Toss the Bouquet (9 page)

Mixed emotions filled him as he walked home later. His chance was finally coming. His years of hard work could come to fruition soon. The dream of landing an office in lower Manhattan was close . . . so close. And it wasn't the money, although he liked to make a good living. It was the prestige of making it to the pinnacle of his field in seven years. His sacrifices were about to pay off, and unlike his father, he hadn't surrendered a family to become successful.

He walked two blocks, then crossed to his side of the street. A neon-colored flyer on the door of the small, storefront Christian mission stood out. Down the road, two elderly men sat huddled around a heat vent, talking, the cold, wet night offering no reprieve.

The situation didn't add up. Greg paused and read the notice, a jumble of pseudo-legalese that said the mission was being closed due to lease infractions. He stepped back and raised his eyes to the sign above the broad, wooden door.

Old City Mission, est. 1987

Nettie Johnson, director

All are welcome

Two churches flanked the ends of the street. Upscale housing, a small park, and high-end stores had migrated to the quaint setting of the new and improved Old City, but the mission had been a Christian mainstay for people as long as he could remember.

He approached the two men. Heads down, they ignored
him, as if eye contact put them at risk, and they were most likely right. He squatted so he wouldn't tower over the two older men. “Guys, who closed the mission?”

“Landlord.” One old guy spit to the side in disgust. “I expect he don't think we're proper clientele anymore.”

“Nettie said she was gonna fight it, but she's just normal folk,” added the second man. “Normal folk got no chance against money. She knows it, but she'll do her best. And in the end, it won't be enough.”

Normal folk got no chance against money.

Tara's story came back to him, how her father's attorney caved to the higher bidder, and he lost his fight for disability benefits. Was this what it came down to in the streets? People in dire circumstances forced onto the pavement because a landlord got a better offer?

He'd look into it further over the weekend. He hooked a thumb left. “My car's in the garage over there. Do you guys need a lift somewhere?”

The men gaped, then the one with the longer beard shrugged. “Too late to get into a shelter tonight.” He looked at his companion. “We could use the bridge overhang. If Toby's not there.”

“Toby don't like strangers under his part of the bridge,” the second man explained.

“Gentlemen.” They all turned toward the voice from the nearby brick church. “Come in. Get dry. Spend the night. It's not luxury, but you've got great company.” The middle-aged priest smiled toward the statues flanking the door. “And it's warm.”

Greg stood. He reached down to help one of the men
up and realized the man was missing a limb. The other man followed the direction of his gaze. “Ollie's a war hero, but we don't make a lot of it, do we, Oll?”

“Only when the whiskey's just right,” the amputee agreed, and his words offered a quick, cryptic explanation of his plight. “Nettie gave me what for 'bout two years back, and I gave it up, but I'm willin' to start again about now.”

“I expect being warm and dry will help.” The priest sent Greg a smile of gratitude as the men shuffled in. “But I'll lock up the communion wine. Just in case.”

The old men laughed, and the priest waved to Greg and shut the church door. Greg went back down the steps and turned right.

Lights splayed before him, leading to the bank of the Delaware River.

American history had been born here. Nurtured here. Fed here. This land before him had housed presidents and peasants. Independence Park had seen the labors of lawyers and landowners come to pass. A new country born from the gaping wounds of intolerance.

His mother's guidance came back to him, an immigrant woman's counsel spoken to a young boy with great expectations. “Dream you can, and you're halfway there.”

Teddy Roosevelt's words, brief and succinct.

Tara Simonetti embodied those words. She saw, she believed, she acted, and all with a rich kindness that made him long to be a better person. And even if he wasn't a better person, maybe he could do something over the weekend to help Nettie Johnson and her peers hang on to their mission.

The push of back-to-back bridal party appointments the
following Saturday should have kept Tara's mind off Greg.

It didn't.

Her ears strained to catch his voice, and her eyes strayed to the front desk regularly, hoping he'd come in. By late afternoon they'd racked up significant sales and Kathy had booked twelve new appointments for the coming week. “Greg will be pleased,” she exclaimed as she finished jotting number thirteen into the book. “And we're plenty full for our afternoon tomorrow. This is a big step in the right direction for Elena's Bridal.”

“Is Greg working?” Donna asked as she organized the tiara case. “I thought we'd see him today.”

Tara pretended disinterest as she filed the hard copy of each bridal party's sales folder.

“I expect he's hunkered down, doing lawyer stuff,” Kathy
noted. “He got a call from New York last week. He's made the short list for a major opening there, and we know that's been his dream from the get-go.”

Tara's fantasy ending dissolved.

Greg was a ladder climber. He was driven. And while she liked his strength and aptitude, success at any cost went against everything she believed in. She'd taken up law for the exact opposite reason.

And you hate it.

She retracted the thought immediately.
Hate
was too strong a word. She put two sold gowns on the ironing rack and let her hand trail along the lace edge of the nearest one.

