There was a traffic jam near the end of the serving area. Calista stopped, feeling the muscles in her arms start to protest. Twenty pounds of potatoes must multiply exponentially when you added butter and milk.
“Can I take that?”
Calista felt her cheeks grow hot before she could even register the words. All she knew was the voice, and the man it belonged to. She turned her head and smiled, hoping her face wasn’t as sweaty as it felt. Her light cream sweater was uncomfortably warm. “You miss your weight training today? Because a few reps with this pan and you’d be good to go.”
Grant chuckled, already lifting the heavy dish from her hands. She could see the darkness where he’d shaved, how his tan skin contrasted against his white shirt collar. His cologne was woodsy, virile. She wanted to lean in and inhale.
“Marisol takes this day very, very seriously,” he said, indicating the long rows of serving dishes. “If we run out of something, she thinks she’ll be barred from heaven.”
“Especially the ‘smashed’ potatoes,” Calista said, lips twitching.
“And the ‘corns’ and the bread ‘balls’ and the ‘staffing.’”
She couldn’t help laughing out loud, and then put a guilty hand to her lips. “Is that rude? She’s learned a lot in two years. I don’t think I could learn that much Spanish if you gave me ten years.”
“She doesn’t mind. It’s not personal for her. But the food is. We make fun of the cooking and we’re all in trouble.”
Calista nodded, vividly imagining how the fierce Hispanic woman would shrug off her mispronunciation, but be horrified if the potatoes were lumpy. The woman in front of them moved to the side and a place opened up for Grant to rest the dish against the long countertop. Calista deftly lifted the empty tray from its resting spot, careful not to burn herself with the hot steam underneath.
Grant slid the full tray in place and Calista took the spoon. The line was moving steadily, even though the dinner had been going on for more than an hour already. A young woman with two small children glanced up and smiled tentatively. Calista served a portion on each plate and watched the smallest child’s eyes light up. “Some! Some!”
Calista giggled and the mother shushed the little boy, her face going pink. “He loves mashed potatoes,” she said, her voice a half whisper.
“Don’t we all,” Grant agreed, smiling. The little family moved on, the baby still shouting “some” at the top of his lungs.
“Are you going somewhere for dinner after this?”
Calista should have been prepared for the question, but she wasn’t. Surprise lanced through her and she focused on the tray in front of her. No, because I don’t have any friends and no one invited me. Thanksgiving stinks when you’re all alone. Probably not the best response.
He waved a hand, the one holding a large serving spoon. “Sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry. Just making conversation.” His voice was light but his back seemed to stiffen as he spoke.
“I don’t care if you ask me personal questions,” Calista started to say, pausing to serve another spoonful of potatoes and give a warm smile to the old man holding the plate.
“Really?” He packed so much disbelief into that one word that she had to grin.
“Really. At least, I don’t mind the way you think I mind.”
“Ah. So, you’re saying that you do mind, but I’m mistaken in the exact manner in which you mind my asking.”
“Exactly.”
His deep laugh kindled something in her chest, and the warmth spread outward, making her fingers tingle. She sidled a glance his way. How she loved that smile. The deep creases around his mouth, the way it transformed his face from almost severe to incredibly warm, the way his eyes crinkled at the edges. She watched his grin slowly fade into something softer, something more like wonder. He cleared his throat and indicated the potatoes. “Someone’s waiting.”
Calista snapped back to her task, face going hot, plopping the creamy side dish on a plate with a little more force than necessary. Yeah, definitely wonder. He’s wondering why I’m staring at him with my mouth hanging open. She would have given up her Mercedes to be able to erase the last minute and a half. It was like junior high all over again. And she knew better than to try to be cooler than she really was. It never worked out. You were always caught out in the end.
“I’m not going to another dinner. I haven’t been to a Thanksgiving dinner in years.”
He paused, scraping corn into a pile in his silver serving tray, waiting for the next customer. “Why? Not your favorite holiday?”
She shrugged, suddenly tired. “Because I haven’t been invited.”
He didn’t respond to that and they worked in silence for a few minutes. Calista chewed the inside of her lip, wishing she could lie and say she was rejecting offers every holiday. Then she was angry at wishing it, then finally sighed under the confusion of it all.
“But you’re right here, at my Thanksgiving dinner.”
Calista turned to him, ready to roll her eyes, and then hesitated. He looked serious, solemn. “I’m a volunteer.”
“And you’re my guest.” He playfully bumped her with an elbow. “I always make my friends work for their keep. You didn’t know what you were signing up for, but you’ve got years of this ahead of you.”
Calista scooped up another spoonful of potatoes for the next plate that slid into view, a goofy smile plastered to her face. She knew he was just being kind to her, making conversation, acting like the concerned shepherd to the lost sheep, but she couldn’t help it. Those sweet words made her heart full to bursting. She was a friend, a guest, someone who was welcome. Years of this ahead of you. Oh, how she wished it was true.
