Rescued in a Wedding Dress

by Cara Colter

  The daycare center was a cheery spot of color on a dreary street that reminded Houston of where he’d grown up. Except for the daycare, the buildings oozed neglect and desperation. The daycare, though, had its brick front painted a cheerful yellow, a mural of sunflowers snaked up to the second floor windows.

  Inside was more cheer—walls and furniture painted in bright, primary colors. They met with the staff and Houston was given an enthusiastic overview of the programs Second Chances funded.

  He was impressed by the careful shepherding of the funds, but how he’d seen people react to her in the garden was repeated here.

  Dealing with people was clearly her territory. He could see this aspect of Second Chances was her absolute strength. There was an attitude of love and respect toward her that even a jaundiced old businessman like him could see the value of. Money could not buy the kind of devotion that Molly inspired.

  Still, aside from that, analytically, it was clear to him Molly had made a tactical error in bringing him here. He had always felt this particular program, providing care for children of working or back-to-school moms, had indisputable merit. She had nothing to prove, here.

  Obviously, in her effort to show him the soul of Second Chances she was trying to find her way to his heart.

  And though she made some surprising headway, the terrible truth about Houston was that other women had tried to make him feel things he had no intention of feeling, had tried to unlock the secrets of his heart.

  They had not been better women than Molly, but they had certainly been every bit as determined to make him feel something. He dated career women, female versions of himself, owned by their work, interested only in temporary diversion and companionship when it came to a relationship. Sometimes somebody wanted to change the rules partway in, thinking he should want what they had come to want: something deeper. A future. Together. Babies. Little white picket fences. Fairy tales. Forever.

  Happily ever after.

  He could think of very few things that were as terrifying to him. He must have made some kind of cynical sound because Molly glanced at him and smiled. There was something about that smile that made him realize she hadn’t played all her cards yet.

  “We’re going to watch a musical presentation, and then have lunch with the children,” she told him.

  The children. Of course she was counting on them to bring light to his dark heart, to pave the way for older children, later, who needed prom dresses, though of course it was the need part that was open to question.

  “Actually we could just—”

  But the children were marching into the room, sending eager glances at their visitors, as excited as if they would be performing to visiting royalty.

  He glared at Molly, just to let her know using the kids to try to get to him, to try to get her way, was the ultimate in cheesy. He met her gaze, and held it, to let her know that he was on to her. But before she fully got the seriousness of his stern look, several of the munchkins broke ranks and attacked her!

  They flung themselves at her knees, wrapping sturdy arms around her with such force she stumbled down. The rest of the ranks broke, like water over a dam, flowing out toward the downed Molly and around her until he couldn’t even see her anymore, lost in a wriggling mass of hugs and kisses and delightful squeals of Miss Molly!

  Was she in danger? He watched in horror as Molly’s arm came up and then disappeared again under a pile of wiggling little bodies, all trying to get a hold of her, deliver messy kisses and smudgy hugs.

  He debated rescuing her, but a shout of laughter—female, adult—from somewhere in there let him know somehow she was okay under all that. Delighting in it, even.

  He tried to remain indifferent, but he could not help but follow the faint trail of feeling within him, trying to identify what it was.

  Envious, he arrived at with surprise. Oh, not of all those children, messy little beings that they were with their dripping noses and grubby hands, but somehow envious of her spontaneity, her ability to embrace the unexpected surprise of the moment, the gifts of hugs and kisses those children were plying her with.

  Her giggles came out of the pile again. And he was envious of that, too. When was the last time he had laughed like that? Let go so completely to delight. Had he ever?

  Would he ever? Probably not. He had felt a tug of that feeling in the garden, and again in Now and Zen. But when had he come to see feeling good as an enemy?

  Maybe that’s what happened when you shut down feeling: good and bad were both taken from you, the mind unable to distinguish.

  Finally she extricated herself and stood up, though every one of her fingers and both her knees were claimed by small hands.

  The businesswoman of this morning was erased. In her place was a woman with hair all over the place, her clothes smudged, one shoe missing, a nylon ruined.

  And he had never, ever seen a woman so beautiful.

  The jury was still out on whether she would make a good replacement for Miss Viv. So how could he know, he who avoided that particular entanglement the most—how could he know, so instantly, without a doubt, what a good mother Molly would make with her loving heart, and her laughter filled and spontaneous spirit?

  And why did that thought squeeze his chest so hard for a moment he could not breathe?

  Because of the cad who had made her suffer by letting her go, by stealing her dreams from her.

  No, that was too altruistic. It wasn’t about her. It was about him. He could feel something from the past looming over him, waiting to pounce.

  As Molly rejoined him, Houston focused all his attention on the little messy ones trying so hard to form perfect ranks on a makeshift stage. It was painfully obvious these would be among the city’s neediest children. Some were in old clothes, meticulously cared for. Others were not so well cared for. Some looked rested and eager, others looked strangely tired, dejected.

  With a shiver, he knew exactly which ones lay awake with wide eyes in the night, frightened of being left alone, or of the noises coming from outside or the next rooms. He looked longingly for the exit, but Molly, alarmingly intuitive, seemed to sense his desire to run for the door.

