by Cara Colter
The consultant, thankfully, was gone from her office, and Molly sat down at her desk, aware she was shaking from her heated encounter with Houston, and determined to try to act as if it was a normal day, to regain her equilibrium. She would open her e-mail first.
Resolutely she tapped her keyboard and her computer screen came up. She was relieved to see an e-mail from Miss Viv.
Please give me direction, she whispered to the computer. Please show me how to handle this, how to save what is most important about us. The love.
Aware she was holding her breath, Molly clicked. No message—a paperclip indicated an attachment.
She clicked on the paperclip and a video opened. It was a grainy picture of a gorgeous hot air balloon, its colors, purple, yellow, red, green, vibrant against a flawless blue sky, rising majestically into the air. What did this have to do with Miss Viv?
The utter beauty of the picture was in such sharp contrast to the ugly reality of the changes being wrought in her life that Molly felt tears prick her eyes. She had always thought a ride in a hot air balloon would be the most incredible experience ever. Just last night she had toasted this very vision.
She squinted at the picture, and it came into focus. Two little old ladies were waving enthusiastically from the basket of the balloon. One of them blew a kiss.
Molly frowned, squinted hard at the grainy picture and gasped.
What was Miss Viv doing living Molly’s dream? If this video was any indication, Miss Viv had complete trust in Houston Whitford being left in charge! Apparently she wasn’t giving her life back here—or her Second Chances family—a single second thought.
In fact, Miss Viv was waving with enthusiasm, decidedly carefree, apparently having the time of her life. It made Molly have the disloyal thought that maybe she, Molly, had allowed Second Chances to become too much to her.
Molly’s job, her career, especially in the awful months since Chuck, had become her whole life, instead of just a part of it.
What had happened to her own dreams?
“Dreams are dangerous,” she reminded herself.
But that didn’t stop her from envying the carefree vision Miss Viv had sent her. She wished, fervently, that they could change places!
She hit the reply button to Miss Viv’s e-mail. “Call home,” she wrote. “Urgent!”
CHAPTER FOUR
HOUSTON regarded the empty place where Molly had just stood, berating him, with interest. In terms of the reins of this place being handed over to her one day, it was a good thing that she was willing to stand up for issues that were important to her. She had made her points clearly, and with no ultimatums, which he appreciated.
He would be unwilling to recommend her for the head spot if she was every bit as soft as she looked. But, no, she was willing to go to battle, to stand her ground.
Unreasonable as it was that she had chosen him to stand it with! And her emotional attachment to the dress thing was a con that clearly nullified the pro of her ability to stand up.
Unreasonable as it was that the fight in her had made her just as attractive as her sweetness in that wedding dress yesterday.
Maybe more so. Fights he knew how to handle. Sweetness, that was something else.
Still, for as analytical as he was trying to be, he had to acknowledge he was just a little miffed. He had become accustomed to answering to no one, he had earned the unquestioning respect of his team and the companies he worked for.
When Precision Solutions went in, Houston Whitford’s track record proved productivity went up. And revenue. Jobs were not lost as a result of his team’s efforts, but gained. Companies were put on the road to health, revitalized, reenergized.
There was nothing personal about what he did: it purely played to his greatest strengths, his substantial analytical skills. Except for the satisfaction he took in being the best, there was no emotion attached to his work.
Unlike Molly Michaels, most people appreciated that. They appreciated his approach, how fast he did things, how real and remarkable the changes he brought were. When he said cut something, it was cut, no questions asked.
No arguments!
They thanked him for the teams of experts, the new computers and ergonomically designed offices, and carefully researched paint colors that aided higher productivity.
“Maybe she’ll thank you someday,” he told himself, and then laughed at the unlikelihood of that scenario, and also at himself, for somehow wanting her approval.
This would teach him to deny his instincts. He had known not to tackle the charity. He had known he was going to come up against obstacles in the casually run establishment that he would never come across in the business world.
A redheaded vixen calling him down and questioning his judgment being a case in point!
But how could he have refused this? How could he refuse Beebee—or her circle of friends—anything? He owed his life to her, and to them. In those frightening days after his father had first been arrested, and his mother had quickly defected with another man—Houston had been making the disastrous mistake of trying to mask his fear with the anger that came so much more easily in his family.
He’d already worked his way through two foster homes when suddenly there had been Beebee. He had been in a destructive mode and had thrown a rock through the window of her car, parked on a dark street.
She had caught him red-handed, stunned him by not being the least afraid of him. Instead, she had looked at him with that same terrible knowing in her eyes that he had glimpsed in Molly’s eyes yesterday.
And she had taken a chance. Recently widowed, and recently retired as a court judge, she had been looking for something to fill the sudden emptiness of her days. He still was not quite sure what twist of fate had made that something him.
And a world had opened up to him that had always been closed before. A world of wealth and privilege, yes, but more, a world without aggression, without things breaking in the night, without hunger, without harsh words.