Chapter Nine
The media descended on the mission before the sun had risen above the snow-covered peaks of the Rocky Mountains. Vans plastered with channel numbers lined the streets and camera crews jostled for position on the sidewalk. The mission doors wouldn’t unlock to the public until six o’clock but that didn’t keep the reporters from tugging at the handle every few minutes. Last night’s press release had caused a frenzy. The man who owned a business empire had fathered a child by a drug-addicted C-list actress and then refused to acknowledge his paternity. Then the actress drank herself to death and the kid had lived on the streets. Definitely newsworthy by itself, but add in the enormous fortune that awaited the only child of Kurt Daniels and the fact that this child was now running the area’s biggest homeless shelter, and the story couldn’t get any bigger. Everyone was desperate to know everything about Grant Monohan, from his love life right down to what he ate for breakfast.
On the other side of the glass door, across the lobby and down a carpeted hallway, the city’s newest celebrity sat with his head in his hands. He slumped in his chair at the long conference table, which was empty except for two other silent individuals. Jose took a gulp of steaming hot coffee and set his mug back on the table, face solemn. Lana sat next to Grant, one hand gently kneading his shoulder. There was nothing she could say that would make this any easier, but she couldn’t bear to see him sitting there so alone. Grant raised his head and gave her a tentative smile that he hoped looked stronger than it felt. Lana had been through some rough times herself after her abusive husband sent a bullet through her spine and left her a paraplegic. She’d found her way to the mission the same way he had, wanting to make a difference in a world that could be heartless and cruel.
“Almost time, boss,” Jose said, breaking the silence. He looked like he was swallowing glass. His thickly muscled arms strained his polo shirt yet his expression of anxiety made him look like a vulnerable child.
Grant nodded. “Well, let’s pray, then go get this done.” They bowed their heads as he spoke simple words of praise, because even in this moment Grant was thankful. God had never let him down and never would.
> As they stood up, Grant felt as if he was heading to his own execution. His palms were sweaty, his heart was racing. He had never had such an urge to flee in his entire life. The years he’d spent on the street had been rough, but this was worse. He couldn’t suppress the twist of his lips at the irony. Announcing that he was the heir to an enormous fortune was worse than sleeping in doorways and begging for handouts.
“Showtime,” whispered Grant and they headed for the lobby. Lana asked the residents to clear the space as they prepared for the media to flood into the mission. Most of the homeless were more than eager to get out of the way. Old Conchita refused to budge from her spot on the last couch, rocking and mumbling, so Jose let her be. A few curious stragglers huddled by the double doors that led to the cafeteria. Breakfast had been served an hour ago and the clang of dishes being loaded into the enormous dishwashers echoed dimly in the silent lobby.
The moment he unlocked the front door would stay with Grant forever. Flashbulbs blinded him as he stood in the entryway, grimly waving in the reporters and cameramen. He hated the way they swarmed into the lobby and invaded this place of refuge.
“As soon as you can arrange yourselves, I will make a prepared statement and answer a few questions.” Grant’s voice felt uncertain but he cleared his throat and waited for the reporters to stop jockeying for position. He glanced at Lana, who gave him a thumbs-up sign, and Jose, who nodded encouragingly.
Taking a deep breath, he read from a paper he clutched in his hand. “My name is Grant Monohan and I am Kurt Daniels’s son.” He paused as the cameras flashed like strobe lights. “I have always been aware that he was my biological father. My mother, Annie Monohan, struggled with drugs and alcohol before passing away ten years ago. As a teenager, I spent several years living on the streets of Denver. I came to know the good people who ran the Denver mission and they encouraged me to finish my education. The previous director, Edward Thompson, helped me apply for scholarships, and I earned a degree in business from UC Davis. I returned to the mission to take a position as assistant director, and then was hired as director five years ago.” Grant paused, hoping against hope that the frantic scribbling from the horde of reporters would include actual words from his mouth.
“I understand the fascination with celebrities but I am asking you to respect my privacy and the privacy of the mission residents. This is a place of refuge and solace for many people struggling in difficult circumstances. Do not film or record any area of the mission without permission, and do not approach the residents. After I am done answering questions, I will ask you to leave. If you have further questions, I can be reached through the main phone number.”
He put the paper away in his pocket and lifted his head, waiting for the onslaught. “Now I will answer a few questions.”
The resulting din was deafening as every reporter shouted to be heard above the others.
Grant pointed toward the newscaster for a major Denver news channel. The dignified-looking man lifted his microphone and said in his best dramatic tone, “Is it true you drive a Ferrari while pretending to the homeless population that you aren’t wealthy?”
It took several seconds for the question to make sense. Grant’s mouth hung open in surprise before he snapped it shut and glared. “No, that is false. Are there any serious questions here?”
Another wave of shouting assaulted his ears and he pointed to a narrow-faced woman in a bright green jacket. She stepped forward. “Can you tell us why you refused to accept any money from your father, when the mission could use the funds for a new roof?”
