by Shirley Jump
He'd never used the wealth that had come attached to the Vogler name. He'd made a living on his own, without the benefit of a trust fund. But for the past nine years, most of the money he'd earned had been sitting in a bank somewhere, collecting interest and not doing anyone a damn bit of good.
That was going to change.
“It's a pretty gruesome sight, isn't it?” Candace said, leading him over to the tables. “I've been volunteering here for two years, and you know what? Every time I walk in here, it tears my heart out.”
Before Michael could answer, a short man with a white beard trailing down to his waist hurried up to them. “Shalom, Candace!” He gathered her up in both his arms, giving her a warm, tight hug that she returned with equal affection. His battered brown cloak flowed behind him with the movement.
Candace laughed. “You taking care of yourself, Rabbi?”
“As best I can. The Lord's been good to me this week.” He gave her a broad smile.
“You always say that.”
“Because I always see the bright side of life.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “Thanks for coming to help.” Then he bustled away, humming to himself.
“I've never seen a guy so cheerful, especially living like this.”
“Jerry was a rabbi, until he lost his way, as he says, and became an alcoholic. He lost his synagogue and his home. For a while, he was a resident at the shelter until he got himself back on his feet. Now he works here, helping other people and counseling some of the residents,” Candace explained. “People listen to him because he's been down their road before, and still stays positive. And sober.”
Hell, that could be almost anyone Michael knew, he realized. For a lot of people, only a few paychecks, a breakdown or an addiction separated them from those who filled this room. It was a scary thought
“For some people, having nothing isn't as depressing as it seems,” she continued. “To them, just seeing a friend is a gift,” Candace reached for a bright white apron off the pile on the table and began fastening it around her waist. “I like to work here because it reminds me of what's important.”
“And what's that?”
“Family. Friends.” She shrugged. “Not material possessions.”
“Sounds like a damn good philosophy to me.”
“It's the one I try to stick to, anyway.” She turned away and called over to a group of people she knew.
Seeing Candace among these people, the ones whom everyone else seemed to ignore—hugging them, greeting them, asking about their pets, their friends and their lives—was a galaxy away from the world he'd always known.
At that moment, Michael's interest in Candace went from garden-variety attraction into something much, much more. She wasn't just bright and pretty. She was someone who put actions behind her words, who knew what was truly important. A woman whose heart was her most attractive asset.
No wonder she was engaged. She was the kind of woman a man married. Had kids with. Planned trips to Disney and Myrtle Beach with. Not a woman a man slept with and walked away from.
That was the kind of commitment he'd avoided all his life. In his circle of friends, and in his screwed-up family, he'd never seen a relationship that had worked. Most of the marriages were more like business matches, it seemed, than lifetime love matches. He wasn't sure that kind of thing existed—or if he even knew how to make a relationship like that work.
He could run a business, but making a life with someone—well, that was another story. And yet, for the first time, he found himself wondering what it would be like to be the man who had put that ring on Candace's finger.
Damn, his sister could read him like a book. She'd known before he did.
Want for Candace—a very deep, visceral kind of longing, started to grow inside. But, oh, he was treading on some very dangerous ground. To have her might risk breaking her heart.
What the hell kind of man did that?
“Are you ready to get your hands dirty?” She'd left the group and now returned to wave him over to the table where the other volunteers were serving up bowls of chicken noodle, vegetable, and beef and barley soup. A little farther down the table were heaps of peanut butter sandwiches. Candace stepped back and gave him an appraising glance. “I think the pink will fit you just fine.”
“Pink what?”
Candace grinned. “Apron. Wouldn't want you ruining that nice three-piece suit.” She patted the breast pocket of his Brooks Brothers jacket, then reached into the pile of aprons behind him, pulled out a hot-pink apron and tied it around his waist before he could protest.
He leaned over to whisper in her ear, close enough to taste the delicate lobe. He wanted so much more of her. But not now, not here. “Revenge can be very sweet.”
She fumbled with the bow. “You're making me mess it up.”
“Oh, that's too bad.”
She gave him a look that said she knew he was about as contrite as a cabbie playing highway Frogger on 1-93. “Now, hold—”
“Well, hello. Who do we have here?” A redheaded woman strode over to them. She was tall, but not overly thin, and her green apron strained against her generous chest. “Hi, Candace.”
Candace gave up on the bow and came around him to introduce them. “Denise, this is Michael Vogler. Michael, this is Denise Meyers. She's in charge of the shelter and coordinates the volunteers.” She turned to the other woman. “Michael is here to help today.”
“Oh, wonderful!” Denise smiled and pressed a hand to her hair. “I'm sure we can find something for you to do. Maybe you could help me move those big, heavy bowls over to the table.”
“I'd be glad to,” Michael said. “Just point me in the right direction.”
Denise did, with a little flourish and a big smile. Michael nodded, headed toward the kitchen. Denise followed his every step with her gaze, like a little laser beam right on his butt.
Candace withdrew a barrette from her pocket and slipped it around her hair, pulling the long strands back from her face. She didn't care that Denise had eyed Michael with all the greedy interest of the Red Sox general manager at the first round draft picks.
Not one bit.
