Wedding Vows: With This Ring. Barbara Hannay

was practically running the whole show here. Would she do better at that if she was performing in an official capacity? Or worse? That was one of the things he needed to know, absolutely, before Miss Viv came back.

      He decided delay was not the better part of valor. He didn’t want to allow Molly enough time to paint herself into a corner she could not get out of.

      He went down the hallway to Molly’s office. A ladder blocked the door; he surprised himself, because he was not superstitious, by stepping around it, rather than under it.

      She was bent over her computer, her tongue caught between her teeth, a furious expression of concentration on her face.

      She hit the send button on something, spun her chair around to face him, her arms folded over her chest.

      “I’m hoping,” he said, “that you’ll give the changes here the same kind of chance to prove their merit that I’m giving you to prove the merit of your programs.”

      “Except Prom Dreams,” she reminded him sourly.

      “Except that,” he agreed with absolutely no regret. “Let’s give each other a chance.”

      She looked like she was all done giving people chances, residue from her cad, and the new wound, the loss of Prom Dreams.

      And yet he could see from the look on her face that she was basically undamaged by life. Willing to believe. Wanting to trust. A romantic whether she wanted to believe it of herself or not.

      Houston Whitford did not know if he was the person to be trusted with all that goodness, all that softness, all that compassion. He didn’t know if the future of Second Chances could be trusted with it, either.

      “All right,” she said, but doubtfully.

      “Great. Where are we going first?”

      “I want to show you a garden project we’ve developed.”

      Funny, that was exactly what he wanted to see. And probably not for the reason Molly hoped, either. That land was listed as one of Second Chance’s assets.

      He handed her a camera. “Take lots of pictures today. I can use them for fundraising promotional brochures.”

      The garden project would be such a good way to show Houston what Second Chances really did.

      As they arrived it was evident spring cleanup was going on today. About a dozen rake and shovel wielding volunteers were in the tiny lot, a haven of green sandwiched between two dilapidated old buildings. Most of the people there were old, at least retirement age. But the reality of the neighborhood was reflected in the fact many of them had children with them, grandchildren that they cared for.

      “This plot used to be a terrible eyesore on this block,” Molly told Houston. “Look at it now.”

      He only nodded, seeming distant, uncharmed by the sprouting plants, the fresh turned soil, the new bedding plants, the enthusiasm of the volunteers.

      Molly shook her head, exasperated with him, and then turned her back on him. She was greeted warmly, soon at the center of hugs.

      She felt at the heart of things. Mrs. Zarkonsky would be getting her hip replacement soon. Mrs. Brant had a new grandson. Sly looks were being sent toward Mr. Smith and Mrs. Lane, a widower and a widow who were holding hands.

      And then she saw Mary Bedford. She hadn’t seen her since they had put the garden to bed in the fall. She’d had some bad news then about a grandson who had been serving overseas.

      Molly went to her, took those frail hands in her own.

      “How is your grandson?” she asked. “Riley, wasn’t it?”

      A tear slipped down a weathered cheek. “He didn’t make it.”

      “Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry.”

      “Please don’t be sorry.”

      “How can I not be? He was so young!”

      Mary reached up and rested a weathered hand against her cheek. It reminded Molly of being with Miss Viv when she looked into those eyes that were so fierce with love.

      “He may have been young,” she said, “but he lived every single day to the fullest. There are people my age who cannot say that. Not even close.”

      “That is true,” Molly said.

      “And he was like you, Molly.”

      “Like me?” she said, startled at being compared to the young hero.

      “For so many of your generation it seems to be all about things. Bank accounts, and stuff, telephones stuck in your ears. But for Riley, it was about being of service. About helping other people. And that’s what it’s about for you, too.”

      Molly remembered sending that message to Miss Viv this morning, pleading for direction.

      And here was her answer, as if you could not send out a plea for direction like the one she had sent without an answer coming from somewhere.

      Ever since the crushing end of her relationship with Chuck, Molly had questioned everything about herself, had a terrible sense that she approached life all wrong.

      And now she saw that wasn’t true at all. She was not going to lose what was best about herself because she’d been hurt.

      And then she became aware of her new boss watching her, a cynical look on his face.

      For a moment she criticized herself, was tempted to see herself through his eyes. I am too soft, she thought. He sees it. For a moment she reminded herself of her vow, since Chuck, to be something else.

      But then she realized that since Chuck she had become something else: unsure, resentful, self-pitying, bitter, frightened.

      When life took a run at you, she wondered, did it chip away at who you were, or did it solidify who you really were? Maybe that was what she had missed: it was her choice.

      “The days of all our lives are short,” Mary said, and patted her on the arm. “Don’t waste any of it.”

      Don’t waste any of it, Molly thought, being frightened instead of brave, playing it safe instead of giving it the gift of who you really were.

      The sun was so warm on her uplifted face, and she could feel the softness of Mrs. Bedford’s tiny, frail hand in hers. And she could also feel the hope and strength in it.

      Molly could feel love.

      And if she allowed what Chuck—what life—had done to her to take that from her, to make her as cynical as the man watching her, then hadn’t she lost the most important thing of all?

      Herself.

      She was what she was. If that meant she was going to get hurt from time to time, wasn’t that so much better than the alternative?

      She glanced again at Houston. That was the alternative. To be so closed to these small miracles. To know the price of everything and the value of nothing.

      She suddenly felt sorry for him, standing there, aloof. His clothing and his car, even the way he stood, said he was so successful.

      But he was alone, in amongst all the wonder of the morning, and these people reaching out to each other in love, he was alone.

      And maybe that was none of her business, and maybe she could get badly hurt trying to show him there was something else, but Molly suddenly knew she could not show him the soul of Second Chances unless she was willing to show him her own.

      And it wasn’t closed and guarded.

      When she had put on that wedding dress yesterday for some reason she had felt more herself than she had felt in a long time.

      Hope filled. A believer in goodness and dreams. Someone who trusted the future. Someone with something to give.

      Love.