Aware she was holding her breath, Molly clicked. No message—a paperclip indicated an attachment.
She clicked on the paperclip and a video opened. It was a grainy picture of a gorgeous hot air balloon, its colors, purple, yellow, red, green, vibrant against a flawless blue sky, rising majestically into the air. What did this have to do with Miss Viv?
The utter beauty of the picture was in such sharp contrast to the ugly reality of the changes being wrought in her life that Molly felt tears prick her eyes. She had always thought a ride in a hot air balloon would be the most incredible experience ever. Just last night she had toasted this very vision.
She squinted at the picture, and it came into focus. Two little old ladies were waving enthusiastically from the basket of the balloon. One of them blew a kiss.
Molly frowned, squinted hard at the grainy picture and gasped.
What was Miss Viv doing living Molly’s dream? If this video was any indication, Miss Viv had complete trust in Houston Whitford being left in charge! Apparently she wasn’t giving her life back here—or her Second Chances family—a single second thought.
In fact, Miss Viv was waving with enthusiasm, decidedly carefree, apparently having the time of her life. It made Molly have the disloyal thought that maybe she, Molly, had allowed Second Chances to become too much to her.
Molly’s job, her career, especially in the awful months since Chuck, had become her whole life, instead of just a part of it.
What had happened to her own dreams?
“Dreams are dangerous,” she reminded herself.
But that didn’t stop her from envying the carefree vision Miss Viv had sent her. She wished, fervently, that they could change places!
She hit the reply button to Miss Viv’s e-mail. “Call home,” she wrote. “Urgent!”
HOUSTON regarded the empty place where Molly had just stood, berating him, with interest. In terms of the reins of this place being handed over to her one day, it was a good thing that she was willing to stand up for issues that were important to her. She had made her points clearly, and with no ultimatums, which he appreciated.
He would be unwilling to recommend her for the head spot if she was every bit as soft as she looked. But, no, she was willing to go to battle, to stand her ground.
Unreasonable as it was that she had chosen him to stand it with! And her emotional attachment to the dress thing was a con that clearly nullified the pro of her ability to stand up.
Unreasonable as it was that the fight in her had made her just as attractive as her sweetness in that wedding dress yesterday.
Maybe more so. Fights he knew how to handle. Sweetness, that was something else.
Still, for as analytical as he was trying to be, he had to acknowledge he was just a little miffed. He had become accustomed to answering to no one, he had earned the unquestioning respect of his team and the companies he worked for.
When Precision Solutions went in, Houston Whitford’s track record proved productivity went up. And revenue. Jobs were not lost as a result of his team’s efforts, but gained. Companies were put on the road to health, revitalized, reenergized.
There was nothing personal about what he did: it purely played to his greatest strengths, his substantial analytical skills. Except for the satisfaction he took in being the best, there was no emotion attached to his work.
Unlike Molly Michaels, most people appreciated that. They appreciated his approach, how fast he did things, how real and remarkable the changes he brought were. When he said cut something, it was cut, no questions asked.
No arguments!
They thanked him for the teams of experts, the new computers and ergonomically designed offices, and carefully researched paint colors that aided higher productivity.
“Maybe she’ll thank you someday,” he told himself, and then laughed at the unlikelihood of that scenario, and also at himself, for somehow wanting her approval.
This would teach him to deny his instincts. He had known not to tackle the charity. He had known he was going to come up against obstacles in the casually run establishment that he would never come across in the business world.
A redheaded vixen calling him down and questioning his judgment being a case in point!
But how could he have refused this? How could he refuse Beebee—or her circle of friends—anything? He owed his life to her, and to them. In those frightening days after his father had first been arrested, and his mother had quickly defected with another man—Houston had been making the disastrous mistake of trying to mask his fear with the anger that came so much more easily in his family.
He’d already worked his way through two foster homes when suddenly there had been Beebee. He had been in a destructive mode and had thrown a rock through the window of her car, parked on a dark street.
She had caught him red-handed, stunned him by not being the least afraid of him. Instead, she had looked at him with that same terrible knowing in her eyes that he had glimpsed in Molly’s eyes yesterday.
And 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,