by Dana Volney
“I was a social worker before I started CCH. The amount of children I saw who regularly went without food …” He shook his head. “It was deplorable. I had to do something about it. I couldn’t sit back one more minute. Then the right opportunity arose, and I jumped.”
Silver didn’t need the full story. He never told anyone—which is why he’d not named the organization after his daughter, Maggie. Megpie’s story was private. It wasn’t for pity looks. His grief was older than his daughter’s age when she passed, but it was present nonetheless.
“When did you start this?”
“About five years ago.”
She nodded some more, her lips pressed firmly together. Her forehead wrinkled, and she looked straight into his eyes. “Sometimes people give up too easily or think they can’t make a difference, but they can. They shouldn’t give up.”
“I completely agree. No one should ever give up.” His words were more forceful than he’d intended. Conceding to defeat and doing the right thing were on a whole other level. “I appreciate you coming in to help make a difference.” Bringing on another volunteer was good, but he had a lot of calls to make. This was one of their busiest times, and he needed 550 more cans of chicken and tuna, individually wrapped peanut-butter crackers, and pudding cups by tomorrow. “Do you want to come back to help serve dinner?”
“I can do that.”
“I’ve got a couple forms for information we like to keep on file. Emergency contact and such. Let me grab those for you.”
He led the way to his office, not sure what to say next.
He opened his right-hand desk drawer and grabbed stapled sheets from a file marked “volunteers.” She reached out and took the paper from him with her left hand.
“I’ll bring this back tonight.” She opened her black bag and put the papers inside. “What time should I be here?”
“As early as four if you can.” He glanced down her nice coat to the pleats at the tip of her skirt then back up to her big eyes barely lined with mascara. The woman was natural and put together. Some ritzy career—or someone—had to be funding her style. He didn’t know particulars about woman’s shoes, but if the heel height was any indication, this pair was expensive.
“It’s a date.” Her warm smile was slow to fill her face, but for a moment it lingered.
Then she whirled on her heel, the bell on the front door jingling as she made her way back out into the cold.
Fisher returned to his office and sat down on his threadbare chair, which barely passed as office furniture, and picked up the phone.
“Hale.” His best friend answered on the first ring.
“It’s Fisher.”
“If you’re calling to cancel our beer, you could’ve just texted. Like you normally do.” Paper rustled in the background. Henry Hale was a master multitasker. Which came in handy since he’d started his own practice.
“We’re still on for later. I was calling because I need to get on your books to discuss my will. I need to update it.” He didn’t have anyone to leave the nonprofit to, but there would always be someone to hire to take over. Henry didn’t know it yet, but he was going to be in charge of the hiring committee.
“Always with the will. Buddy, I hate to break it to you, but you know you’re not going to be needing one anytime soon. You’ve got to be pushing top ten of that list these days.”
Top name, actually. Or he was. He no longer had to wonder when the call would come. He’d expected to feel a great sense of relief now that the pressure was gone—the pressure of anticipating the call that said a heart was available. But that relief hadn’t come. Maybe when he officially signed on the dotted line, the calmness would overtake him.
“I’m taking myself off the list,” Fisher said in one quick burst.
“What?” Henry was no longer multitasking.
“I’ve decided to remove myself from the heart transplant list for good.”
“You have got to be kidding me. Why? What happened?” There was a long pause. “Geez, I didn’t even look at the date. I know the anniversary of Maggie’s surgery is tomorrow, and I’m sorry, man. Let’s talk about it tonight, but don’t do anything rash. You have a lot to live for.”
Henry had been in law school when Fisher was dealing with hospitals and doctors nonstop. His friend had come home to hang out with him and Maggie every chance he could. Henry had been there for Maggie’s transplant, and he’d driven all night before she died, making it just in time to say good-bye.
“I don’t need this talk again. I got news from my doctor, and a transplant isn’t likely to take anyway, so why try? I’m not living for a new heart anymore.”
He’d been down that dark and gritty road before with Maggie. And it had hollowed him out. He’d barely made it back in one piece, which was largely a credit to Henry. Fisher wasn’t about to take a perfectly good donor heart for himself, only to have it wasted, when it could go to Wilson or John, who’d have a better chance of success. Either of those boys could do wonders with their future. They deserved to have that shot.
He wasn’t afraid to die. Reuniting with Maggie in heaven when his time on earth was done didn’t sound half bad.
“Then pick something else.” Henry’s words were clipped. “Anything. And live for it.”
Fisher’s chest tightened. They’d grown up together since the third grade. It didn’t seem right to tell the one person who served as family over the phone, but he’d never be able to look Henry in the eye, explain the decision he’d made, and watch as sadness crept into his gaze, even though he’d try to disguise it with a long speech.
“That’s not what all of this is about.”
“We’ll see. I’ll have my paralegal make a list of hobbies you could take up and things left to experience in life, and we can go through it point by point over my beer and your Coke, wings, and whatever’s on ESPN at the bar.”
