Читать книгу Wedding Vows: With This Ring - Barbara Hannay - Страница 13

HOUSTON WHITFORD congratulated himself on using his time between rounds wisely. By avoiding Molly Michaels.

And yet there really was no avoiding her. With each day at Second Chances, even as he busied himself researching, checking the new computer systems, okaying details of the renovations, there was no avoiding her influence in this place.

Molly Michaels was the sun that the moons circled around. Just as at the garden, she seemed to be the one people gravitated to with their confidences and concerns. She was warm, open and emotional.

The antithesis of what he was. But what was that they said? Opposites attract. And he could feel the pull of her even as he tried not to.

They had one very striking similarity. They both wanted their own way, and were stubborn in the pursuit of it.

Tuesday morning three letters had been waiting for him on his desk when he arrived. The recurring theme of the three letters: Why I Want a Prom Dress. One was on pink paper. One smelled of perfume. And he was pretty sure one was stained with tears.

Wednesday there were half a dozen.

Yesterday, twenty or so.

Today he was so terrified of the basket overflowing with those heartfelt feminine outpourings that he had bypassed his office completely! The Sunshine and Lollipops program felt as if it had to be easier to handle than those letters!

Molly was chipping away at his hardheaded jadedness without even being in the same room with him.

Today children. He didn’t really have a soft spot for children, but a few days ago he would have said the same of teenage girls pleading for prom dresses!

Molly was a force to be reckoned with. Houston was fairly certain if he was going to be here for two months instead of two weeks, by the end of that time he would be laying down his cloak over mud puddles for her. He’d probably be funding Prom Dreams out of his own pocket, just as he was donating the entire office renovation, and the time and skill of his Precision Solutions team.

The trick really was not to let Molly Michaels know that her charm was managing to permeate even his closed office door! The memory of the day they had already spent together seemed to be growing more vibrant with time instead of less.

Because she was a mischievous little minx—laughter seemed to follow in her wake—and she would not hesitate to use any perceived power over him to her full advantage!

So, the trick was not to let her know. They hailed a cab when she took one look at his car and pronounced it unsuitable for the neighborhood they were going into.

As someone who had once put a rock through a judge’s very upscale Cadillac, Houston should have remembered that his car, a jet black Jaguar, would be a target for the angry, the greedy and the desperate in those very poor neighborhoods.

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. Like 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.

The 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.

But all of that, all her motives, were fading so quickly as she continued to see something about Houston Whitford that made her feel weak with longing.

He couldn’t keep up with children hand-making him tidbits. In minutes he had every child in the room demanding his attention. He solemnly accepted the offerings, treated each as if it was a culinary adventure from the five-star restaurant he was dressed for.

He began to really let loose—something Molly sensed was very rare in this extremely controlled man. He began to narrate his culinary adventure, causing spasms of laughter from the children, and from her.

He did Bugs Bunny impressions. He asked for recipes. He used words she would have to look up in the dictionary.

And then he laughed.

Just like he had laughed in the garden. It was possibly the richest sound she had ever heard, deep, genuine, true.

She thought of all the times she had convinced Chuck to do “fun” things with her, the thing she deemed an in-love couple should do that week. Roller-skating, bike riding, days on the beaches of Long Island, a skiing holiday in Vermont. Usually paid for by her of course, and falling desperately short of her expectations.

Always, she had so carefully set up the picture, trying to make herself feel some kind of magic that had been promised to her in songs, and in movies and in storybooks.

Molly had tried so hard to manufacture the exact feeling she was experiencing in this moment. She had thought if she managed this outing correctly she would show Houston Whitford the real Second Chances.

What she had not expected was to see Houston Whitford so clearly, to see how a human being could shine.

What if this was what was most real about him? What if this was him, this man who was so unexpectedly full of laughter and light around these children?

What if he was one of those rare men who were made to be daddies? Funny, playful, able to fully engage with children?

“I told you, you don’t laugh enough,” she whispered to him.

“Ah, Miss Molly, it’s hard for me to admit you might be right.” And then he smiled at her, and it seemed as if the whole world faded and it was just the two of them in this room, sharing something deep and splendid.

Molly found herself wanting to capture these moments, to hold them, to keep them. She remembered the camera he had given her, took it out and clicked as he took a very mashed celery stick from a child.

“The best yet,” she heard him say. “To die for. But I can’t eat another bite. Not one.”

But he took one more anyway, and then he closed his eyes, and patted his flat belly, pretending to push it out against his hand. The children howled with laughter. She took another picture, and Molly laughed, too, at his antics, but underneath her laughter was a growing awareness.

She had thought bringing Houston to her projects would show her the real Houston Whitford. And that was true.

Unfortunately, if this laughing carefree man was the real Houston, it made her new boss even more attractive, not less! It made her way too aware of the Molly that had never been put behind her after all—the Molly who yearned and longed, and ultimately believed.

“Will you stay for story time?”

No. Nothing that ended happily-ever-after! Please! She suddenly wanted to get him out of here. Felt as if something about her plot to win his heart was backfiring badly. She had wanted to win him over for Second Chances! Not for herself.

