by Nicole Deese
The same woman I’d held against my chest approximately three hundred feet from where I sat now.
I rubbed my hand down the length of the sofa arm, thinking back to the delivery of such a generous yet anonymous gift. The residents were correct. This was the most comfortable piece of furniture inside Fir Crest Manor to date. But the donations hadn’t stopped there. This once bleak room now included a swanky rug, a dark-stained coffee table, a couple matching side tables, and four lounger chairs. And two shelves’ worth of books. The note on that box had simply read No historical manor is complete without a good mystery or romance novel.
How is she today? I’d asked myself this question more than a dozen times as I replayed Molly’s teary confession, hearing her bold words again and again, remembering the way her hair had brushed my chin as I’d pulled her to me.
“I’ve been sensing a weird vibe. In the cottage,” Glo said ominously, pulling me back to the present. She opened her eyes, lifted her head. I’d known Glo for a long time. She’d lost a husband, a son, and about a decade to the bottom of a whiskey bottle, and yet somehow this house was where she wanted to be most. With these residents. Doing this work. Living out the hope she wished she’d found while navigating her darkest days. So while vibe wasn’t an active part of my own vocabulary, I would never discount the word when she used it. Glo’s sensitivity meter was set to a higher level than my own could ever be.
“What kind of vibe?”
As she leaned forward and settled her elbows on her knees, her long gray braid swung over one shoulder. “Something isn’t right with Sasha.” She sighed. “I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something going on with her.”
“Have things escalated with Monica?”
“No. They aren’t even speaking to each other now. At least, not when Wren’s in the picture.”
“Jealousy, then.”
Glo nodded. “I’ve pulled her aside a few times to try and walk her through her feelings to get a better grasp of what might really be going on, but . . .”
“She’s a fortress.” Though I’d had deep concerns over Wren’s isolated existence when she first moved into the house, Sasha’s version of social withdrawal was altogether different. The kind of hiding done in plain sight. Every one of her moves was calculated, a survival technique that did little to heal the festering wound she’d strived to avoid at all costs. Life had taught her how to play the game of getting what she needed without actually having to engage herself in the process. Though we’d seen the warning signs during her initial interview, we’d hoped and prayed her walls would crumble over time as she learned to trust her leaders and housemates. Instead, Sasha had continued to give lip service to all the right answers with no real growth to show for it.
“And nobody here seems to have the key. She’s even shut Clara out now.”
“Have you searched her room?”
“It’s clean. I went through everything a few days ago when she was working at the coffee shop. No signs of drugs or alcohol. No proof of anything out of the ordinary, but . . .”
“What?”
“I have a feeling she might be involved with a boy. Someone here.”
Exactly what I’d been dreading. Life on a co-ed campus was never boring. “I’ve had no camera alerts of late-night activity, so if something is happening, it’s not happening on campus. Who do you suspect?”
Glo shrugged. “Hard to say. Possibly Jessie. Possibly Alex.”
“Alex wouldn’t be that stupid. He has too much on the line to risk getting kicked out.”
Glo chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the first time the allure of an attractive woman turned the head of a goal-oriented man.”
I kept my expression neutral. Her slight eyebrow hitch hinted at a suggestion I wasn’t ready to discuss. Not even with a woman who was second only to my mother.
“I’ll do some digging around, too. In the meantime, I’ll get her in to see our therapist again this week and see if Hannah might meet with her a few times in between if she’s shut Clara out.” I slid my phone out to schedule a reminder to do just that.
“Hannah’s pregnant and needs to be resting right now, not trying to crack the code on a vault.” Glo pursed her lips and then lifted her drink from the table. “I wonder . . . I wonder if Molly might be able to crack her.”
“No.” I shook my head. Molly was too fresh and too unversed in the ways of trauma.
“Why not? She’s sharp, confident, classy, and she has her own unique way of—”
“I’m aware of who Molly is, but Sasha needs a professional.”
“She’s had professionals, Silas. Lots of them. Maybe she needs someone different to talk to, someone with a bit of spunk and style to mix it up.”
I could feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. “Sasha will eat Molly alive.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Glo took a long pull of her soda. “But why not let her try? Sasha’s already in her small group, and Clara and I can help coach her, too. Look at the progress she’s made with Wren.”
True. But Wren was a different situation altogether. Her heart was hurt, but open. Sasha was walled and defensive, a striker when agitated, not someone who shrank back when she felt threatened.
“Just think about it. Molly’s a . . .”
I met Glo’s eyes, curious to hear how she’d choose to conclude her sentence.
“She’s a soft center,” she finished.
As I thought back to Molly’s confession last night, to the truth she’d chosen to reveal, knowing the outcome could mean dismissal from the program . . . I had to agree with Glo’s assessment. Strong, yet also soft.
The overhead ding of the lobby door being opened by someone with the correct access code cut our conversation short as our attention zeroed in on the very woman we’d just been discussing. A woman who wasn’t due here for another five hours. Only this Molly wasn’t draped in any of the extra flourishes I’d come to expect—no vibrant colors, patterns, or prints. No outlandish shoes set on stilts or slices of cork.
