to clinch it for him with members of the opposite sex wasn’t his looks, his bank account or even, to his chagrin, his skill as a lover. It was his manners.
Apparently, while growing up, he’d paid too close attention to Nana Jo’s instructions. She’d insisted that he be polite, chivalrous, attentive and always act interested in other people’s opinions and pastimes—even when he wasn’t. As a result, over the years a number of women had expressed, covertly at least, their desire to become Mrs. Thomas Waverly. But he wasn’t in the market for marriage. Not now. Not ever.
For the past several months, of course, Nana Jo had thought otherwise. To her, special implied altar-bound. He should have corrected her. But she was so happy, so excited. It was all she talked about whenever they spoke on the telephone. He just didn’t have the heart. So, he kept his answers brief and changed the subject at the earliest opportunity. Still, she was so certain that he was heading toward “I do” with the fictional woman he’d named Beth that, finally, he’d just agreed with her.
He wasn’t sure where the name had come from. Only that it seemed a suitable moniker for the sensible and sweet woman his grandmother believed had snagged his heart.
His lie had succeeded in easing Nana Jo’s mind; now his was in turmoil. She was insisting on meeting his fiancée, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer any longer. If Thomas didn’t bring the young woman to Nana Jo’s home in Charlevoix for the upcoming Fourth of July weekend, she threatened to get in her car and make the long trip downstate to meet his Beth.
He didn’t like the idea of his grandmother tooling around town in her vintage Cadillac DeVille, much less getting on an expressway where other vehicles would be whizzing by and no doubt honking their horns in irritation since she always drove at least ten miles per hour below the posted speed limit. But if he told her the truth, she would only go back to insisting that she had one foot in the grave. He couldn’t stand the thought of that.
The only solution, as far as he could see, was to produce a fiancée now, and then later, after a reasonable length of time had passed, have that fiancée call things off. If he seemed heartbroken, perhaps Nana Jo would stop pushing so hard, forget about the “dreams” and go back to living her life to the fullest.
A tall order, to be sure. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes.
A tap sounded at his door. “Excuse me, Thomas.”
He opened his eyes to find his secretary standing there with a look of concern pinching her features. Annette was two decades older than Thomas and, like his grandmother, she worried about him. She, too, thought he should be married or at least in a serious relationship at this point in his life. As his employee, however, Annette was much less vocal on the subject, thank goodness.
“Is everything all right?” she asked now.
“Headache,” he murmured. It wasn’t a complete lie. It was Monday and he had until Thursday to figure a way out of this mess. His temples had begun to throb. He pushed back his chair from his desk and started to rise. “I think I’ll knock off a little early.”
“Oh.” Annette’s lips pursed.
“Problem?”
“No. Not really. It’s just that the head of Literacy Liaisons is here to see you.”
“Right now?”
She nodded.
Reaching for his calendar, he said, “I don’t recall an appointment being scheduled.”
“That’s because she doesn’t have one. She dropped in unannounced hoping for a few minutes of your time.” Annette shook her head. “It’s all right. I’ll tell her that she needs to make an appointment. Maybe one day next week?”
Thomas held up a hand. “No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll see her now. Might as well get this over with.” He rubbed one temple. “I assume she’s after a donation.”
His secretary smiled. “I’m sure you’re right.”
Three things struck Thomas immediately when the young woman entered his office. First, how small she was, despite wearing a pair of three-inch-high pumps that were the same color as her conservative gray pantsuit. Even in them, he doubted she topped out at five-five.
Second, her mouth. It was wide with full lips that were curving into a smile that lit up a pair of surprisingly dark eyes for one so fair. Add in a slightly upturned, freckle-dusted nose and bobbed blond hair that fell even with a blunt chin, and the adjective cute was a far better description for her than beautiful.
Third—and perhaps this was only because he was feeling so desperate—she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. In fact, other than a pair of simple pearl earrings, she wasn’t wearing any jewelry at all.
He eyed her speculatively, both ashamed and intrigued by the direction of his thoughts. What if …? Nah.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Waverly. I’m Elizabeth Morris.” She extended her right hand. “Thank you for taking the time to see me on such short notice.”
He shook her hand. Like the rest of her, it was small. And soft. Her grip, however, was not. It was firm and all business. He liked that about her. There was nothing worse than a limp handshake, even coming from a petite woman who barely looked old enough to order a drink.
“Have a seat,” he said.
“I’m pretty sure you’ve guessed I’ve come here today to ask for money.” Those full lips bowed again, making him appreciate her forthrightness all the more.
The headache he’d been nursing began to disappear. He steepled his fingers in front of him and, in his most businesslike tone, said, “Waverly Enterprises is always interested in helping worthy causes in our community. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about yours?”
She exhaled discreetly, as if she hadn’t been sure Thomas wouldn’t show her the door.
“Literacy Liaisons specializes in helping adults in our community learn to read.”
“Is illiteracy really an issue in Ann Arbor?”
She tilted her head to one side. “That surprises you?”
“A little.” The city was home to the University of Michigan and one of the best medical facilities in North America.
“Despite the fact that we live in a college town with a lot of highly educated residents, there are people here and in the surrounding communities who are either illiterate or functionally illiterate. That means they may be able to read well enough to get by during, say, a trip to the grocery store, but they cannot read well enough to hold a decent job. Many of them wind up poor, sometimes even homeless.”
She inched forward on her chair, warming to her subject. Her face lit with the kind of passion that went hand-in-hand with conviction.
“They aren’t intellectually challenged, although many of them do have undiagnosed learning disabilities such as dyslexia. As children, they fell through the cracks in our educational system and now, as adults, they continue to fall through the cracks. Our goal is to change that.”
Finished, she shifted back in her seat. Her demeanor remained confident; her expression, determined.
