by Nicole Deese
I tried to focus on the numbers blurring in front of my eyes and not on my growing freebie invite list. “Okay, what am I looking at here? What’s the bottom line?”
Clara looked ill. “To raise what you want to raise and cover all the overhead plus entertainment fees . . .”
“Clara, it’s really okay. Just say it.”
She tapped the sum at the bottom of the page. “We’ll need to charge two thousand dollars a ticket.”
“Oh.” I gripped my chest, huffing out a laugh of relief. “Gosh, for a minute, I thought you were going to say a number close to triple that. But that’s totally doable.”
Clara didn’t blink. “Molly, two grand a ticket is . . .” She shook her head. “It’s not something people around here can afford. Our monthly supporters are small church congregations and faith-based bookstores and family-owned restaurants.”
“Exactly. Which is why I haven’t limited our invitations to local businesses and their patrons.” I bit my lip, debating with myself. “Can you keep a secret?”
She nodded, albeit hesitantly at first.
“I’ve secured commitments from twenty of my sponsors already. With those donations and the scholarship from my agency, we have nearly three hundred thousand already in the bank. The livestream auction from my platforms will make up the deficit, no problem. So those ticket prices, they won’t even be relevant in the end. Most of the sponsors who pay won’t actually RSVP to the event anyway.”
Clara’s mouth gaped open like a fish needing to be thrown back in the lake. “Molly . . . really?”
I nodded excitedly. “Yes! Really! I wanted to wait until we set up the account link and had the transfer confirmations, but yes. Everything is going perfectly on schedule.”
“I just . . .” Clara shook her head, amazed. “I’m speechless. That’s so much money. I can’t believe you’ve managed to raise all that in such a short amount of time—and basically all on your own, too. Silas is going to be thrilled, shocked.” She pinched her lips together, her eyes teary and soft. “It’s been his dream to be able to do more for the community, for the kids on the waitlist.”
For possibly the first time since I’d created a beauty brand from the meager beginnings of my social media platforms, I saw a bigger picture. A more purposeful connection to it all. The followers. The sponsors. The shares and views and comments and link clicks. What if everything I’d built had been for this? For this moment right here? To use my years of networking and beauty product testing to help a group of people in need.
The hope set a fire deep in my chest.
“So you really don’t think most of your sponsors will actually attend?”
Her question pulled me out of my introspection. “They’re all welcome to, but it’s easier for most people in their positions to just write a check.” The flippancy of such a statement stung as I recalled all the moments I’d done exactly that. How Miles would mention a need within his church or abroad, and I’d simply send him money without a second thought of how else I might be of help. Of service.
“I guess that makes sense,” she said, in a way that told me it didn’t actually make sense to her at all. Because Clara couldn’t imagine herself being anywhere but here, no matter what else was going on in her world. She found the time. No, she made the time. For these young adults. “At least it will free up more spots for some of our locals who otherwise couldn’t afford the price of admission.”
I cleared my throat. “Exactly. I have a list of names going for complimentary tickets if there’s anybody you’d like to add to it.”
Unexpectedly, Val’s face surfaced in my mind. She would have loved working on an event like this—organizing the schedule and doing the website and all the social media prep work. Val shined when it came to roles like this, and yet . . . and yet I had no right to ask her to help me, not after all that had transpired. I was realizing more and more the many ways our relationship had been built on my needs and on my timeline. Maybe things between us would heal if I gave her space to tend to her own—and to Tucker’s.
Clara’s watch beeped a calendar alert for the start of group, and we both looked across the lawn to the open door of the girls’ cottage, where our six mentees trailed into the sun with their journals in hand. “Here they come.”
Though this was only our fifth Friday mentor session of the summer, my connection with the girls had grown in a way I hadn’t anticipated. At first they’d been fascinated by my following and the famous people I’d met. And sure, they enjoyed talking beauty and fashion trends with me. But our last couple mandatories and mentor meetings had had nothing to do with my social media persona at all. Last Tuesday night, as we’d sprinkled cookie dough with the edible glitter Silas despised, we’d talked about all the happenings in the house—who hated what chores, which girls had known each other prior to The Bridge, and what they hoped for after they moved out. All normal life stuff.
I’d loved every single second of it. And based on how long they’d stayed in the kitchen with me after mandatory hour was finished, they’d loved it, too.
Monica’s gregarious giggle sailed over the grass as she shoulder-bumped Wren in response to whatever she’d just said. The sight of them together made my heart yearn for a friendship like that. One friendship in particular. Interestingly enough, that was the exact topic we were discussing in group this afternoon.
The girls took their seats at the picnic table, the day a perfect blend of heat, sunshine, and a light breeze that trailed under the shelter. Throughout the weeks we’d been meeting, Clara had gradually off-loaded more and more of the meeting responsibilities to me, though I’d yet to say the closing prayer. On the agenda we followed each week, the words lead group prayer taunted me like a playground bully. I’d prayed out loud before—of course I had—hundreds of times while growing up. And dozens of times since, mostly before an opportunity to expand my business. Although, I couldn’t recall the last time I’d done even that.