“See you tonight.” There was no arguing once Henry started talking about his lists and staff—Fisher was ninety percent sure Henry didn’t even have a paralegal at his office yet.
He hung up the phone and looked out the front window just in time to see the sun hide behind a cloud threatening snow. He’d taken the first step—now he just had to convince Henry that he’d made up his mind. Fisher would get the peaceful feeling he was searching for—he just needed to sign those papers.
chapter TWO
Silver cut out early from work to change into olive-green skinny jeans, a brown sweater with a thick band around her waist, and boots with a two-inch-thick heel, before heading over to Fisher’s to help with dinner.
Her phone buzzed right before she opened her car door in the small parking lot of CCH.
“Hey,” she greeted one of her best friends, not shutting off her Renegade yet. Heat was too paramount to her happiness.
“Come have a drink with me.” Lorelei Sullivan sounded like she was rubbing her forehead and pressing her cell against her chin. “This day could’ve gone better.”
“Can’t. I’m volunteering.” Silver let the last word slide through her lips a little slower. She hadn’t meant to tell her friend. She didn’t want to get Lorelei’s hopes up that she was finally coming out of her fog, taking back her life, and doing things she used to love.
“You are?” Lorelei’s voice raised an octave.
“It’s nothing. It’s something for work.” She hadn’t forgotten her mission. “What happened? Your case not going well?”
“We’re still prepping, but there are some roadblocks.”
“Sorry, Lolo, you’ll get it. You’re a shark, girl.” Silver smiled as three girls walking into CCH with brightly colored backpacks caught her attention. Fisher had built an impressive community center for children.
“I don’t feel like it today. The boss is on a rampage.”
“Then rampage back.” Lorelei was born to be a take-no-prisoners lawyer and defend the innocent. “Use that beautiful brain under all that glossy brown hair.”
“Your nice words are working. Keep them coming.”
“Go home. Take a long, hot bath with a glass of wine then make popcorn and eat it with those cookies that are still in your freezer from last weekend, while you watch one of those crime dramas that you always solve first.”
“I forgot about those frozen chocolate-y mousse balls.” Lorelei’s voice perked up. Her mom was a master baker and spoiled them during the holidays with a constant flow of treats.
“Eat them all. They’re so delicious. You’ll feel better with some relaxation, then you can brainstorm the problems of the day. If I get done at a decent time, I’ll come over. But I’ve got an early day tomorrow.”
“All right. But brunch for sure this week.”
“I’m in. I’m sure Maisy is, too.” Silver opened her car door and trudged through the snow to the shoveled sidewalk.
“Yeah. She’s so weird lately. I think she’s dating someone and not telling us about it.”
“Then we’ll order her some double mimosas and get it out of her.”
“Gotta go. Hale the Conqueror is calling.” Lorelei’s eye roll was loud and clear over the phone.
Silver pocketed her phone in her big, puffy navy jacket. The temperature had dropped significantly as the sun began to set. Coming back to Wyoming after living abroad in countries where the average temperature was in the nineties was still a shock to the system, and midway through December, Silver was seriously contemplating long johns under her jeans.
The main room was packed with kids laughing, writing in notebooks, and playing games. Long lunch tables filled the kitchen half of the room while the other space was left open, although it had been filled in with groups of kids sitting on the floor, standing around talking, and playing with a Ping-Pong table she hadn’t noticed earlier in the day.
She peeked her head into Fisher’s office. No Fisher.
Bookshelves lined the entire wall behind his desk and were clumsily filled with books and stacks of paperwork. The window on the right wall had a nice view of the front of the building, and he could see who was coming and going for a block. The desk, chair, and other furniture were modest.
All of the money must go to the food and operation expenses.
She’d seen her fair share of the flip side of charity work—sometimes the money really did go for what was promised, but other times it paid for lavish items for the people running it. A small smile hung on her lips as she whirled around to find Fisher.
She strode straight to the kitchen, her boots making a softer noise on the hard flooring this time. The kitchen area reminded her of a concession stand, only there weren’t candy bars and nachos behind the counter. Instead, metal serving trays were lined up under a glass protector.
The faint smell of potatoes filled her nose as she got closer to the window. Her stomach growled. She should’ve eaten something before showing up to serve dinner. And then there would be the cleanup. Between all of that volunteer work, she also had to talk to Fisher to find out why he’d called her office in the first place.
“Ms. Rae.” His gentle eyes crinkled at the edges just before the sides of his lips rose. “It’s nice to see you again.”
She stopped just before the counter. He was already in the kitchen, blue plastic gloves on his hands.
“Surprised?” She held up her hands, palms facing the ceiling. She’d bet that a lot of people said they’d come back or sign up for a time, only never to show.
“Grateful.” He set a large black crate down on the counter, and then the muscles in his arms flexed as he lifted giant jugs out of it. After that, he hefted up another crate filled with apples. She looked away and pretended to inspect the countertops and machinery behind him as he placed the bin of fruit in the serving line. “The door to your left will get you back here.”
