Rescued in a Wedding Dress (7 page)

Love?

That word again in the space of a few minutes, not in the relatively safe context of a bald budgie this time, either.

Pull away from him, she ordered herself. He was casting a spell on her. She was forgetting she’d been hurt. She was forgetting the cynicism her childhood should have filled her with.

She was embracing the her she had glimpsed in the garden, who thought hope was a good thing.

But couldn’t hope be the most dangerous thing of all?

Pull back,
she ordered herself.
Molly, I mean it!
This wasn’t what she had expected when she had decided to live a little more dangerously.

This was
a lot
more dangerously.

Yes, she had decided she needed to be true to herself, but this place she was going to now was a part of herself unexplored.

He was her boss, she told herself. In her eagerness to reach him, to draw him into the warmth of her world, she had crossed some line.

How did you get back to normal after something like that?

How did you go back to the office after that? How did you keep your head? How did you not be a complete pushover?

“Dior,” Peggy whispered, interrupting her thoughts. “I’ve been saving that dress for Prom Dreams. Do you want to see the poster I’m sending out to the schools to advertise the Prom Dreams evening? It just came in.”

Molly slid Houston a look. Whatever softening had happened a moment ago was gone. He was watching her, coolly waiting for her to do what she needed to do.

But she couldn’t.

The mention of the probably defunct Prom Dreams should have helped Molly rally her badly sagging defenses, make her forget this nonsense about bringing him out of his lonely world, showing him the meaning of soul.

It was just too dangerous a game she was playing.

On the other hand, she could probably trust him to do what she could not! To herd things back over the line to proper, to put up the walls between them.

Outside he said to her, no doubt about who was the boss now, “Why didn’t you tell her Prom Dreams has been canceled?”

He said it coolly, the remoteness back in his eyes.

She recognized this was his pattern. Show something of himself, appeal to his emotion, like at the garden, and then he would back away from it. There he had tried to hide behind the threat of a parking lot.

This time by bringing up the sore point of Prom Dreams.

He knew, just as she did, that it was safer for them to argue than to chase each other with worms, to dance down dusty aisles.

But despite the fact she knew she should balance caution with this newly awakened sense of adventure, she felt unusually brave, as if she never had to play it safe again. Of course, the formidable obstacle of his will was probably going to keep her very safe whether she wanted to be or not!

She tilted her chin at him. “Why didn’t you?”

“I guess I wanted to see if you could do it.”

“I can. I will if I have to. But not yet. I’m hoping for a miracle,” she admitted. Because that was who she was. A girl who could look at herself in a wedding dress, even after her own dreams had been shattered, even in the face of much evidence to the contrary, a girl who could still hope for the best, hope for the miracle of love to fix everything.

And for a moment, when his guard had gone down, dancing with him, she had believed maybe she would get her miracle after all….

“A miracle,” he said with a sad shake of his head. He went and opened the car door for her, and drove back to Second Chances in silence as if somehow she had disappointed him and not the other way around.

A miracle,
he thought. If people could really call down such a thing, surely they would not waste that power on a prom dress. Cure world hunger. Or cancer. He was annoyed at Molly.

For not doing as he had asked her—a thinly veiled order really—and canceling Prom Dreams, at least she should have told that girl to get ready for the cancellation of it.

But more, for wheedling past his defenses. He had better things to be doing than dancing with her in a shabby store in Greenwich Village.

It was the type of experience that might make a man who knew better hope for a miracle.

But hadn’t he hoped for that once?

The memory leaped over a wall that seemed to have chinks out of it that it had not had yesterday.

It was his birthday. He was about to turn fifteen. He’d been at Beebee’s for months. He was living a life he could never have even dreamed for himself.

He had his own room. He had his own TV. He had his own bathroom. He had nice clothes.

And the miracle he was praying for was for his mother to call. Under that grand four-poster bed was a plain plastic bag, with everything he had owned when he came here packed in it.

Ready to go. In case his mother called. And wanted him back.

That was the miracle he had prayed for that had never come.

“I don’t believe in miracles,” he said to Molly, probably way more curtly than was necessary.

“That’s too bad,” she said sympathetically, forgiving his curtness, missing his point entirely that there was no room in the business world for dreamers. “That’s really too bad.

“Why don’t we call it a day?” she said brightly. “Tomorrow I’ll take you to Sunshine and Lollipops, our preschool program. It’s designed to assist working poor mothers, most of them single parents.”

Houston Whitford contemplated that. Despite the professionalism of her delivery, he knew darn well what she was up to. She was taking down the bricks around his carefully compartmentalized world. She was
getting
to him. And she knew it. She knew it after he had chased her in the garden with that worm, danced with her.

She was having quite an impact on his legendary discipline and now she was going to try to hit him in his emotional epicenter to get her programs approved. Who could resist preschoolers, after all?

Me,
he thought. She was going to try to win him over
to her point of view by going for the heart instead of the head. It was very much the romantic versus the realist.

But the truth was Houston was not the least sentimental about children. Or anything else. And yet even as he told himself that, he was aware of a feeling that he was a warrior going into battle on a completely unknown field, against a completely unknown enemy. Well, not completely. He knew what a powerful weapon her hair was on his beleaguered male senses. The touch of her skin. Now he could add dancing with her to the list of weapons in the arsenal she was so cheerfully using against him.

He rethought his plan to walk right into his fear. He might need a little time to regroup.

“Something has come up for tomorrow,” he said.
It was called sanity.

“You promised me two days,” she reminded him. “I assume you are a man of honor.”

More use of her arsenal. Challenging his
honor.

“I didn’t say consecutively.”

She lifted an eyebrow,
knowing
the effect she was having on him, knowing she was chiseling away at his defenses.

“Friday?” he asked her.

“Friday it is.”

“See you then,” he said, as if he wasn’t the least bit wary of what she had in store for him.

Tonight, and every other night this week, until Friday, he would hit the punching bag until the funny
yearning
that the glimpse of her world was causing in him was gone. He could force all the things he was feeling—
lonely, for one
—back into their proper compartments.

By the end of the week he would be himself again.
He’d experienced a temporary letting down of his guard, but he recognized it now as a weakness. He’d had a whole lifetime of fighting the weaknesses in himself. There was no way one day with her could change that permanently.

Sparring with Molly Michaels was just like boxing, without the bruises, of course. But as with boxing, even with day after day of practice, when it came to sparring, you could take a hair too long to resume the defensive position, and someone slipped a punch in. Rattled you. Knocked you off balance. It didn’t mean you were going to lose that fight! It meant you were going to come back more aware of your defenses. More determined. Especially if the bell had rung between rounds and you had the luxury of a bit of a breather.

She wasn’t going to wear him down, and he didn’t care how many children she tried to use to do it.

H
OUSTON
W
HITFORD
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?