And something about this subdued version of her made my gut twist in revolt.
I stood as she approached us in her muted pastel T-shirt and light denim jeans. It was as if she believed that by dialing down her fashion selections she could turn off the very thing that made her so unique, so Molly.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt; I was just hoping I could take some measurements of the east lawn. For the fundraising event. Thought I should ask permission before walking out there.” She pressed a pink notebook flat against her abdomen like a protective shield.
Glo pushed up off the couch and headed straight for her. “No apologizes necessary. Silas and I were just finishing up here.”
We weren’t, of course, but I appreciated Glo’s on-the-nose perception like usual. “Yes, thank you, Glo. I’ll be sure to follow up on everything we discussed,” I replied, though my eyes never left the woman in front of me.
I observed the way Glo pulled Molly into a hug and then pushed her back to assess her feet with suspicion. “I thought you said you didn’t wear flats. Those sneakers look pretty flat to me, Kitten Heels. Next thing I know, you’ll be asking to borrow my Birkenstocks.”
Molly’s laugh was thin. “Maybe so.”
Glo squeezed her shoulder and quirked a telling eyebrow at me as if to say Fix this, Silas before she clacked away in the shoes she hadn’t taken off since Molly first gave them to her.
“How are—”
“Is everything—”
I gestured for Molly to go first.
She studied the floor. “Your meeting wasn’t really over, was it?”
“It was over enough.”
She glanced up. “Is everything okay—I mean, it seemed serious when I walked in.”
If only to put her mind at ease that the subject matter Glo and I had been discussing had nothing to do with her, I pulled back the proverbial curtain. “We have some concerns about Sasha.”
“A
bout what?”
“Several things, but currently, we’re concerned about the possibility of an inappropriate relationship. Between Sasha and one of the male residents.”
“Who?” she asked.
“Not sure yet. We don’t have actual evidence to go on right now, just a suspicion.”
Molly nodded. “And if you find evidence, what happens then? Do you call the two of them in for a meeting and ask them both outright?”
The optimism in her response caused me to smile. “Have you ever cornered a toddler who had melted chocolate on their fingers and asked if they knew anything about a missing cookie?”
“You don’t think they’d confess?”
“No one ever has before.” I paused a beat, weighing my words. “Given their age and freedoms, it’s impossible to account for every moment of a resident’s day, but we do try to make it as difficult as possible for our residents to break the rules on campus. And due to our long waitlist, they know how serious we are when it comes to the consequences.”
Her eyes rounded slightly. “Getting caught means they’d have to leave?”
“It depends on the circumstances, but if there’s evidence that things have . . . evolved to a certain extent, then we have no choice but to ask them to go. Everyone here has signed a commitment statement. They are well versed in the expectations.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Glo’s words boomeranged in my head. Why not let her try? “As you’ve likely noticed, Sasha can be . . . challenging. But her past has been marked by tragedy and rejection. She was born in Ukraine and adopted as a young girl by an American couple from Oregon, but that adoption dissolved two years post placement due to certain behavioral issues the family felt underprepared to deal with long-term.” I cleared my throat, unwilling to debate the morality of such a life-altering decision, even inside my own mind. A disruption like that was damaging for everyone involved, but it was nothing short of devastating for the displaced child. In this case, Sasha. “She was never adopted again and instead was raised in and out of several foster homes up and down the West Coast. The manifestations of the kind of trauma she’s faced in her young life are more evident than in some of our other residents, but even still, we’ve tried our best to connect with her, to help her understand the value of real, trust-based relationships.”
“That’s so sad.” Molly’s face contorted with compassion. “I never would have guessed that about her.”
“Like many kids raised in traumatic situations, she’s become an expert at concealing her pain.” I hesitated. “Maybe, if you see an opportunity, you could try to talk with her, too.”
“Of course. I’ll do my best.”
And I knew she would. “Thank you.”
She nodded, then slowly glanced away, the sparkle in her eyes dimming to match the rest of her uncharacteristically sheepish body language today.
“Molly,” I hedged, unsure of how to start such a conversation. “You and I—we’re good. There’s no need for you to tiptoe around here as if last night was—”
“I feel like such a fool, Silas.” When her eyes met mine, it took every shred of willpower I possessed not to reach out for her. “I have no clue how I should be now after . . . after everything I said to you last night. I don’t know how to act around you or what I should say or when I should—”
I worked to douse the flame of heat her words ignited. “I don’t want or expect you to be anything other than who you are.”
“But do you really even know who that is? Because I’m not even sure I know. What if I’m just a fraud through and through and the hope of me actually being able to offer something of value to one of the residents here is nothing more than a really bad joke?”
I studied her, working to unscramble her fears one by one, sorting the obvious lies from the truth I’d come to believe about her in such a short period of time. While I was in no way blinded to her faults or flaws, the number of positive adjectives I’d use to describe Molly McKenzie had only multiplied each time I was near her.