He was winning her heart instead of her winning his, and it had not a single thing to do with Second Chances.

“Not possible,” Molly said, quickly, urgently. “Sorry.”

It wasn’t on the schedule to stay, thank goodness, but even before the children started begging him, it seemed every one of them tugging on some part of him to get him up off the floor, his eyes met Molly’s and she knew they weren’t going anywhere.

With handprints and food stains all over the pristine white of that shirt, Houston allowed himself to be dragged to the sinks, where he obediently washed his own hands, and then one by one helped each of the children wash theirs.

After he washed “Princess’s” face, the same child who had sat beside him at snack, she crooked her finger at him. He bent down, obviously thinking, as Molly did, that the tiny tot had some important secret to tell him.

Instead she kissed him noisily on his cheek.

Molly held out the camera, framed the exquisite moment. Click.

He straightened slowly, blushing wildly.

Click. She found herself hoping that she was an accomplished enough photographer to capture that look on his face.

“Did you turn me into a prince, little princess?” Houston asked.

The girl regarded him solemnly. “No.”

But that’s not how Molly felt, at all. A man she had been determined to see as a toad had turned into a prince before her eyes.

Again she realized that this excursion was not telling her as much about Houston Whitford as it was telling her about herself.

She wanted the things she had always wanted, more desperately than ever.

And that sense of desperation only grew as Molly watched as Houston, captive now, like Gulliver in the land of little people, was led over to the story area. He chose to sit on the floor, all the children crowding around him. By the time they were settled each of those children seemed to have claimed some small part of him, to touch, even if it was just the exquisitely crafted soft leather of his shoe. His “little princess” crawled into his lap, plopped her thumb in her mouth and promptly went to sleep.

Molly could not have said what one of those stories was about by the time they left a half hour later, Houston handing over the still sleeping child.

As she watched him, she was in the grip of a tenderness so acute it felt as if her throat was closing.

Molly was stunned. The thing she had been trying to avoid because she knew how badly it would weaken her—was exactly what she had been brought.

She was seeing Houston Whitford in the context of family. Watching him, she felt his strength, his protectiveness, his heart.

She had waited her whole life to feel this exquisite tenderness for another person.

It was all wrong. There was no candlelight. It smelled suspiciously like the little girl might have had an accident in her sleep.

Love was supposed to come first. And then these moments of glory.

What did it mean? That she had experienced such a moment for Houston? Did it mean love would come next? That she could fall in love with this complicated man who was her boss?

No, that was exactly what she was not doing! No more wishing, dreaming! Being held prisoner by fantasies.

No more.

But as she looked at him handing over that sleeping little girl, it felt like she was being blinded by the light in him, drawn to the power and warmth of it.

Moth to flame, Molly chastised herself ineffectively.

“Sorry she’s so clingy,” the daycare staff member who relieved him of her said. “She’s going through a rough time, poor mite. Her mother hasn’t been around for a few days. Her granny is picking her up.”

And just like that, the light she had seen in his face snapped off, replaced by something as cold as the other light had been warm.

Selfishly, Molly wanted to see only the warmth, especially once it was gone. She wanted to draw it back out of him. Would it seem just as real outside as it had in? Maybe she had just imagined it. She had to know.

She had to test herself against this fierce new challenge.

As they waited for a cab on the sidewalk, he seemed coolly remote. The electronic device was back out. She remembered this from yesterday. He came forward, and then he retreated.

“You were a hit with those kids.” She tried to get him back to the man she had seen at lunch.

He snorted with self-derision, didn’t look up. “Starving for male attention.”

“I can see you as a wonderful daddy someday,” she said.

He looked up then, gave her his full attention, a look that was withering.

“The last thing I would ever want to be is a daddy,” he said.

“But why?”

“Because there is quite a bit more to it than carrot sticks and storybooks.”

“Yes?”

“Like being there. Day in and day out. Putting another person first forever. Do I look like the kind of guy who puts other people first?”

“You did in there.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“You seem angry.”

“No kidding.”

“Houston, what’s wrong?”

“There’s a little girl in there whose mom has abandoned her. How does something like that happen? How could anybody not love her? Not want her? How could anybody who had a beautiful child like that not devote their entire life to protecting her and making her safe and happy?”

“An excellent daddy,” she said softly.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he said, coldly angry. “Can you wait for the cab yourself? I just thought of something I need to do.”

And he left, walking down the street, fearless, as though that fancy watch and those shoes didn’t make him a target.

Look at the way he walked. He was no target. No victim.

She debated calling after him that she had other things on the agenda for today. But she didn’t. This was his pattern. She recognized it clearly now.

He felt something. Then he tried to walk away, tried to reerect his barriers, his formidable defenses, against it.

Why? What had happened to him that made a world alone seem so preferable to one shared?

“Wait,” she called. “I’ll walk with you.”

And he turned and watched her come toward him, waited, almost as if he was relieved that he was not going to carry some of the burden he carried alone.