Good Man, Dalton
Page 24
“It’s a pretty large problem,” Dalton said.
His father continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Who specifically will benefit, and how? And will there be long-term benefits, or are we going to just provide short-term food and shelter? I’m opposed to the latter, by the way. I’m against enabling people. You have to think about how to go about solving the problem.”
“Solving the problem.” Dalton nodded, even as his mind reeled with the enormity of it all.
“I’m always thinking about the endgame. I also think opening a shelter comes with additional costs that the Bishop Foundation is not prepared to incur. Once you buy a building, you have maintenance, insurance, property tax, utilities . . . ” His father ticked them off on his fingers. “You’ll have to come up with some other idea, some program that doesn’t require buying or renting real estate. I would hope that with all your education, you were at some point instructed in the art of creating an effective business plan. Submit one for approval, and we’ll take it from there.”
Dalton had left that meeting heartened. His father had liked his idea and thought he might be just the man for the job. His dad didn’t hand out gold stars for nothing. After that, Dalton had racked his brain thinking of programs and ideas that might make a long-term difference to the homeless, but he was always looking at the problem from the outside. How could he possibly know what would be most helpful to someone on the streets?
His two weeks on the streets were intended as a fact-finding mission. He didn’t tell anyone what he was doing except for Will, in case it backfired somehow.
Crazy as it sounded, it had worked. Now he had a plan. He wanted to focus on homeless vets, providing them with one-on-one caseworkers, someone who could shepherd them through the process, letting them know what benefits they were entitled to, and actually drive them to appointments, if need be. Each client would say what they wanted and needed, whether it was help in getting medical treatment, finding a place to live, providing transportation, or just having someone to listen to their concerns. One person to follow them through the whole process of becoming whole again. And the clients would provide them with a quick way to connect with their caseworker so that, in the event of an emergency, they could get access to help quickly. It was a simple plan, but not an easy one. He knew of at least one vet he wanted to help as soon as possible.
He thought of the young couple, Lauren and Diego, the ones who’d been selling water in the park. Maybe they’d want jobs helping him find applicants for his program. If his father approved his plan, there was no end to the people he could help.
Dalton printed up his business plan, wrote a cover letter, and then clipped the pages in a plastic report cover. After getting a few hours of sleep, he drove to his parents’ house, planning to drop off his paperwork, say hello, and then leave, but the visit took a different turn when his dad ushered him into his home office. Dalton took a seat and handed him the plan. Fifteen long excruciating minutes later, his father looked up from reading and addressed him from across the desk. “I like the graphs.”
“I knew you would.”
“And this ReadyHelp device you’re proposing to give each client? They can get help with the push of a button?”
“Yes, sir. It’s easier than making a phone call. Nothing to turn on, just one button to push. When someone is having a panic attack or needs help, they can get an immediate response. It has built-in GPS and fall detection, so we can find them if need be. The expense is minimal compared to the peace of mind.”
“Good idea.”
“The newest version has a battery that lasts a week before it has to be recharged, so as long as the client meets with their mentor at least once a week, they’ll always be connected.”
“I see.”
After what seemed to be a long pause, Dalton asked, “What do you think about my business plan overall?”
He nodded in approval. “It’s lacking a few details, but nothing that can’t be filled in as we go along. Come in to the office first thing on Monday morning, and we’ll hammer it all out.”
Dalton exhaled in relief. “Sounds good. I’ll be there. Thank you, sir.”
His father came around to his side of the desk and shook his hand. “This is a good thing you’re doing, Dalton. I’m especially impressed that you’ve chosen to help veterans. I like the idea of honoring those who’ve served our country.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you staying for Sunday dinner? Your mother would like that.”
“Can I take a rain check? I have to go see someone.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Things were different now. Greta’s narrow worldview had been broken wide open. She’d arrived in New York City insecure and unsure, and in a few short days, she’d found strength she hadn’t known she had. And in acquiring strength, she’d found love too.
Or at least, it felt like love.
Cece seemed certain that she would see Dalton again. “Don’t even worry about it. He’ll be back.” One night of freedom, and she’d become a more assertive woman. Her father had called after the news of her wild antics had reached him in Paris, and she’d handled the call like a boss, telling him that she’d known Katrina and Vance had been a couple all along and she’d given them her blessing. Greta only had access to her side of the conversation, but from what she heard, Cece was a woman in charge. “Dad,” she said at one point, “what I did last night was typical for someone my age. Isn’t that right, Greta?” She turned to Greta for confirmation, then got back to the conversation. “Greta’s nodding. I didn’t do anything wrong, and no one coerced me. No, you don’t need to hire anyone. I don’t need babysitters anymore. I’m twenty-three. I can make my own decisions.”
She listened for a moment. “Yes, I’m going to see Roger again. We’re going out tonight. You can meet him when you get home.” A long pause. “No, I’m not interested in having my own reality show. I’m going to be doing my own clothing designs.” Another very long pause. Her father’s voice on the other end sounded agitated. “No, I’ve canceled all my scheduled activities for the next few weeks. I need time to clear my head and sort things out.” He must have asked what she was sorting out because she answered, “I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know. Love you, Dad. Goodbye.”