As soon as Michael was out of sight, Denise turned to Candace. “Whoo! I can see why you're marrying him. Lord, he's hot.”
“He's not my fiancé.” Barry had never come to the shelter with her. He'd always found one excuse after another not to be here when it came time to dole out the soup. He supported the shelter with regular tax-deductible donations. But Michael... he had donned the pink apron and pitched in without a complaint. It's a sign, Grandma's voice sang in her head.
It's a sign I'm going crazy, that's what it is.
“So, who is he?” Denise asked.
“He's...” Candace dug in her pocket and managed to find a chocolate mint. “Just a friend.” She unwrapped the candy and shoved it into her mouth before she could explain anything more. “Friend” didn't define Michael, but she wasn't about to get out a thesaurus for Denise.
“Oh, really?”
Michael had exited the kitchen and stopped to put on a pair of latex gloves that had been offered to him by one of the staff members.
Denise took a second, much more appraising, look at him. She puffed up the ends of her hair and licked her lips. “Is he available?”
Candace could lie. Give him a wife, two kids, a pet iguana, a house in Somerville, a Range Rover... “No, he's single.”
Damn her conscience anyway.
“Well then, I should make him feel welcome!” Denise darted to Michael's side, and within seconds, had her hands on his hips, pretending to tie his apron for him. Even though Candace had already done the very same thing.
Candace crossed to the tureen of chicken noodle and tried not to stare. But it was like watching a car wreck. Or a Madonna movie. She couldn't tear her gaze away, no matter how horrible it was to see.
Denise lingered a little too long behind Michael, a bulldog over a new bone. She took way too much time
fussing over the apron and touched his body far too much in the process. How damned hard is it to tie a bow?
Well, she hadn't been able to manage it. But he'd distracted her with all that flirting. She watched the two of them talk, their faces animated, friendly. Apparently, she wasn't the only one who'd fallen prey to his charms. Michael laughed at something Denise said and she reached over, her hand lingering on his arm with all the possessiveness of an apostrophe “s”.
“Hey! Where'd they get you? Klutzes 'R' Us?”
Candace jerked her attention away from the romantic tableau to her left. An irate man stood in front of her, glaring. Little bits of chicken, celery and noodles dripped down the front of his shirt, across the table, spreading in a slow puddle across the floor. “Oh! I'm so sorry!” She grabbed a cloth and started to mop up the mess with one hand while dabbing at the man's clothes with a napkin in her other.
“Never mind.” He brushed her hand away with a grunt. “It gives me a snack for later, anyway.” She refilled his bowl and he stomped off, muttering about the quality of help these days.
From that point on, Candace made a point of conversing with many of the people who came through her line, hoping it would help her concentrate on the soup, not on the tall man whose voice seemed to carry over the hubbub of the busy room.
Even though she didn't turn her head to look, she could hear Denise and Michael's laughter, spurting out between bursts of conversation. They were working the front of the line, dispensing bowls and spoons and putting out new tureens as needed. Candace's chest tightened and her gut twisted every time she heard them laugh.
Either she was coming down with West Nile or she was ...
Jealous.
Impossible. Michael wasn't hers to begin with. He had a right to flirt with anyone he wanted to. She should be glad. After all, if he became interested in Denise, he'd stop messing with Candace's heart. And she could go back to marrying Barry in peace.
But she wasn't glad. At all.
The line trickled to a couple of people. Jerry came up to her as she started the cleanup, offering a helping hand. “Love is in the air; it's so romantic,” he sang. He stirred the soup spoon into the chicken soup like it was doing a ballet, swooped up the bits of chicken and noodle, then dropped them into the waiting bowl of Kenny, who had come for thirds. “Strangers in the night, exchanging glances ...” He paused, lowered the ladle to the bowl and turned to Candace. “Dance with me, Candace.”
“I'm not the best partner.”
“Doesn't matter.” He turned her around in a humming spin, then went back to his work.
She laughed. “What has you all worked up today?”
“Love, my dear. The most ancient of God's gifts.”
“Love? I thought you gave up on all that. Didn't you tell me last month that Jewish people are supposed to suffer?”
“Pshaw,” he waved a hand at her. “Not when there's love to be celebrated.”
“How do you know if it's love?”
“Ah, she's my soul mate. I feel it in my heart.”
Candace moved down the line and started wrapping up the extra sandwiches. “You believe in all that?”
“Of course I do. Meeting her was preordained.” He laid a hand on Candace's. “God always leads you to the right one, if you listen to your heart.”
She prodded at the pile of bread, straightening it. “And where does it say that in the Bible?”
“Well, it doesn't, not exactly. You know the word of God. It's about as precise as a buffalo in the Philharmonic orchestra pit. But God made Adam as the perfect man for Eve. One man, one woman.”
Candace snorted. “Jerry, if God had put a Bennigan's and a few eligible males in Eden, I bet Eve would have found more than one soul mate over a Coors Light.”
“Ah, you are too jaded, my dear. When people believe they will find the right one, they do.” He gave her a slight jab with his elbow and cocked his head toward Michael. “Isn't that your intended?”
“Oh, no. I... I just work with him.”
