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“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 back 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 halfheartedly. 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.
Oh, well, that was his problem. She was going to enjoy her day, especially with this new sense of having discovered who she was.
She gave herself over to the task at hand, placed her shovel, then jumped on it with both feet to drive it in to the dirt. It was probably because he was watching—or maybe because of the desperately unsuited shoes—that things went sideways. The shovel fell to one side, throwing her against him.
His arm closed around her in reaction. She felt the hardness of his palm tingling on the sensitive upper skin of her arm. The intoxicating scent of him intensified. He held her arm just a beat longer than he had to, and she felt the seductive and exhilarating zing of pure chemistry.
When he had touched her yesterday, she had felt these things, but he had looked only remote. Today, she saw something pulse through his eyes, charged, before it was quickly doused and he let go of her arm.
Was it because she had made a decision to be who she really was that she couldn’t resist playing with that zing? Or was it because she was powerless not to explore it, just a little?
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he said with a rueful shake of his head. And then just in case she thought he had a weak place somewhere in him, that he might actually care, that he might be feeling something as intoxicatingly unprofessional as she was, he said, “Second Chances can’t afford a compensation claim.”
She smiled to herself, went back to shoveling.
He seemed just a little too pleased with himself.
She tossed a little dirt on his shoes.
“Hey,” he warned her.
“Sorry,” she said, insincerely. She tossed a little more.
He stopped, glared at her over the top of his shovel. She pretended it had been purely an accident, focused intently on her own shovel, her own dirt. He went back to work. She tossed a shovel full of dirt right on his shoes.
“Hey!” he said, extricating his feet.
“Watch where you put your feet,” she said solemnly. “Second Chances can’t afford to buy you new shoes.”
She giggled, and shoveled, but she knew he was regarding her over the top of his shovel, and when she glanced at him, some of that remoteness had gone from his eyes, finally, and this time it didn’t come back. He went back to work.
Plop. Dirt on his shoes.
“Would you stop it?” he said.
“Stop what?” she asked innocently.
“You have something against my shoes?”
“No, they’re very nice shoes.”
“I know how to make you behave,” he whispered.
She laughed. This is what she had wanted. To know if there was something in him that was playful, a place she could reach. “No, you don’t.”
He dangled it in front of her eyes.
A worm! She took a step back from him. “Houston! That’s not funny!” But, darn it, in a way it was.
“What’s not funny?” he said. “Throwing dirt on people’s shoes?”
“I hate worms. Does our compensation package cover hysteria?”
“You would get hysterical if I, say, put this worm down your shirt?”
He sounded just a little too enthused about that. It occurred to her they were flirting with each other, cautiously stepping around that little zing, looking at it from different angles, exploring it.
“No,” she said, but he grinned wickedly, sensing the lie.
The grin changed everything about him. Everything. He went from being too uptight and too professional to being a carefree young man, covered in dirt and sweat, real and human.
It seemed to her taking that chance on showing him who she really was was paying off somehow.
Until he did a practice lunge toward her with the worm. Because she really did hate worms!
“If I tell your girlfriend you were holding worms with your bare hands today, she may never hold your hand again.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
Ah, it was a weakness. She’d been fishing. But that’s what worms were for!
He lunged at her again, the worm wiggled between his fingers. He looked devilishly happy when she squealed.
Then, as if he caught himself in the sin of having fun, he abruptly dropped the worm, went back to work.
She hesitated. It was probably a good time to follow his lead and back off. But, oh, to see him smile had changed something in her. Made her willing to take a risk. With a sigh of surrender, she tossed a shovel of dirt on his shoes. And he picked up that worm.
“I warned you,” he said.
“You’d have to catch me first!”
Molly threw down her shovel and ran. He came right after her, she could hear his footfalls and his breathing. She glanced over her shoulder and saw he was chasing her, holding out the worm. She gave a little snicker, and put on a burst of speed. At one point, she was sure that horrible worm actually touched her neck, and she shrieked, heard his rumble of breathless laughter, ran harder.
She managed to put a wheelbarrow full of plants between them. She turned and faced him. “Be reasonable,” she pleaded breathlessly.
“The time for reason is done,” he told her sternly, but then that grin lit his face—boyish, devil-may-care, and he leaped the wheelbarrow with ease and the chase was back on.
The old people watched them indulgently as they chased through the garden. Finally the shoes betrayed her, and she went flying. She landed in a pile of soft but foul-smelling peat moss. He was immediately contrite. He dropped the worm and held out his hand—which she took with not a bit of hesitation. He pulled her to her feet with the same easy strength that he had shoveled with. Where did a man who crunched numbers get that kind of strength from? She had that feeling again, of something about him not adding up, but it was chased away by his laughter.
“You don’t laugh enough,” she said.