  “They’ve been practicing for us!” she hissed at him, and he ordered himself to brace up, to face what he feared.

  But why would he fear a small bunch of enthusiastic if ragamuffin children? He seated himself reluctantly in terribly uncomfortable tiny chairs, the cramped space ringing with children’s shouts and shrieks, laughter. At the count of three the clamor of too enthusiastically played percussion instruments filled the room.

  Houston winced from the racket, stole a glance at Molly and felt the horrible squeeze in his chest again. What was that about?

  She was enchanted. Clapping, singing along, calling out encouragement. He looked at the children. Those children were playing just for her now. She was probably the mother each of them longed for: engaged, fully present to them, appreciative of their enthusiasm if not their musical talent.

  And then he knew what it was about, the squeezing in his chest.

  He remembered a little boy in ragged jeans, not the meticulously kept kind, at a school Christmas concert. He had been given such an important job. He was to put the baby Jesus in the manger at the very end of the performance. He kept pulling back the curtain. Knowing his dad would never come. But please, Mommy, please.

  Hope turning to dust inside his heart as each moment passed, as each song finished and she did not enter the big crowded room. His big moment came and that little boy, the young Houston, took that doll that represented the baby Jesus and did not put him in the waiting crib. Instead, he threw it with all his might at all the parents who had come. The night was wrecked for him, he wanted to wreck it for everybody else.

  Houston felt a cold shadow fall over him. He glanced at Molly, still entranced. He didn’t care to know what a good mother she would be. It hurt him in some way. It made him feel as he had felt at the Christmas play that night. L
ike he wanted to destroy something.

  Instead, he slipped his BlackBerry out of his pocket, scanned his e-mails. The Bradbury papers, nothing to do with Second Chances—all about his other life—had just been signed. It was a deal that would mean a million and a half dollars to his company. Yesterday that would have thrilled him. Filled him.

  Yesterday, before he had heard her laughter emerge from under a pile of children, and instantly and without his permission started redefining everything that was important about his life.

  He shook off that feeling of having glimpsed something really important—maybe the only thing that was important—he shook it off the same way he shook off a punch that rattled him nearly right off his feet. Deliberately he turned his attention to the small piece of electronics that fit in the palm of his hand.

  Houston Whitford opened the next e-mail. The Chardon account was looking good, too.

  Molly congratulated herself on the timing of their arrival at the daycare program. The concert had been a delight of crashing cymbals, clicking sticks, wildly jangling triangles. Now it was snack time for the members of the rhythm section, three and four year olds.

  They were so irresistible! They were fighting for her hands, and she gave in, allowed herself to be tugged toward the kitchen.

  She glanced back at Houston. He was trailing behind. How could he be looking at his BlackBerry? Was she failing to enchant him, failing to make him see?

  Well, there was still time with her small army of charmers, and Molly had never seen a more delightful snack. She felt a swell of pride that Second Chances provided the funding so that these little ones could get something healthy into them at least once a day.

  Healthy but fun. The snack was so messy that the two long tables were covered in plastic, and the children, about ten at each long, low table, soon had bibs fashioned out of plastic grocery bags over their clothes.

  On each table were large plastic bowls containing thinly cut vegetables—red and green peppers, celery, carrots—interspersed with dips bowls mounded with salad dressing.

  The children were soon creating their own snacks—plunging the veggies first into the dressing, and then rolling the coated veggie on flat trays that held layers of sunflower seeds, poppy seeds, raisins.

  Though most of the children were spotlessly clean beneath those bibs and the girls all had hairdos that spoke of tender loving care, their clothes were often worn, some pairs of jeans patched many times. The shoes told the real story—worn through, frayed, broken laces tied in knots, vibrant colors long since faded.

  Molly couldn’t help but glance at Houston’s shoes. Chuck had been a shoe aficionado. He’d shown her a pair on the Internet once that he thought might make a lovely gift from her. A Testoni Norvegese—at about fifteen hundred dollars a pop!

  Was that what Houston was wearing? If not, it was certainly something in the same league. What hope did she have of convincing him of the immeasurable good in these small projects when his world was obviously so far removed from this he couldn’t even comprehend it?

  She had to get him out of the BlackBerry! She wished she had a little dirt to throw on those shoes, to coax the happiness out of him. She had to make him see what was important. This little daycare was just a microcosm of everything Second Chances did. If he could feel the love, even for a second, everything would change. Molly knew it.

  “Houston, I saved you a seat,” she called, patting the tiny chair beside her.

  He glanced over, looked aghast, looked longingly—and not for the first time—at the exit door. And then a look came over his face—not of a man joining preschoolers for snack—but of a warrior striding toward battle, a gladiator into the ring.

  The children became quite quiet, watching him.

  If he knew his suit was in danger, he never let on. Without any hesitation at all, he pulled up the teeny chair beside Molly, hung his jacket over the back of it—not even out of range of the fingers, despite the subtle Giorgio Armani label revealed in the back of it—and plunked himself down.