“You are confident and eager, witty and inviting. Empathetic and invested when engaging with our young ladies, and you’ve shown generosity in providing for needs spoken and unspoken alike.” I let my gaze linger on the sectional sofa beside us. “All of those are valuable qualities to offer a hurting world.” I waited until her searching eyes met mine again, and when they did, I spoke the rest, unfiltered and unrestrained. “You are everything you were last night before we talked, minus the burden you were carrying. So if anything can be called fraudulent here, it’s the timidity you came in wearing like a cloak.”
After a silent moment, her lips quirked. “Only a duke would use the word cloak.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.”
She released a heavy exhale, and as she did, the notebook she held slacked away from her chest just enough for me to make out the corner of a glittered word. I reached for it, prying it away from her hands to read the shimmery pink phrase in its entirety: Sparkling Is My Favorite Sport.
A laugh erupted from my throat. If ever there was a life motto to describe someone by, this was hers. Molly sparkled wherever she went, even now, when she was trying her best to conceal it from the world.
She tried to pluck the notebook back from me, but I shook my head. The last place it belonged was pressed against a T-shirt that couldn’t decide whether it was peach or tan. “What exactly were your plans for such a notebook today?”
“Like I said earlier,” she said with about twenty-five percent more spice than before, “I was hoping to take some measurements of the lawn and garden area. I was also hoping I might find a corner where I could work in the house and sketch out some plans. It’s easier for me to visualize it all if I’m here.” Absently she touched the side of her head where she’d pinned her golden mane into a style I’d seen her create in one of her hair tutorials. A weaving together of loose curls that somehow required more hardware than my kitchen cabinets.
“Seeing as this house is twelve thousand square feet, I think we can do better than offer you a corner to work from.” Though there were a dozen possibilities, only one registered as the suggestion I’d offer. “There’s an empty room directly across the hall from mine. It’s yours for however long you need it.”
“Thank you,” she said with a smile much closer to her natural brightness. “I might need to ask your opinion on a few details later—in regards to the dinner. I had some thoughts about the decor and agenda for the evening.”
“That’s fine. But, Molly, you should know that our budget will be limited as to what we can afford to host here on the grounds.” The subject made the headache I’d managed to suppress throb yet again.
She shook her head. “And you should know that it’s my goal for The Bridge not to have to pay a cent for hosting it at all. I just need to think through some of the bigger details a bit more first, but between my sponsors and my platforms, I’m fairly certain I can build a strategy that can pay for it all without dipping into your accounts.” Her smile grew, and once again, I was taken aback not only by her beauty but also by her resilience.
“Okay,” I found myself saying. “Just let me know what I can do to help.”
“I will.”
While Molly walked the grounds, sketching in her notebook and taking notes, I carried some temporary office furniture from downstairs into the room across the hall for her to use once she came back inside. As I pushed the table to the window, I saw her. She wasn’t alone. Both Monica and Wren had joined her—all taking giant yard-stick size steps and falling into fits of laughter I could hear, even from two floors up. As I continued to watch, something undeniable tugged inside my chest at the sight of her here. Something I wasn’t yet willing to admit, even to myself.
Perhaps Glo had been right. Maybe Molly’s soft center was exactly what someone like Sasha needed. Maybe it was what we all needed.
The harsh shrill of my phone shoved the tranquil moment aside and yan
ked my thoughts away from the woman twirling in circles outside my window and to the unknown number on my phone screen.
“Hello, this is Silas.”
“Silas, mi hermano.”
A familiar cold crept over my skin at a voice I’d know anywhere. “Carlos.”
“You sound good, brother. You’re healthy?”
I turned my back to the window and lowered my voice, working to recall the many hours of therapeutic roleplay I’d endured after the incident. “I’ve asked you not to call me.” Though boundaries likely didn’t mean much to a convict.
“The judge released me two months early—for good behavior. I wrote to tell you, but I wasn’t sure if you—”
“Is there something you need from me, Carlos?”
The pause on the other end of the phone caused me to prepare for whatever manipulation web was waiting to be spun. My brother’s lies were often as subtle as his breath.
“I’m not your enemy, brother.”
“The scar on my arm would disagree.”
“That was a mistake. I’m not that man anymore. I’m clean—I’ve been clean. For over two years now. Everything is different, I’ve explained it all in my—”
“A mistake implies a moment of misjudgment, not a lifetime of bad decisions.” My words lacked warmth but not sincerity. Though I had prayed my brother would change, that he would find a true and lasting faith in God, I no longer believed I would be the one to lead him there. Not after he’d left me for dead at the bottom of a cement staircase in the pursuit of another hit.
“I called to ask if you would meet me—you can pick the place. Any day or time. If you need me to bring Peter, I will. He’s the pastor I’ve told you about—the one who visited me in prison every week. He’s my sponsor, too. He gave me a Bible and a job stocking food at a warehouse in Bellingham. That’s where I’m living now. He said I could take a day off to meet you.”