Jerry gave her a look. “Are you sure about that?”
“Of course.”
“I don't know. I feel love in the air.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to the sandwiches. “That's the fan blowing the hot air around.”
Jerry shook his head. “Tsk, tsk. True love is blocked by negative thoughts.”
“Since when did they incorporate feng shui into the Jewish faith?”
His laughter was deep and hearty, the kind that said Jerry lived life from his gut. Then he glanced at the doorway, stopped, and pressed a hand to his heart. “Ah, I see my Lucy has arrived.”
“Lucy is the one you're in love with?” Candace glanced at the uniformed female officer who often provided security for the shelter on her off-duty hours. She stood on the top step, all boxy and stern. But when her plain face met Jerry's, it lit for a brief, privileged smile.
“She's a strong woman,” Jerry said. “And Lord knows I need a strong woman to keep me in line and away from my vices.” He gave his beard a thoughtful stroke. “Weakness is what made me descend into this hellhole in the first place.”
“I bet you were an interesting rabbi.” Candace gave his shoulder a squeeze.
“Ah, I provided a lot for the temple to gossip about, but not much leadership, I'm afraid. Now, though, with love in my life, I'm changing.” He let out a sigh. “Taking risks, saving money, having hope for an even better life. It's a brand-new day every time I see my Lucy's face.”
Taking risks. Geez, that seemed to be the message of the week. Everywhere Candace went, someone was telling her to take a risk. Maybe if she signed up for a bungee-jumping course, they'd all get off her back. Or heck, she could jump off theirs.
Now there was a thought.
She was getting hysterical again. Maybe one of the guys singing “Goodnight Irene” at the corner table would have a paper bag she could use.
As if pulled over by the word “risk,” Michael appeared at her side, the pink apron still tied around his blue pin-striped waist. “Need some help?”
“Candace needs some company. I'm off to woo a woman.” Jerry tipped an imaginary hat, then made his exit.
One of the other volunteers dropped off a plastic container and Candace started spooning the leftover soup into the bowl. “I've got it under control,” she told Michael. “Go back to your little conversation.”
He laid a hand over hers, which set off a fast, fierce electrical storm under her skin. “Are you mad at me?”
The heat coiling between them could have boiled the chicken noodle. No need for a chafing dish at this end of the table. “No, not at all. You and Denise can go finish whatever you were 'working' on.” She couldn't keep the sarcasm from her voice no matter how hard she tried.
“Are you jealous?”
“Of what?” She topped off the plastic container, laid it on the counter behind her and turned to grab the disinfectant spray and a rag from one of the other tables.
“Of me talking to Denise.”
“Talk to whomever you want.” She sprayed orange cleanser on the table, then wiped it off in furious little circles. “It doesn't bother me.”
“Uh-huh.” He moved several dishes out of her way, clearing them as fast as she moved down the table sections. Then he stopped, laid the dishes down and stood in front of her.
“You're in my way.”
“On purpose.”
“You're supposed to be helping.” She started in on the table again. “Go find something to do.”
“No.”
She stopped wiping the table and looked up at him. “No?”
“I have a better idea. Let's go shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“While I was talking to Denise—and you thought I was flirting with her,” he said, grinning, “I was finding out what the shelter needs, which is pretty much everything. We spent two hours here helping, but I feel like we didn't even make a dent in the problem. I want to do more.
” His gaze traveled over the room, lighting on the young girl and her mother, who'd remained behind to help with cleanup. For a long moment, he didn't say anything. “Help a few more people.”
The room buzzed with activity around them, as people chatted over the remnants of their meals before heading out the door, back to the streets, to jobs, some staying behind at the shelter. “You surprise me,” she said.
“Good.” He took the cleaning cloth out of her hands and placed it on the table. “Now, let's go shopping.”
She smiled. “If more men said those words, there'd be a lot more happy women on earth.”
* * *
“That was fun.” Michael held the door for her as they exited the shelter for a second time later that afternoon, after dropping off thousands of dollars in supplies and gifts.
She quirked a brow. “Fun? For a guy?”
“Well, yeah. I've never done anything like that before.”
“Why not?”
The question threw him. Why hadn't he? All those years of complaining about being in a wealthy family, all the comments criticizing excess and ridiculous purchases. Why hadn't he done something real instead of only talk about charity? “I'm not exactly sure. I guess it's not the first thing you think of.”
“It's easier to send a few bucks to the Salvation Army before the tax loophole closes, isn't it?” She bit her lip. “I'm sorry. That was harsh. I was out of line.”
“No, you're right. It's easier to write a check than dish up a bowl of soup. Easier to throw money at the problem than see it face to face.”
“That's part of why there's such a problem.”
“True.”
They walked along in silence for a moment, their shoes making soft twin patters against the sidewalk. They had dropped off the blankets, pillows, clothing and other supplies they'd bought and had arranged for delivery of several dozen new mattresses tomorrow. Michael had insisted on buying presents for some of the people he'd met, including a suit for Jerry to wear when he took Lucy out for dinner or went on job interviews. Jerry had proudly modeled his finery, then boxed it with all the care of a new mother handling a preemie.
