-on-one since preparing the salad last night. During dinner, the girls had bombarded Marc with questions about the law and his legal practice. Some girls had questions about their pending criminal cases. Such as sixteen-year-old Deniqua, who’d been charged with creating a public nuisance, or fourteen-year-old Wanda, who was facing two counts of shoplifting.
“I enjoyed last night,” Marc said, opening a manila folder filled with papers. “Nice how some of the girls walked us out to our car afterward.”
The Next Right Thing (Harlequin Superromance) Page 14