Initially she’d kept her distance. She hadn’t seen the point in becoming attached to people when they’d eventually call her social worker and toss her out because she wasn’t worth the effort. Although she had instantly recognized that Emma wasn’t like the other foster moms she’d been subjected to, she hadn’t been dumb enough to believe the woman’s earth-mother mask had been for real. In her experience, once the social worker dumped her and took off, the wholesome, all-American family facade faded fast and Mikki would be faced with a not-so-pleasant reality that consisted of foster parents who cared more about the state’s monthly stipend than the kids in their care.
But Emma had eventually proven different. Months later the mask remained firmly in place, which had only added to Mikki’s confusion. On the surface Emma’s devotion to each of the children in her care appeared sincere. She’d been kind, fiercely protective and gently handed out discipline when warranted, the latter of which Mikki had earned plenty of during those first few months. Regardless of whatever stupid stunt she’d pulled, though, Emma’s affection had remained steadfast. With an abundance of unconditional love, an unending supply of patience and her own odd brand of homespun wisdom, Mikki had eventually figured out that Emma Constable was the genuine article.
A number of troubled young girls had benefited from being placed in Emma’s care over the years, but for the most part, they hadn’t been long-term cases like herself and Lauren, who’d arrived four years after Mikki. Lauren had been fifteen, scared, confused and orphaned, and one year behind Mikki in school. As a matter of emotional survival, Mikki had made a habit of keeping people at a distance, but she’d done the unthinkable the day a group of preppies had picked on Lauren and had become her champion. Mikki had gone ballistic and ended up with a two-day suspension for fighting. To this day, she wasn’t about to stand down when someone messed with her family.
She remembered expecting Emma to ground her for a month after that trick, but while the peace-prone Emma hadn’t condoned Mikki’s behavior, she hadn’t exactly condemned it, either. Instead she’d encouraged Mikki to nurture her protective instincts in a more positive way. With Emma’s guidance and encouragement, she’d become an attorney. She truly loved her work as a child advocate with San Francisco County Legal Aid, representing kids with backgrounds similar to her own who desperately needed someone in their corner.
A smile touched Mikki’s lips as she pulled a pair of tickets from her handbag. “Because Saturday would be too late,” she said, handing one to each of them. “These are only good for Friday night.”
Rory set her mug on the table and shot Mikki a wry glance. “What’s this all about?”
“A charity event.” She sounded much too chipper, instantly raising her sisters’ warning flags. They really did know her far too well.
“‘Unlock the possibilities,’” Lauren read, then regarded Mikki with the same wariness as Rory. “Mikki, you’re up to something.”
Mikki took no offense at the accusation in Lauren’s tone. “Before either of you even think of saying no, it really is for a good cause.” Forget playing a trump card, she’d go straight for the emotional jugular. “Maureen Baxter is hosting the event to raise money for a transitional home for young girls in crisis situations. With the shortage of qualified foster care, Baxter House will be an alternative to county housing.”
What were once commonly known as orphanages or county homes were supposed to be safe havens, but overcrowded conditions and understaffing had all too often led to less than desirable environments that made the juvenile facilities an unfavorable option for displaced children.
“You know what nightmares those places can be,” Mikki added, shooting Lauren a meaningful glance. “Courtesy of all the budget cutbacks, the situation is only becoming worse.” Mikki and Lauren had both briefly lived at McClanin Hall, a county facility with a bad reputation due to its rough, prisonlike atmosphere. Rory had heard their horror stories and Mikki felt confident that that alone would be more than enough to push her sisters into conceding.
They both looked resigned, which made Mikki smile. Maureen Baxter, who was a couple of years younger than Mikki, had been another of Emma’s girls. She had come along during Mikki’s last year of high school after her mother had been killed by her abusive husband. Mikki wasn’t as close to Maureen as she was to Lauren or to Rory, but they still shared a few bonds. Their affection and respect for the woman who’d cared for them for one, their work with children being another. As an attorney and child advocate for legal aid, the bulk of Mikki’s caseload came from the child welfare division, where Maureen was employed as a social worker.
“If anyone can make it happen,” she continued, “it’ll be Maureen. She’s one of the most compassionate, driven women I know.” Mikki supported the cause completely, and had been working closely with Maureen, wading through the sea of legal red tape involved in such a huge undertaking.
“She already has the licensing,” she told them. “Between what little government funding she’s finagled, and the generosity of several financial contributors, she’s close to turning Baxter House into a reality. She’s having it built on that piece of raw land she inherited from her mother’s estate. This event is to raise money for the building fund.”
Lauren flicked her fingernail over the glossy black ticket with bright neon-pink lettering. “Fifty dollars?” she exclaimed, upon closer inspection. “Per person?”
“It’s on me,” Mikki reassured her. Fifty bucks wouldn’t make a dent in Rory’s wallet, and would leave only a small one in her own, but Lauren was a struggling journalist who worked for little more than peanuts half the time.
“Exactly what kind of possibilities are we supposed to unlock for fifty bucks?”
Rory leaned forward on the table, giving the éclairs she’d foresworn a longing look before resolutely wrapping her hands around the mug. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Ever hear of speed dating?”
“Sure,” Lauren said with a shrug. “You pay an entry fee and then spend ten minutes chatting with some guy. If you hit it off, great. If he’s a dud, then in ten minutes you’re free to move on to the next one.”
“Count me out.” Rory plunked down her mug and stood.
“But—”
“Speed rejection is more like it. Forget it, Mikki,” Rory said in that stubborn way of hers that drove Mikki even crazier than when she called her Mikki Mantis. “I’ll reimburse you for the ticket and I’ll fork over a nice-size donation, but there’s no way I’m going to subject myself to that kind of humiliation.”
“Oh, come on, Rory,” she argued. “It’s not technically speed dating. Actually, it’s more like a key party. Sort of.”
Looking even more dubious, Rory smoothed her sweater over her generous hips. “A key party? Like in The Ice Storm? You’ve got to be kidding. I thought those died out way back in the seventies, along with Mom’s love beads and hookah pipe.”
“Key parties are trendy again.” Mikki grinned. “I hear hookahs are, too.”
“I’m not the trendy type.”
“Oh, I dunno, Rory,” Lauren chimed in hopefully. “It might be fun.”
“It will be,” Mikki rallied. “Fifty dollars buys a key or lock ticket. The male guests are all given keys and the women an adorable pendant in the shape of a tiny white-gold suitcase. Which, by the way, we get to keep. How can you say no to free jewelry, all for circulating, flirting and having fun trying to find out who holds the key to your locket? The guy with the key that opens your suitcase is your date for whatever prize is drawn from the raffle ticket hidden inside. Everybody wins.”
Non-key-holder tickets were also available,