Again, Grant stood speechless, eyes narrowed. How did she know that he wouldn’t cash the check, and that the roof was in need of replacing? He searched around for an answer. “The policy of the mission is to rely on the generosity of the many, rather than depend on large gifts from a few. We also adhere to federal standards for nonprofit organizations, which prohibits some types of donations.”
The woman spoke again before he could turn to another reporter. “Surely accepting one gift from Mr. Daniels wouldn’t hurt.”
The words left Grant’s mouth before he thought them through. “My father tends to spoil everything he touches.”
The resulting chaos was impossible to calm. Grant waved his hands for quiet but the reporters yelled questions over each other. Finally the mob subsided into restlessness, waiting for him to choose another reporter. But he had had enough.
“That’s all I have to say at this time. Please exit the lobby and clear the sidewalk in front of the mission. This is private property and we will call in police assistance if necessary. Thank you for understanding.” He pointed to the front doors and his eyes swept over a familiar face at the edge of the surging crowd.
Calista stood to the side, her brow creased with worry, hands up to her mouth and eyes wide in shock. His gut twisted in response as they locked eyes. He wanted to take it all back: the whole morning, the board’s approval of the media statement, the threatening letters. He wanted to go back to before she left Thanksgiving night. He felt steel bands tighten around his chest and he struggled to look away from her face. She slowly dropped her hands and gave him a slight smile.
He struggled to look as if nothing much had changed. But if there was anything that Grant Monohan knew, it was that there was no erasing the past.
* * *
Calista watched Grant Monohan face a room of screaming reporters and thought she had never witnessed a braver act in her life. He was tall and straight, head held high as he read from a small piece of paper in his left hand. She knew what it was like to have a painful past. Her throat ached in anguish as he gave the briefest description of his teen years. It sent shock waves through her system to hear him say he was Kurt Daniels’s son. He was as recognizable as the president, like Colorado royalty.
Grant’s life was never going to be the same after this moment. She watched him plead for privacy for the residents and visitors. And then he had made the fatal mistake of answering a few questions. The first rule of a press conference was control, and in a madhouse like this, control meant no questions.
The first question was the sort of ridiculous gossip she was prepared to hear. Calista could tell that Grant wasn’t, because his mouth dropped open a little. She could see the emotions flitting over his face: disbelief, anger, frustration. She wanted to walk in there and grab his microphone. He was going to be chewed up and spit out on national television.
The next question was strange, but Grant’s response was even stranger. He didn’t deny that his father had offered support or that he had refused help. And then he spoke from his gut, which broke rule number two of press conferences: if you can’t keep your emotions in check, don’t answer the question. Calista felt her hands go up to her mouth and stifled a groan. It was like watching the proverbial train wreck and knowing it was going to replay in a constant loop for the next week.
Grant looked up at her, right after he’d refused to answer more questions, and she tried to give him an encouraging smile. At least he’d stopped them at two, instead of twenty. She didn’t think she could have watched another five minutes of this. The look on his face was difficult to interpret. He turned and strode through the door to the offices.
She knew how it felt to have a past that was beyond your control, and a family that you did not care to own up to. What happened when they came out of the shadows to interfere with your life? Her stomach turned icy at the thought. But Grant’s bombshell was delicious for the gossip hounds because he was so good. People just loved to see a fall from grace. And pretending to be a normal guy who cared about the homeless while being a millionaire was a pretty big bombshell.
Several large men wearing the mission’s signature red polo shirt directed the crowd of reporters to the door. Calista wound her way through the throng, dodging enormous cameras and trying not to trip on long cords strewn over the lobby floo
r. It sounded as if most of them would be content to park across the street and wait for another opportunity.
Lana rolled into her spot behind the desk, her face pale, dark shadows under her eyes. “Hi, Calista,” she said in a friendly tone. Her gaze darted behind Calista, and she said more loudly, “I will not answer any questions.”
There were two paparazzi standing a few feet away, apparently hoping for some kind of statement. A tall, thin young man with a baseball cap on backward smirked and said, “You probably will, for the right price.”
Calista sucked in a breath and felt anger spread through her limbs. But Lana spoke first, and her voice was controlled. “You can’t put a price on friendship. I’m sure you understand.”
The man rolled his eyes and turned to his friend, laughing. But the other man shook his head, dark eyes gazing at the ground, and replaced the lens on his camera. His tan face was somber, even sad. Calista wondered if he had seen that friendship almost always had an asking price.
“Very nice. You should have made the statement to the press.” Calista hoped Lana would take the compliment the right way, not as a criticism of Grant.
The secretary ran a hand through her short gray hair so that the purple ends stood up straight. “I told him that. But he didn’t want to look like he was running away.”
“Well, it certainly didn’t look like he was running.” Calista couldn’t keep the admiration from her voice. “How is he? I mean, with all of this?” She didn’t know why those words came out of her mouth but she didn’t want to take them back, either.
Season of Joy Page 11