This had been a terrible idea. Not the volunteering part—that had spiked her dopamine levels all day. It was the lying and the false pretenses part that was knotting her stomach and tensing her jaw so much she was starting to get a headache behind her ears.
Okay, new plan. She’d try to get to know him, and in the conversation she’d tell him what she did for a living, he’d bring up the list, and she’d do her best to sway him away from giving up. Because that’s what he was doing—giving up on life. She let her gaze roam down him as he stood beside the line, adjusting the jars and opening loaves of bread. His jeans hung off his broad hips just right, and the sleeves of his flannel red-and-blue button-up were rolled up, exposing thick, brown arm hair. His boots were probably steel-toed, although he didn’t need that type of protection to serve food. He was the essence of a working man, and there was nothing she appreciated more than a man who was good with his hands.
“Ms. Rae.” His voice was raised, and she flicked her glance up from his corded forearm to find him staring at her with eyes that were such a shade of golden brown it was almost as if they were shining. He kept his mouth closed, probably trying to hide the fact that his chest was rising and falling faster than it should for such a menial task. Heart failure would do that to a person. She’d keep an eye on that symptom, and if the opportunity arose, she’d use it to start a conversation about his condition.
“Please.” She smiled, small and controlled. “Call me Silver.” That way I’ll know you’re actually talking to me.
“We’re short tonight because Gina has a cold. So it’ll be you and me serving and cleaning up. The good news is that it’s PB&J night. Are you good to stay a while?”
“Sure. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t shown up?”
“I’d get it done anyway. Dinner might’ve been delayed. I try to serve by five.”
“Do you have kids? I don’t think it’s breaking child labor laws if you have your own kids help.”
“I think the rules are fuzzy on that one.” Stiffness to his deep voice made her pause. Her joke had hit a nerve. “But no, no kids.”
“Is everyone a volunteer?” Her gaze skittered across the sterile environment, not landing on anything in particular.
He cleared his throat. “No. There are two part-time people besides me. It helps when I can count on people to do the tasks at hand rather than hope volunteers show up. Especially when we stuff the backpacks. That’s a big job.”
“Basically you’re a one-man show around here. This place would be nothing without you.” She stopped herself from biting her lip or fidgeting—what was one supposed to do to act natural? Where did she usually put her hands when she spoke to other people? She could not remember. She set them on the counter right as he reached in front of her to slide a stack of plates her way. The sides of her palms grazed the top of his hand. Startled by the warmth, she pulled her hands up quickly. He should be colder than most. She could feel her heart beat faster, and a nervous laugh escaped her lips before she glanced his way. Nothing. No reaction. He was simply going about his business, laying out the plates and napkins.
“That’s a slippery way to think. Everyone’s replaceable,” he said matter-of-factly.
Dammit, she was really trying to open up the lines of communication here, but that made twice now that he’d evaded her like everything was fine. Things weren’t fine, but geez, he sure liked to act as if they were. She would have had absolutely no idea he wasn’t planning on a long future if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes in black and white.
“I’m not so sure about that. You seem to have the magic touch.” She turned her head away, feeling heat in her cheeks. She wasn’t talking about their touch just a second ago, but was he going to think that’s what she’d meant? And that she was trying to be coy about it?
“I’m just a man with a plan is all.” He turned and retreated to a back pantry.
She rubbed her forehead. Really, she was going to cool it with the innuendoes for a while. She cleared her throat, making sure her words would carry back to him. “I’ll have to check my schedule, but I’d like to help.” She made a mental note to send in an anonymous donation, too.
As he returned, his head bobbed, appreciation loosening his square jaw, although he didn’t smile this time. Instead he turned away, grabbing something below the counter.
“Put these on.” He handed her a set of the plastic gloves. “It’s a good thing your hair is back, or you would’ve had to wear a net.”
She slipped her left hand into a glove with no problem and then gingerly tried to get a deceptively tight glove on her right hand without twisting, pinching, or snapping any part of her skin. The mere act of scrunching her fingers so they could wriggle in radiated pain from her thumb.
He pushed one giant loaf of bread and a white container toward her. “You can spread the peanut butter.”
Silver lined six pieces of bread up on the steel countertop and opened the extra-large jug of peanut butter. She side-eyed Fisher, who was opening grape and strawberry jelly tubs and sticking spoons in each one.
“I’ll be the sweet thing tonight.” He winked, and had she been holding anything in her hand, she would’ve dropped it straight to the floor.
A chuckle escaped her lips. “I shall try not to take that title away from you. Tonight anyway.”
She palmed the first slice of bread in her right hand and tried her best to shovel out a hunk of peanut butter on the knife with her left hand. Spreading it without cutting into the bread was difficult—she still wasn’t as adept at using her left hand as she’d like to be. “Is this much okay?” She offered her covered slice to Fisher. Who knew how far the supplies had to go?
He leaned over, unnecessarily close, and she swore she heard him take a breath before he spoke. “Looks good.”
She laid it down in front of him and picked up the next slice, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “What do you do about the kids with allergies? Any of them allergic to peanuts?”
