jumped out, relieved to see everything looked normal.
He nodded at the solid concrete building. “At least your personal living space looks secure. From a distance, anyway.”
Fumbling in her backpack for her key, she walked up the steps to the front door. “Thanks to Paul. He helped me find the right construction team to expand the house and put in a water system. He’s well connected.”
The compound held acres of corn and a clearing near the cornfield. Construction equipment and stacks of concrete blocks sat in the clearing. Jarrett adjusted his sunglasses and pointed to them. “What’s going on there?”
“Houses. I’m going to build them for twenty-five single moms helped by my charity. I’m in the process of subdividing the land so each woman will have the land and the house in her name and never have to worry about hooking up with a man just to have a place to stay for her and her children. Paul thinks I’m crazy for building homes, though he agreed to try to find funding.”
Jarrett peered over the top of his shades. “Pity the man. He doesn’t know your stubborn streak.”
She smiled and pushed back a stray lock of hair. “I had a lot of opposition. Some of my friends said the women would bolt soon as they found a man. It was tough at first. I couldn’t find funding, so I used alternative sources.”
“You used your trust fund.”
Heat suffused her face. “I needed start-up capital.”
Jarrett reached out and stroked a knuckle down her cheek. The bare caress filled her with yearning. “You have a real heart. Always knew you’d use that fund for something other than designer bags and shoes.”
Lacey turned away, her emotions churning. How could she even share with him that she’d wanted to make some kind of contribution? Jarrett chose the Navy and dedicated his life to serving his country. Her father had entered the diplomatic corps and then became a US senator to serve, as well. And all she’d done was contribute to the United States economy with her shopping sprees, which left her feeling cold and empty afterward.
If she hadn’t lost the baby, maybe then her life would have taken a different turn. But no use agonizing over the past...
“Come inside. I’ll get us some cold water.”
Jarrett followed her into the living room. She flicked the light switch, but nothing happened. Sighing, she dumped her backpack on the orange sofa.
“The electric’s out. One of the biggest drawbacks to living here outside the capital. I’ll have to use the generator to power the water pump if you need to use the bathroom until the inverter kicks in tonight. I have solar-powered batteries as a backup power system.”
“I’m fine.” He removed his sunglasses and placed them on his shirt.
She grabbed two bottles of cold water from the fridge and gulped down half of one. Jarrett didn’t touch his, but rubbed his bristled jaw. He looked so sexy with the dark beard shadowing his face, but the sexiness was tamped down by his grim expression.
“Why are you so determined to remain here, Lace? Why not return to the States and work with wealthy donors to fund your project?”
She gave him a calm, assessing look as she set down her bottle. “There’s a certain satisfaction in personally cultivating hope among people who have little of it. I don’t grow mangoes, Jarrett. I grow lives. I give a hand up to women who want a better life for their children, and all they need is a fresh start. They need someone to believe in them before they can begin to believe in themselves. But because some nasty ass of a man decided to kick them or beat them, they don’t think they’re worth much. They have no real job skills and I give them the chance to learn self-worth.”
Jarrett’s gaze softened. “You’re something else, Lace.”
She didn’t know what to make of his comment, but knew it was important to show him she was safe and had no intentions of leaving.
“Let me give you the ten-cent tour. This is where I live. The real action is in the outbuildings where the women work.”
Tugging his hand, feeling his calloused fingers beneath hers, she felt a thrill of excitement. Jarrett was the first person from her past to see what she’d done. As they walked down the dirt pathway to a large concrete building, she talked about the coffee company she half owned.
“Paul is my dad’s old friend from the days when we lived on the island, and the CEO of Coffee from the Heart. I got a contract to sell the beans to Dad’s competitors, the local upscale cafés in Washington. They love the fact they’re getting a good deal from the daughter of the man who is their biggest competition.”
“I bet that hurts the old man’s pride.”
“A little.”
At his understanding grin, she remembered the old times, when she and Jarrett boldly made their own way, refusing to take money from her wealthy parents. It was only after his assignments as a SEAL took him away from her so much that she turned to her trust fund for shopping and other empty pursuits to pass the time.
Sometimes she wondered if the extreme measures she’d taken after the divorce—moving here and starting her own nonprofit, had been to prove herself. Prove she was capable of being successful on her own. Prove she wasn’t a failure, like her marriage had been.
They reached the building and she couldn’t help a tinge of pride. Solar cells powered the lights, and the hot water heater was a black plastic tank. Efficient and economical. Jarrett looked impressed as she took him into the processing room. The women washed mangoes at a long sink and looked up and said a shy hello. A tall woman with dark-colored skin in her late thirties came over. She wore low heels, a blue dress and had a white apron tied around her waist.
Lacey introduced Jarrett to Collette March, the manager of the mango marmalade project. Educated in the States and extremely efficient, Collette was a hard worker and good at motivating the women.
“Are those jars of jam ready for shipping yet?” she asked.
Collette nodded. “Yes, Miss Lacey. And the two you want shipped to the US to your father, as well. They’re all in the storehouse.”
As Collette hurried back over to supervise the women cutting the fruit, Lacey tossed Jarrett a mango. He bit into it, juice running down his chin. She grinned at his surprised look.
“It’s better than the mangoes I’ve had in the States. Tastes like a tropical drink without the alcohol.”
“That’s the special appeal of these mangoes, and what makes the jam so tasty. We buy from local farmers, though we grow our own, as well, on the property.”
As he finished the fruit, she took him into a room where women sat at long tables, hand-peeling the fruit and then slicing it into sections.
“It’s pretty easy to convert this into a large-scale operation because I have the labor. I hire women from the community and I pay them more than they’d make at the local sweat shops. I employ mainly women, and as a condition of employment, they have to attend classes here on Saturdays in reading and writing if they are illiterate.”
At another table women were