She loved this. Who would have thought her heart's desire lay in helping women plan for the least stressful, most perfect wedding day possible?

“You're quiet today, Tara.” Kathy exchanged a look with Donna. “What's up?”

“Nothing.” She aimed a bright smile their way, but their expressions said they weren't fooled, so she kept the subject on business as usual. “Meghan offered to do the decorating for the reopening. I was thinking of ways I can help her get it done.”

“She's got flair, that's for sure,” Jean offered as she came up front. “I've got a growing list of reception venues, caterers, rental companies, bakeries, florists, photographers, and linen providers who've accepted the invitations. That's the makings of a great kickoff party.”

“We're going to build Meghan's historical display on Monday in that front corner.” Tara pointed left. “Unless someone else had their eye on it.”

“All yours,” Donna replied. “Her sketch is a showstopper. That corner is the perfect place to spotlight it.”

“They'll be installing new tuxedo racks while you're building a medieval forest.” Kathy smiled. “Elena would love this.”

“She would,” Donna agreed. “And with every change we make, I miss her more.”

“Was she nice?” Tara turned toward Donna and Kathy. “Like Greg?”

“She was far nicer than I could ever hope to be.”

Tara turned, surprised. “I didn't know you were here.” She touched a hand to her collar, embarrassed because she'd been looking for him all week, and of course he came in the minute she started asking about him.

“Well.” He extended his hands. “I am here. I've been working extra this week, but I've got some time now, so I'm going to rough in those tuxedo rooms tonight. That way the drywall guy can finish them on Monday. And yes, my mother was one of the nicest women you'd ever meet. I've always been more like my father.”

Kathy rolled her eyes. “Your mother was proud of you. She encouraged your dreams. And from where I'm standing, the way you've helped spur things along here says she raised a pretty nice guy.”

“She'd be thrilled that you're getting the chance you've always wanted.” Donna slung her arm around Greg. “Mothers want their children to be happy.” She moved to put the final gowns away.

Greg turned toward Tara, and she met his gaze straight on. “Some of us are meant to be movers and shakers,” she
said. “That's a good fit for you, Greg. You're strong and tough. New York won't know what hit them.”

Still, she couldn't help wishing things were different. Wishing she could find a way to mentally separate Greg's job from her own values, and from the memory of a simple man who trusted the wrong lawyer.

Tara was right. Greg wanted to be at the top of his game, and he was on the verge of realizing his dream. Why did the thought of success feel suddenly tainted? He'd done nothing wrong.

Not wrong, per se. But not all that right either.

He slung his jacket across the back of a chair and rolled out a bag of power tools from the back room. Framing the tuxedo fitting rooms was the kind of muscle work that took his mind off corporate law and New York City. Not to mention an unforgettable woman who had walked in the door a few weeks ago and made him start seeing life and love through very different eyes.

“Are you doing this alone?”

Tara stood between him and the front door. She was ready to go, her coat on, a cute hat pulled down over the mass of golden brown curls.

“The rooms are small, and I'm just roughing in tonight. I thought I'd be in earlier, but—”

“Duty called.”

A new kind of duty, but yes, one that felt good by the end of the day. He hoped the city judge would see things his
way and smack down the mission landlord's illegal notice of eviction.

She took a step forward. “That didn't answer my question. There's no one to help you hold things in place?”

He shrugged but couldn't deny how her words ignited a spark of hope. “Nope.” He gave her a hang-dog expression. “Just me and a really big stack of two-by-fours.”

“I'd stay, but I'm not exactly the build-a-room type,” Kathy said as she prepared to leave. “Everyone else has gone home. I'll lock up, Greg, but I won't set the alarm.”

Tara started to slip off her coat. Kathy ducked her head, but not before Greg saw her smile of approval as she went out the front. “You don't have to do this.” He gave the pile of wood a quick glance. “I can erect the walls on the floor, then stand them up. It's not as hard as it might seem, and they're small rooms.”

“I've helped my mother with a lot of DIY projects,” Tara replied. She grabbed an old sweater from the office and pulled it on to protect the nice clothes she'd worn that day. “And it's not in my nature to walk away when a friend needs a hand.”

He stopped laying wood at designated spots on the floor and looked up at her. “What if I want to be more than a friend, Tara? Would you walk away then?”

She had been moving toward him, but then she paused, looking down. “I—”

“Because—” He stood and halved the distance between them. “I managed to stay away all week, when what I wanted to do was drop in here, pretend to help, and see you. Just you. So why don't you look me in the eye and tell me you feel
the same way, and then . . .” He smiled and stroked the curve of her cheek with one finger. “Then . . .”

He glanced at her mouth, took a half step closer, and waited, because after staying away for days, the last thing Greg wanted to do was take a step back when he was this close to kissing Tara Simonetti.