After she hung up, she said, “I feel much better now.”
“I bet.” It was unclear what role Greta would play in Cece’s new life, but she was up for anything.
Later Cece and Roger invited her to go along with them for a night on the town, but she turned them down. “You guys don’t need to have an extra person on your date, and I could do with some downtime. Besides, I’m in for the night.” She indicated her yoga pants and T-shirt, just a step up from pajamas. “Aren’t you guys worried about getting rushed by fans?”
Cece shrugged. “I’ve snuck out before without getting noticed. If I dress the right way, I’ll be able to blend in.”
After she and Roger left, Greta had dinner with Nanny and Brenna, then retired to her room to send texts to a few friends, who couldn’t help but notice there were photos and video footage of her all over social media. She’d even garnered a few mentions on the cable entertainment news shows. She sat back on her bed and watched the clip of her and Dalton singing together over and over again. That night, she had been so worried about making a fool of herself, she’d forgotten to fully embrace the experience. Turned out she relished it more in retrospect than she did at the time. When the video zoomed in on Dalton, it was evident that he was singing only to her.
She scanned the comments below the video clips, looking to see if anyone mentioned knowing him in real life, but there was nothing.
What was his story? Greta wondered. What terrible tragedy would explain his sudden spate of homelessness? She wanted to help. She hadn’t gotten her first paycheck from Firstborn Daughter, Inc. and didn’t know if she ever would, now that she and Cece had gone rogue. She didn’t have much money to spare, but if he needed a job, per
haps Cece or her family could help.
If she ever heard from him again. He knew her name and where she was currently living, while all she knew about Dalton was that he was from Connecticut. She could hardly drive around the state, yelling his name. All she could do was wait. What if they never connected? She could go her whole life wondering and anticipating something that never came to be.
As her mind ran through worst-case scenarios, she spotted his tuxedo jacket still draped over the desk chair where she’d left it the night before. On a hunch, she got up and searched through all the pockets. Besides some random money, all of them were empty except for one interior pocket, which had a slight bulge to it. She reached in and pulled out what looked like an amulet. It was an oval piece of plastic with the word ReadyHelp on the back. The front had a red button in the middle. She pressed it, and a woman’s voice came through, startling her. “Mr. Bishop, did you need assistance?”
“What?”
“Am I speaking to Dalton Bishop?” Creepy how clear her voice was, like she was in the room with Greta.
“No, this is Greta Hansen. I found this ReadyHelp thing in Dalton’s coat pocket. Can you tell me how to reach him?”
“Is Mr. Bishop there?”
If he were there, would she be asking how to reach him? “No, he’s not here. Can you tell me how to reach him, so I can return this thing to him?”
“Are you experiencing an emergency?”
“No.”
They went back and forth a few more times. Since Greta wasn’t in danger and wasn’t the account holder of the device, the company was limited in what it could do for her. The woman apologized and said she’d make a note on Dalton’s account saying that Greta had the device, so if he called and requested a replacement, they could let him know where it was. She requested Greta’s cell phone number, and that was it.
But Greta did get something out of their exchange: Dalton’s last name, Bishop. Greta went back to her tablet and googled his full name, then pushed “Images.” There he was, Dalton Bishop, the man who’d won her over with his caring manner and gorgeous, inviting smile.
She sat down on the bed, taking in all the new information, then searched for and found his Facebook and Instagram accounts. Most of the pictures he’d posted were of other people or the places he’d visited. He’d gone on mission trips in previous summers to install wells in villages in third-world countries, and closer to home, he’d helped build houses for Habitat for Humanity. He didn’t seem to update very often. His Facebook account seemed to be primarily for his grandmother, who had the first comment after every single post. She was very proud of him.
Greta did a search for the family name, and what she found was an eye-opener. The Bishops were rich. Maybe not Vanderhaven rich, but then again, few people were. He was Dalton Bishop of the Bishop Corporation.
So why would a guy that wealthy pretend to be homeless? It didn’t make any sense. She did some more digging and discovered his family had been affluent going back four generations. Decade after decade, while the Bishops were winning at life, the Hansens were working to pay their bills, put dinner on the table, keep a roof over their heads, and save for a few fun extras. A good life, but nothing lavish.
They had, she realized with a pang of sadness, nothing in common except for one shared awesome evening. At least, it had been awesome for her.
She went back to the video clip of them singing at the karaoke place and searched his face, looking for signs of sincerity. When he sang the line about meeting an angel in person, his gaze was right on her.
She took a deep breath, wondering if she was assigning meaning where there was none.
Greta watched the video clips over and over again, focusing on Dalton. It would be nice to know it was real and that he felt the same way she did.
If only she had a way to reach him right this minute.
Finally, she set the tablet down and went to the window. He was out there somewhere. She lifted the blinds and saw the moon hanging over Manhattan, a bit of mist creating a halo around the periphery.