“Afternoon, ladies,” Clara said. “I have a special announcement I’ve been waiting to make all week: You’ve all been approved to attend my wedding in September.”
Amy and Monica let out a squeal, and the other girls reacted in their own more reserved ways. Everybody but Sasha, that is, who hadn’t stopped eyeing Wren since she sat down. I didn’t know what that was all about, but if wedding talk didn’t distract her, I didn’t know what would.
“And you can thank Molly for that,” Clara continued. “She’s arranged for special permission and transportation.”
Yet one more conversation I’d had with Silas recently.
“Aww, really?” Monica asked. “Thanks, Molly. Will you help us figure out what to wear?”
“Absolutely. I’ll start collecting some outfits now so that everybody has something special to wear on the big day. Maybe we can plan to figure out hairstyles when we do our big glam makeovers at the sleepover, too.” I glanced over at Clara. “It’s not every day the best mentor on the planet gets married.”
She tilted her head so that her dark, chin-length hair swished over her cheek and mouthed thank you. I knew it would mean a lot to her to have the girls there. Some of them had been with her for a couple of years.
She gave me a small nod to get started with group, and I clasped my hands and inhaled deeply. I opened our time with the icebreaker question from our handbook that had been swirling in my head for days: “What qualities do you look for in a good friend?”
As I asked it, I wondered if Sasha’s mood might soften with a little extra warm-up time. But based on the pointed glare she made no effort to conceal, my optimism died a quick death. What was up with her today?
The answers to the icebreaker question were kindness, compassion, authenticity, trust, and honesty. As the natural conversational lull occurred, indicating it was time to move on to the next question, Sasha piped up as she shifted her glare from Wren to Monica. “I’d like to say loyalty, but that seems to be a hard one for some people.”
Monica rolled her eyes, and for a moment, I wondered how far this tiff between them would go. Thankfully, in typical Clara style, she’d already slipped out of her seat to sit next to Sasha. She whispered something in her ear, and a second later, the two of them were walking away from the table to have a private conversation. Probably for the best. I’d witnessed a few of Clara’s talks. She had a gift for drama reduction.
“How about an example of a time when a friend helped or comforted you?” The questioned lingered for a few moments before Amy raised her hand. She was a practical girl with clear skin, no makeup, and an affinity for western wear, never seen without at least one pattern of plaid on her person and her trusty cowboy boots on her feet. “I broke my leg when I was in eighth grade. There was this girl at school who didn’t have many friends, but she was always kind. The whole time I was on crutches she carried my books to class, and then we ended up eating lunch together almost every day for the rest of the year.”
“That’s a great example, Amy. Thanks for sharing. Anybody else? Maybe something from the past like what Amy shared, or it can be something more recent, too.”
Wren glanced at Monica before addressing me. “Last week I had a friend volunteer to do my chores for me so I could get extra phone time talking to Nate. He was missing our mom and needed to talk to me.”
“Aww, that’s super sweet. A great example.” I gave Monica an approving wink, and she smiled in response and added her own story.
“Well, I have a friend”—she nudged Wren—“who helped me with a huge English assignment on a book I so did not understand at all. She stayed up late with me and walked me through all the symbolism my brain was refusing to get. But I aced it. And because of that, I passed the class. Thank God for that, too. No more English for me ever again!”
Jasmine and Wren laughed as Monica danced in her seat.
Gratitude rippled through my heart as a pang of another kind pinched my next intake of breath. I’d had that kind of friendship once, too, with Val. Sure, I hadn’t ever been with her in person. But it was real—our friendship. At least, on my side it had been. Had it been on hers, too? Surely her job as my assistant hadn’t been the only reason she’d answered my calls. Or why she’d checked up on me when I traveled alone to a campaign shoot. Or why she’d spent hours researching fresh ideas for my next series shoot even when there were plenty of average ideas that could work. She’d gone the extra mile for me time and time again, and what had I done for her in return?
“So . . . do you have a Scripture for us this week?”
“What?” I blinked at Jasmine’s expectant face as the image of Val’s faded once again. “Oh yes. Of course. There’s actually two.”
Just as I picked up the leader’s guide and focused on the meditation Scripture for the week, Clara escorted Sasha back to the table, taking a seat next to her on the bench.
“‘A friend loves at all times.’ Proverbs 17:17,” I said.
“Glo loves that verse,” Wren said. “She even bought a picture with that and put it in the front room of the cottage.”
My chest tingled at the thought of this very Glo-like thing to do.
“The second Scripture is found in John 15:12–13. Can you read that one for us, Sasha?” I took a chance in asking her, as her nonverbal language was still all kinds of off, but she opened her book and read the words in red font.
“‘My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.’” And though I’d read that verse dozens of times, heard it preached in sermons, and seen it written in calligraphy as an Instagram quote more than once . . . it hit me anew in this moment. The enormity of such a command.
I scanned through the next questions, the ones written for a far holier leader than myself, and then closed the book.
“Do you think that’s even possible?” I asked the girls, unscripted. “To love another person in that way?”