It was also a world where things were expected of him that had never been required before.
Hard work. Honesty. Decency. She had gathered her friends, her family, her circle—including Miss Viv—around him. Teaching him the tools for surviving and flourishing in a different kind of world.
Houston shook his head, trying to clear away those memories, knowing they would not help him remain detached and analytical in his current circumstances.
Houston was also aware that it was a careful balancing act he needed to do. He needed to save the charity of the women who had saved him. He needed to decipher whether Molly was worthy to take the helm, but he could not afford to alienate her in the process, even if in some way, alienating her would make him feel safer.
It was more than evident to him, after plowing his way through Miss Viv’s chaotic paperwork, that Molly Michaels was practically running the whole show here. Would she do better at that if she was performing in an official capacity? Or worse? That was one of the things he needed to know, absolutely, before Miss Viv came back.
He decided delay was not the better part of valor. He didn’t want to allow Molly enough time to paint herself into a corner she could not get out of.
He went down the hallway to Molly’s office. A ladder blocked the door; he surprised himself, because he was not superstitious, by stepping around it, rather than under it.
She was bent over her computer, her tongue caught between her teeth, a furious expression of concentration on her face.
She hit the send button on something, spun her chair around to face him, her arms folded over her chest.
“I’m hoping,” he said, “that you’ll give the changes here the same kind of chance to prove their merit that I’m giving you to prove the merit of your programs.”
“Except Prom Dreams,” she reminded him sourly.
“Except that,” he agreed with absolutely no regret. “Let’s give each other a chance.”
She looked like she was all do
ne giving people chances, residue from her cad, and the new wound, the loss of Prom Dreams.
And yet he could see from the look on her face that she was basically undamaged by life. Willing to believe. Wanting to trust. A romantic whether she wanted to believe it of herself or not.
Houston Whitford did not know if he was the person to be trusted with all that goodness, all that softness, all that compassion. He didn’t know if the future of Second Chances could be trusted with it, either.
“All right,” she said, but doubtfully.
“Great. Where are we going first?”
“I want to show you a garden project we’ve developed.”
Funny, that was exactly what he wanted to see. And probably not for the reason Molly hoped, either. That land was listed as one of Second Chance’s assets.
He handed her a camera. “Take lots of pictures today. I can use them for fundraising promotional brochures.”
The garden project would be such a good way to show Houston what Second Chances really did.
As they arrived it was evident spring cleanup was going on today. About a dozen rake and shovel wielding volunteers were in the tiny lot, a haven of green sandwiched between two dilapidated old buildings. Most of the people there were old, at least retirement age. But the reality of the neighborhood was reflected in the fact many of them had children with them, grandchildren that they cared for.
“This plot used to be a terrible eyesore on this block,” Molly told Houston. “Look at it now.”
He only nodded, seeming distant, uncharmed by the sprouting plants, the fresh turned soil, the new bedding plants, the enthusiasm of the volunteers.
Molly shook her head, exasperated with him, and then turned her back on him. She was greeted warmly, soon at the center of hugs.
She felt at the heart of things. Mrs. Zarkonsky would be getting her hip replacement soon. Mrs. Brant had a new grandson. Sly looks were being sent toward Mr. Smith and Mrs. Lane, a widower and a widow who were holding hands.
And then she saw Mary Bedford. She hadn’t seen her since they had put the garden to bed in the fall. She’d had some bad news then about a grandson who had been serving overseas.
Molly went to her, took those frail hands in her own.
“How is your grandson?” she asked. “Riley, wasn’t it?”
A tear slipped down a weathered cheek. “He didn’t make it.”
“Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry.”
“Please don’t be sorry.”
“How can I not be? He was so young!”
Mary reached up and rested a weathered hand against her cheek. It reminded Molly of being with Miss Viv when she looked into those eyes that were so fierce with love.
“He may have been young,” she said, “but he lived every single day to the fullest. There are people my age who cannot say that. Not even close.”
“That is true,” Molly said.
“And he was like you, Molly.”
“Like me?” she said, startled at being compared to the young hero.
“For so many of your generation it seems to be all about things. Bank accounts, and stuff, telephones stuck in your ears. But for Riley, it was about being of service. About helping other people. And that’s what it’s about for you, too.”
Molly remembered sending that message to Miss Viv this morning, pleading for direction.
And here was her answer, as if you could not send out a plea for direction like the one she had sent without an answer coming from somewhere.
Ever since the crushing end of her relationship with Chuck, Molly had questioned everything about herself, had a terrible sense that she approached life all wrong.
And now she saw that wasn’t true at all. She was not going to lose what was best about herself because she’d been hurt.
And then she became aware of her new boss watching her, a cynical look on his face.
For a moment she criticized herself, was tempted to see herself through his eyes. I am too soft, she thought. He sees it. For a moment she reminded herself of her vow, since Chuck, to be something else.