The moon. A perfect yellow orb. From where she stood, it looked like a full moon.
A full moon.
Greta did a mental rewind, going back to what Dalton had said the previous evening when she’d pulled Cece out of the pond. She’d thought the pond was a lake, and he’d let her know otherwise, informing her that Central Park did have a lake, and then he’d said, “The most beautiful night sky I ever saw was when I was standing on the Bow Bridge.” And something about a great view of the city. The next sentence she remembered verbatim: I’ll show it to you the next time there’s a full moon.
Greta went to her tablet to check. Yes, it was indeed a full moon. She made an impulsive, split-second, out-of-character decision. She threw a hoodie over her yoga pants and T-shirt; left a note on the kitchen table for Nanny, Brenna, and Cece; and headed out.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Dalton drove into the city and left his car in a parking garage, finding it easier to navigate Manhattan by foot or taxi. His first stop was the hospital to check on Matt. He found him sitting up in bed, talking to Ellie, and looking remarkably better.
“Hello,” Dalton said, coming into the room. It was the tail end of visiting hours, but he wasn’t planning on staying very long.
They took one look at his newly shaved face and each did a double take. Ellie pointed to his chin. “Hey, Dalton, you lost your scruff.”
“Yep, it looks like I have a job now, working for my dad.”
Matt said, “See, I knew you’d work it out with your family.”
Dalton explained that he was going to be helping to set up a nonprofit that would serve veterans. “Once it gets going, I’ll get in touch to see if we can do anything to help you.”
“Cool,” he said with a nod. “That’s good of you.”
“Not good of me,” Dalton said with a shake of his head. “You served our country. The least we can do is help you get back on your feet.”
They talked about Matt’s health, and then Dalton said he had to get going. Ellie followed him out the door, thanking him profusely for his part in connecting her with Matt.
“It was nothing,” he said, feeling sheepish about getting credit for doing the right thing.
“Well, it was everything to me.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she gave him a quick hug before going back to Matt.
He felt lighter as he left the hospital and caught a cab to Cece Vanderhaven’s apartment. He longed to see Greta again, to have her smile at him. Most importantly, he wanted her to know the truth, to have her understand and approve of his ruse. To forgive his lie and know that he was really a good guy. And then maybe they could go from there.
Getting out of the cab, he handed the driver the money, slammed the door closed, and almost sprinted to the front door. He was stopped by a burly doorman, who wanted to know if he was expected. “Not expected, but I know Cece Vanderhaven, and I need to speak with her cousin Greta Hansen.” He took out his phone and showed him the footage of Cece introducing him and Greta right before they started singing. Proof positive, but the man barely glanced at it.
“Anyone can doctor footage,” he said. “This is a private building. If you’re not on our list, you don’t get in.”
“I didn’t doctor it,” Dalton said, exasperated. “This happened last night. It’s been a big deal on the internet.”
“This isn’t the internet. This is the real world, and you’re not on our list. Move along.”
“If you see Greta, can you tell her Dalton stopped by?”
“Yeah, I’ll do that,” he said, sounding bored and clearly humoring him.
A young guy carrying a cellophane-wrapped bouquet of red roses edged him out of the way and told the doorman he had a delivery for Cece Vanderhaven. The doorman shook his head. “Sorry, not happening. Have the florist call the front desk, and then you’ll be on the list.” The guy dropped the bouquet of flowers onto the sidewalk and wandered away.
The doorman said, “Don’t bother. He’s a scam artist. Tries this kind of thing every other week.”
Dalton shrugged and kept the flowers, then wandered around the building to see if the door used by the maintenance man was unlocked. Nope. Sealed shut. He knocked for a few minutes, and when no one answered, he went back to the front.
Standing on the sidewalk and looking up, he thought about Greta being up there while he was down below, with no way of connecting except through social media. He didn’t want to leave a comment on her Instagram or send her a friend request on Facebook. It just seemed wrong. Impersonal. Juvenile.
As he stood there, two women passed by, walking a dog. He heard the jangle of tags against a collar and the dog’s whine. When he turned to see, one of the women said to the other, “A full moon tonight. Look, how beautiful!” They paused for just a second until the dog, a big curly-haired thing, tugged at the leash, and they continued on.
A full moon. Dalton looked up at the night sky and thought about what he’d said to Greta the night before. That he’d take her to the Bow Bridge the next time there was a full moon. Clearly, that wasn’t going to happen, but he could go there himself, take a selfie, and include it in his message, saying he’d thought of her and wished she’d been there.
A little lame, but a lot smoother than saying, Hey! Remember me from the other night? Now that he had a plan, he set off in the direction of the park. The weather was beautiful for a June evening in the city, and the sidewalks were busy.
He was, after all, in the city that never sleeps.
The perimeter of Central Park was buzzing with activity, but as he got farther into the park, he encountered fewer people, just a few couples holding hands and some runners grinding out the miles in a scenic place.