Читать книгу Wedding Vows: With This Ring - Barbara Hannay - Страница 11

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.

“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.

“How do you know?”

“I’m not sure. I just do. You are way too serious, aren’t you?”

He held both her hands for a moment, reached out and touched a curl, brushed it back from out of her eyes.

“Maybe I am,” he admitted.

Something in her felt absolutely weak with what she wanted at that moment. To make him laugh, but more, to explore all the reasons he didn’t. To find out what, exactly, about him did not add up.

“Truce?” he said.

“Of course,” she panted. She meant for all of it, their different views of Second Chances. All of it.

He reached over, snared the camera out of her pocket and took a picture of her.

“Don’t,” she protested. She could feel her hair falling out, she was pretty sure there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek, and probably on her derriere, too!

But naturally he didn’t listen and so she stuck out her tongue at him and then struck a pose for him, and then called over some of the other gardeners. Arms over each other’s shoulders, they performed an impromptu can-can for the camera before it all fell apart, everyone dissolving into laughter.

Houston smiled, but that moment of spontaneity was fading. Molly was aware that he saw that moment of playfulness differently to her. Possibly as a failing. Because he was still faintly removing himself from them. She had been welcomed into the folds of the group, he stood outside it.

Lonely, she thought. There was something so lonely about him. And she felt that feeling, again, of wanting to explore.

And maybe to save. Just like she saved her strays. But somehow, looking at the handsome, remote cast of his face, she knew he would hate it that she had seen anything in him that needed saving. That needed, period.

They got back in the car, she waved to the old people. Molly was aware she was thrilled with how the morning had gone, by its unexpected surprises, and especially how he had unexpectedly revealed something of himself.

“How are your hands?” she asked him. He held one out to her. An hour on a shovel had done nothing to that hand.

“I would have thought you would have blisters,” she said.

“No, my hands are really tough.”

“From?”

“I box.”

“As in fight?”

He laughed. “Not really. It’s more the workout I like.”

So, her suspicions that he was not quite who he said were unfounded. He was a high-powered businessman who sought fitness at a high-powered level.

That showed in every beautiful, mesmerizing male inch of him!

“Wasn’t that a wonderful morning?” she asked, trying to solidify the camaraderie that had blossomed so briefly between them. “I promised I would show you the soul of Second Chances and that’s part of it! What a lovely sense of community, of reclaiming that lot, of bringing something beautiful to a place where there was ugliness.”

She became aware he was staring straight ahead. Her feeling of deflation was immediate. “You didn’t feel it?”

“Molly, it’s a nice project. The warm and fuzzy feel good kind.”

She heard the but in his voice, sensed it in the set of his shoulders. Naturally he would be immune to warm fuzzy feeling good.

“But it’s my job to ask if it makes good economic sense. Second Chances owns that lot, correct?”

She nodded reluctantly. Good economic sense after the magical hour they had just spent? “It was donated to us. Years ago. Before I came on board it was just an empty lot that no one did anything with.”

If she was expecting congratulations on her innovative thought she was sadly disappointed!

“Were there provisos on the donation?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I’ll have to do some homework.”

“But why?”

“I have to ask these questions. Is that the best use of that lot? It provides a green space, about a dozen people seem to actually enjoy it. Could it be liquidated and the capital used to help more people? Could it be developed—a parking lot or a commercial building—providing a stream of income into perpetuity? Providing jobs and income for the neighborhood?”

“A parking lot?” she gasped. And then she saw exactly what he was doing. Distancing himself from the morning they had just shared—distancing himself from the satisfaction of hard work and the joy of laughter and the admiration of people who would love him.

Distancing himself from her. Did he know she had seen him? Did he suspect she had uncovered things about him he kept hidden?

He didn’t like feelings. She should know that firsthand. Chuck had had a way of rolling his eyes when she had asked him how he was feeling that had made her stop asking!

But, naive as it might be, she was pretty sure she had just glimpsed the real Houston Whitford, something shining under those layers of defenses.

And she wasn’t quite ready to let that go. It didn’t have to be personal. No, she could make it a mission, for the good of Second Chances, she told herself, she would get past all those defenses.

For the good of Second Chances she was going to rescue him from his lonely world.