But then she realized that since Chuck she had become something else: unsure, resentful, self-pitying, bitter, frightened.
When life took a run at you, she wondered, did it chip away at who you were, or did it solidify who you really were? Maybe that was what she had missed: it was her choice.
“The days of all our lives are short,” Mary said, and patted her on the arm. “Don’t waste any of it.”
Don’t waste any of it, Molly thought, being frightened instead of brave, playing it safe instead of giving it the gift of who you really were.
The sun was so warm on her uplifted face, and she could feel the softness of Mrs. Bedford’s tiny, frail hand in hers. And she could also feel the hope and strength in it.
Molly could feel love.
And if she allowed what Chuck—what life—had done to her to take that from her, to make her as cynical as the man watching her, then hadn’t she lost the most important thing of all?
Herself.
She was what she was. If that meant she was going to get hurt from time to time, wasn’t that so much better than the alternative?
She glanced again at Houston. That was the alternative. To be so closed to these small miracles. To know the price of everything and the value of nothing.
She suddenly felt sorry for him, standing there, aloof. His clothing and his car, even the way he stood, said he was so successful.
But he was alone, in amongst all the wonder of the morning, and these people reaching out to each other in love, he was alone.
And maybe that was none of her business, and maybe she could get badly hurt trying to show him there was something else, but Molly suddenly knew she could not show him the soul of Second Chances unless she was willing to show him her own.
And it wasn’t closed and guarded.
When she had put on that wedding dress yesterday for some reason she had felt more herself than she had felt in a long time.
Hope filled. A believer in goodness and dreams. Someone who trusted the future. Someone with something to give.
Love.
The word came to her again, filled her. She was not sure she wanted to be thinking of a word like that in such close proximity to a man like him, and if she had not just decided to be brave she might not have. She might have turned her back on him, and gone back to the caring that waited to encircle her.
But he needed it more than she did.
“Houston,” she said, and waved him over. “Come meet Mary.”
He came into the circle, reluctantly. And then Mary had her arms around his neck and was hugging him hard, and even as he tried to disentangle himself, Molly saw something flicker in his face, and smiled to herself.
She was pretty sure she had just seen his soul, too. And it wasn’t nearly as hard-nosed as he wanted everyone to believe.
The sun was warm on the lot and she was given a tray of bedding plants and a small hand spade. Soon she was on her knees between Mrs. Zarkonsky and Mr. Philly. Mrs. Zarkonsky eyed Houston appreciatively and handed him a shovel. “You,” she said. “Young. Strong. Work.”
“Oh, no,” Molly said, starting to brush off her knees and get up. “He’s…” She was going to say not dressed for it, but then neither was she, and it hadn’t stopped her.
He held up a hand before she could get to her feet, let her know that would be the day that she would have to defend him, and followed the old woman who soon had him shoveling dirt as if he was a farm laborer.
Molly glanced over from time to time. The jacket came off. The sleeves were rolled up. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Was it that moment of recognizing who she really was that made her feel so vulnerable watching him? That made her recognize she was weak and he was strong, she was soft and he was hard? The world yearned for balance, maybe that was why men and women yearned for each other even in the face of that yearning being a hazardous endeavor.
Houston put his ba
ck into it, all mouthwatering masculine grace and strength. Molly remembered the camera, had an excuse to focus on him.
Probably a mistake. He was gloriously and completely male as he tackled that pile of dirt.
“He looks like a nice boy,” Mary said, following her gaze, but then whispered, “but a little snobby, I think.”
Molly laughed. Yes, he was. Or at least that was what he wanted people to believe. That he was untouchable. That he was not a part of what they were a part of. Somewhere in there, she could see it on his face he was just a nice boy, who wanted to belong, but who was holding something back in himself.
Was she reading too much into him?
Probably, but that’s who she was, and that’s what she did. She rescued strays. Funny she would see that in him, the man who held himself with such confidence, but she did.
Because that’s what she did. She saw the best in people. And she wasn’t going to change because it had hurt her.
She was going to be stronger than that.
Molly was no more dressed for this kind of work than Houston. But she went and got a spade and began to shift the same pile of topsoil he was working on. What better way to show him soul than people willing to work so hard for what they wanted? The spirit of community was sprouting in the garden with as much vitality as the plants.
The spring sun shone brightly, somewhere a bird sang. What could be better than this, working side by side, to create an oasis of green in the middle of the busy city? There was magic here. It was in the sights and the sounds, in the smell of the fresh earth.
Of course, his smell was in her nostrils, too, tangy and clean. And there was something about the way a bead of sweat slipped down his temple that made her breath catch in her throat.
Romantic weakness, she warned herself, but half-heartedly. Why not just enjoy this moment, the fact it included the masculine beauty of him? Now, if only he could join in, instead of be apart. There was a look on his face that was focused but remote, as if he was immune to the magic of the day.