Every eye shifted from me to the tabletop.
“I’m not asking because I have the answers. I don’t. Not even close. I’m asking because I’m learning this, too. How to be a real friend who puts someone else’s needs above my own. Even when it’s hard.”
Jasmine lifted her gaze. “I don’t really understand it, either. The love I’ve seen hasn’t looked anything like that. Not between my parents—when I lived with them, anyway. And not even the love I’ve had with friends or boyfriends. Usually it ends because somebody is selfish. Or, I guess, both people are selfish.”
I nodded. “I’ve experienced that, too.”
“So have I,” Amy said.
“Me too,” Monica agreed.
“So what do we do about it? How can we be a different kind of friend? One who loves selflessly?”
Once again the question lingered in silence, and this time it was Clara who spoke up. Likely the only one at the table who could speak to it. “I think we first have to understand just how deeply we are already loved that way—by God. Then we can love each other out of the response to His love for us.”
A profound truth that left a deposit in my soul.
As we bowed our heads to pray at the end of group time, my voice was weak, yet shockingly, my words were not. I wasn’t sure what was happening in my heart, but something most definitely was. And it was something I wanted to embrace for the first time in many, many years.
24
Molly
Parked in Silas’s driveway, I raised my sunglasses to the top of my head, pinning back my hair, which I’d chosen to wear down today. My white sailor button crop pants and airy yellow blouse couldn’t have matched this summer day any more. The few cottony clouds in the sky only added to the perfection of the sunshine and low-eighties temperature.
Silas’s home was a modest rambler, painted a cool gray with crisp white trim, parked on the right curve of a generous cul-de-sac. The shockingly green grass surrounding his house was well maintained and not at all dissimilar from what I’d pictured.
As I climbed his porch steps in my white heeled sandals that ribboned around my ankle in a wispy bow, he opened his front door. My stomach flipped at the sight of his damp hair and the waft of his freshly showered man scent. But perhaps what surprised me most was that he, too, had chosen to wear a yellow shirt today. It was only half as bright as my canary shade, and could possibly even hold a case for beige, but wowzers—if a color could be responsible for making a set of biceps sing like his . . . then I could be convinced to call it purple.
“If I’d known you wanted to match, I would have called ahead to discuss our shoe options,” I said.
He glanced at my feet and chuckled. “I can assure you I have nothing in my closet with a ribbon.”
I smiled but couldn’t help a wandering glance toward the private world of Silas Whittaker’s home.
“Would you like to come inside?” Silas asked with a trace of amusement.
“Oh no, that’s all right.”
“Which is Molly code for yes, but only if I have time to snoop in your cabinets.”
“First of all”—I laughed, holding out my pointer finger—“you don’t know me well enough to speak Molly code fluently yet. And second of all, I was only hoping for a quick glance around. And maybe also to see how you’ve organized your spices and canned food.”
With a sweeping, duke-like gesture, he pulled the door open wide, and I held my breath as I stepped over the threshold and into his home. Had I really just been invited into the home of the same man who’d once rejected my volunteer application at his nonprofit? My life seemed full of irony these days.
I scanned the clean lines of an uncluttered living room, my gaze lingering on the running shoes he’d left next to his front door. I could envision him putting them on at the first wink of the morning sun. Just like I could envision him standing in his kitchen, filling a glass of water at his sink, or making a meal for one after a long day of work.
His watchful gaze tracked me as I moved th
rough his house, but his smile indicated I hadn’t yet overstayed my welcome. As I cut through his living room, past his sleek kitchen to poke my head around the corner, I recalled our late-night phone conversations this past week. Now that I had the added visual of his floorplan, I could imagine him moving about his space as we talked together. It was like a movie playing in my mind, one I could rewind and pause now at my leisure.
My attention turned to a lacquered wooden dart board at the end of his hallway. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dart board like that.”
“It was a gift. From my father. He made it.”
“Wow. It’s beautiful.”
“Yes. It’s a hobby we’ve shared for many years.”
“That’s really special.” Slowly, I turned toward him, realizing just how little I knew about Silas’s world. Though he’d told me bits and pieces about his adoption, his siblings and folks, and his altered career path in his midtwenties, there was still so much I’d yet to learn about him. And I wanted to learn it. I wanted to know anything Silas was willing to share with me.
He smiled quizzically, and I broke the spell his dark eyes had cast with a gesture toward his living room. “Well, it’s official. You have the nicest bachelor pad I’ve ever been to.” At the gleam of humor in his eyes, I realized how a statement like that might sound. “Not that I’ve been to a ton of bachelor pads or anything. I haven’t. Just a few. One of them being my brother’s.”
“Molly,” he said. “I understood what you meant.”
“Right, okay.”
“Okay,” he said, smiling. “Need to see anything else while we’re here?”
“Nope, I’m good now. Wait.” I held up a finger. “Inquiring minds still need to know how you arrange your spices.”
“Is the answer a prerequisite to driving your car?”
I laughed. “It is now, yes.”
“They’re alphabetized.”