  The children eyed him with wide-eyed surprise, silent and shy.

  Children, Molly told herself, were not charmed by the same things as adults. They did not care about his watch or his shoes, the label in the back of that jacket.

  Show me who you really are.

  She passed him a red pepper, a silly thing to expect to show you a person. He looked at it, looked at her, seemed to be deciding something. She was only aware of how tense he had been when she saw his shoulders shift slightly, saw the corners of his mouth relax.

  Ignoring the children who were gawking at him, Houston picked up a slice of red pepper and studied it. “What should I do with this?”

  “Put stuff on it!”

  He followed the instructions he could understand, until the original red pepper was not visible any longer but coated and double coated with toppings.

  Finally he could delay the moment of truth no longer. But he did not bite into his own crazy creation.

  Instead, he held it out, an inch from Molly’s lips. “My lady,” he said smoothly. “You first.”

  Something shivered in her. How could this be? Surrounded by squealing children, suddenly everything faded. It was a moment she’d imagined in her weaker times. Was there anything more romantic than eating from another’s hand?

  Somehow that simple act of sharing food was the epitome of trust and connection.

  She had wanted to bring him out of himself, and instead he was turning the tables on her!

  Molly leaned forward and bit into the raisin-encrusted red pepper. She had to close her eyes against the pleasure of what she tasted.

  “Ambrosia,” she declared, and opened her eyes to see him looking at her with understandable quizzicalness.

  “My turn!” She loaded a piece of celery with every ingredient on the table.

  “I hate celery,” he said when she held it up to him.

  “You’re setting an example!” she warned him.

  He cast his eyes around the table, looked momentarily rebellious, then nipped the piece of celery out of her fingers with his teeth.

  Way too easy to imagine this same scenario in very different circumstances. Maybe he could, too, because his silver-shaded eyes took on a smoky look that was unmistakably sensual.

  How could this be happening? Time standing still, something in her heart going crazy, in the middle of the situation least like any romantic scenario she had ever imagined, and Molly was guilty of imagining many of them!

  But then that moment was gone as the children raced each other creating concoctions for their honored guests. As when his shoulders had relaxed, now Molly noticed another layer of some finally held tension leaving him as he surrendered to the children, and to the moment.

  They were calling orders to him, the commands quick and thick. “Dunk it.” “Roll it.” “Put stuff on it! Like this!”

  One of the bolder older boys got up and pressed right in beside Houston. He anchored himself—one sticky little hand right on the suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair—and leaned forward. He held out the offering—a carrot dripping with dressing and seeds—to Houston. Some of it appeared to plop onto those beautiful shoes.

  Molly could see a greasy print across the shoulder lining of the jacket.

  A man who owned a suit like that was not going to be impressed with its destruction, not able to see soul through all this!

  But Houston didn’t seem to care that his clothes were getting wrecked. He wasn’t backing away. After his initial horror in the children, he seemed to be easing up a little. He didn’t even make an attempt to move the jacket out of harm’s way.

  In fact he looked faintly pleased as he took the carrot that had been offered and chomped on it thoughtfully.

  “Excellent,” he proclaimed.

  After that any remaining shyness from the children dissolved. Houston selected another carrot, globbed dressing on it and hesitated over his finishing choices.

  Th
e children yelled out suggestions, and he listened and obeyed each one until that carrot was so coated in stuff that it was no longer recognizable. He popped the whole concoction in his mouth. He closed his eyes, chewed very slowly and then sighed.

  “Delicious,” he exclaimed.

  Molly stared at him, aware of the shift happening in her. It was different than when they had chased each other in the garden, it was different than when they had danced and she was entranced.

  Beyond the sternness of his demeanor, she saw someone capable of exquisite tenderness, an amazing ability to be sensitive. Even sweet.

  Molly was sure if he knew that—that she could see tender sweetness in him—he would withdraw instantly. So she looked away, but then, was compelled to look back. She felt like someone who had been drinking brackish water their entire life, and who had suddenly tasted something clear and pure instead.

  The little girl beside Houston, wide-eyed and silent, held up her celery stick to him—half-chewed, sloppy with dressing and seeds—plainly an offering. He took it with grave politeness, popped it in his moth, repeated the exaggerated sigh of enjoyment.

  “Thank you, princess.”

  Her eyes grew wider. “Me princess,” she said, mulling it over gravely. And then she smiled, her smile radiant and adoring.

  Children, of course, saw through veneers so much easier than adults did!

  I am allowing myself to be charmed, Molly warned herself sternly. And of course, it was even more potent because Houston was not trying to charm anyone, slipping into this role as naturally and unselfconsciously as if he’d been born to play it.

  But damn it, who wouldn’t be charmed, seeing that self-assured man give himself over to those children?

  I could love him. Molly was stunned as the renegade thought blasted through her brain.

  Stop it, she ordered herself. She was here to achieve a goal.

  She wanted him to acknowledge there was the potential for joy anywhere, in any circumstance at all. Bringing that shining moment to people who had had too few of them was the soul of Second Chances. It was what they did so well.