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
