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“The only colors I want to discuss are the colors of prom dresses,” she told the surprised consultant.
Molly’s heart was beating like a meek and mild schoolteacher about to do battle with a world-wise gunslinger. But it didn’t matter to her that she was unarmed. She had her spirit! She had her backbone! She turned on her heel, and strode toward the O.K. Corral at high noon.
This had already gone too far. She didn’t want another penny spent! He had called her favorite program frivolous? How dare he!
She stopped at the threshold of Miss Viv’s office, where Houston Whitford had set up shop.
He looked unreasonably gorgeous this morning. Better than a man had any right to look. “Ready to go?” he asked mildly, as if he wasn’t tearing her whole world apart. “I need half an hour or so, and then I’m all yours.”
Don’t even be sidetracked by what a man like that being all yours could mean, she warned the part of herself that was all too ready to veer toward the romantic!
Molly took a deep breath and said firmly, not the least sidetracked, “This high-handed hijacking of Second Chances money is unacceptable to me.”
He cocked his head at her as if he found her interesting, maybe even faintly amusing.
“Mr. Whitford, there is no nice way to say this. Miss Viv left you in charge for a reason I cannot even fathom, but she could not have been expecting this! This is a terrible waste of the resources Miss Viv has spent her life marshalling! Construction and consultants? Are you trying to break her heart? Her spirit?”
She was quite pleased with herself, assertive, a realist, speaking a language he could understand! Well, maybe the last two lines had veered just a touch toward the romantic.
Still, Molly was making it clear to herself and to him that she wasn’t trusting anymore.
Not that he seemed to be taking her seriously!
“From what I’ve seen of Miss Viv,” he said, with a touch of infuriating wryness, “it would take a little more than a new paint job, a wall or two coming down, to break her spirit.”
“Are you deliberately missing my point? This is not what Second Chances is about. We are not about slick exteriors! We are about helping people, and being of genuine service to our community.”
“Pretty hard to do if you go belly-up,” he pointed out mildly.
“Isn’t a renovation of this magnitude going to rush us toward that end?”
He actually smiled. “Not with me in charge, it isn’t.”
She stared at him, unnerved by the colossal arrogance of the man, his confidence in himself, by his absolute calm in the face of her confusion, as if ripping apart people’s lives was all hohum to him!
“There’s someone in my office wanting to know if I like ochre,” Molly continued dangerously. “Not the yellow ochre, the iron one. I’d rather have new prom dresses.”
“I thought I made it clear the prom dress issue was closed. As for design money for the offices, I’ve allocated that from a separate budget.”
“I don’t care what kind of shell game you play with the money! It’s all coming from the same pot, isn’t it?”
He didn’t answer her. He was not even trying to disguise the fact, now, that he found her attempts at assertiveness amusing. She tried, desperately, to make him see reason.
“Girls who are dying to have a nice dress won’t get one, but we’ll have the poshest offices in the East Village! Doesn’t something strike you as very wrong about that?”
But even as Molly said it, she was aware it wasn’t all about the girls and their dresses. Maybe even most of it wasn’t about that.
It was about turning over control. Or not turning over control. To people who had not proven themselves deserving. Especially handsome men people!
“Actually, no, it doesn’t strike me as wrong. Prom dresses in the face of all this need is what’s wrong.”
Part of her said maybe her new boss was not the best place to start in standing her ground. On the other hand, maybe it was just time for her to learn to stand her ground no matter who it was with.
“This is what’s wrong,” she said. “How on earth can you possibly justify this extravagance? How? How can you march in here, knowing nothing about this organization, and start making these sweeping changes?”
“I’ve made it my business to know about the organization. The changes you’re seeing today are largely cosmetic.” A tiny smile touched his lips. “Sweeping is tomorrow.”
“Don’t mock me,” she said. “You told me I could have two days to convince you what Second Chances really needs.”
“I did. And I’m ready to go.”
“But you’re already spending all our money!”
“Second Chances hasn’t begun to capitalize on the kind of money that’s available to organizations like this. A charity, for all its noble purposes, is still a business. A business has to run efficiently, this kind of business has to make an impression. Every single person who walks through the front door of this office has the potential to be the person who could donate a million dollars to Second Chances. You have one chance to make a first impression, to capitalize on that opportunity. One. Trust me with this.”
Molly suddenly felt like a wreck, her attempt to be assertive backfiring and leaving her feeling regretful and uncertain. Trust him?
Good grief, was there a job she was worse at than choosing whom to trust? She wished Miss Viv was here to walk her through this minefield she found herself in—that she hated finding herself in! Second Chances was supposed to be the place where she didn’t feel like this: threatened, as if your whole world could be whipped out from under you in the blink of an eye.
Molly, there are going to be some changes.
“I’ll be ready in half an hour,” she said with all the dignity she could muster. She was very aware that it rested on her shoulders to save the essence of Second Chances. If it was left to him the family feeling would be stripped from this place as ruthlessly as Vikings stripped treasures from the monasteries they were sacking!
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 (#ulink_85db52f4-cfc9-5207-b769-e5d4e5b11da0)
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 done 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.
