Safe in Noah's Arms. Mary Sullivan
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unfair. “I work my butt off fourteen hours a day. I do the work that everyone should be doing, but hardly anyone does—caring for my fellow man and the environment. This stuff should be universal. It should come naturally to everyone. But I’m the only one in this community out here doing it day in and day out.” He poked himself in the chest so hard it hurt.
She opened her mouth to speak, but he ran roughshod over her. Not doing enough, my patootie.
“If that sounds arrogant or self-righteous, too bad. I have more passion about these issues in my baby finger than you do in your whole body. I believe in peace and love and communal property and service for the greater good. You believe in clothes, fancy cars, Calvin Klein—”
She gasped. “I never wear Calvin Klein—”
“—and rampant consumerism. You’re the most shallow person I know.”
Only when silence filled the quiet cab did Noah realize he’d been shouting, his last sentence ringing like the bong of a brass bell, its echo still reverberating like a heartbeat.
Oh, geez, that was bad. He shouldn’t have been so harsh. Honesty was a good thing, but not when it devastated another soul...
Tentatively, he glanced at Monica.
She stared out the passenger window, her blond hair falling forward and hiding her face.
Oh, sweet freaking crap. He’d hurt her. He didn’t do that to people.
Noah struggled to calm his thundering pulse. Sure, he had no patience for excess and waste and hunger and poverty, but he never lashed out at individuals unless they were doing truly egregious things. He never spoke this harshly. He never insulted people or called them names.
She’d been getting under his skin since she’d stepped onto his farm and started ripping out tender plants instead of weeds.
He’d learned, as Audrey had said, that it was easy to underestimate Monica. While she might have an uncomplicated soul, she wasn’t stupid. On the other hand, she had no right to criticize him. He did a world of good for those in need while she sat at home and painted her fingernails pink or, worse, paid someone else to do it.
While Kayla struggled to feed her family, Monica probably had weekly manis, pedis and whatever else people did at spas.
Breathing deeply of the warm air flowing through his open window, he pulled himself under control. His anger was doing neither of them any good.
He heard her sniff and a surge of remorse flooded him.
He placed his fingers on the cool skin of her arm, but she jerked it away from him and shrank against the car door.
“I’m sorry. Really. Don’t cry.”
She rounded on him, red spots on her high cheekbones. “I’m not crying. I’m angry.” She leaned toward him, straining against her seat belt. “I do a lot more than you give me credit for. You’ve always thought you were better than me.”
“What? It’s the other way around,” he yelled. He jabbed a finger her way. “You think you’re better than me. You’ve got it backward.”
“I do not,” she responded hotly. “I think you’re hardworking and smart. You think I’m lazy and stupid. So who thinks he’s better than whom?”
Okay, so maybe he did think she was lazy and did nothing much outside of shopping and pampering her body. He knew she and his mom liked to go to spas together. It was like Mom had adopted her as another child. And yeah, he might think Monica was lazy. How hard could working in a gallery be?
He mimicked her in his mind. Who thinks he’s better than whom? It was petty, but it felt good. As quickly as his indignation flared, it abated. Her shot had been a bull’s-eye. He did think himself superior to her, and to all of her kind.
And that was wrong. He needed to see her as an individual, and he needed to remember that he trusted Audrey’s opinion. If she saw more in Monica than what was on the surface, he should, too. Besides, he had seen glimmers of depth in her today.
His righteousness deflated.
“Tell me,” he said quietly.
“Tell you what?” Her body language still screamed that she was a prickly, angry woman.
Other than eating crow, which he wouldn’t do, the only way to appease her was to listen. “What else could I be doing?”
For a long time she sat without speaking and he feared he’d hurt her so much she wouldn’t respond. Now that the heat of his anger was spent, he wanted to know what she thought.
“Tell me,” he urged, touching her arm again, and this time she didn’t pull away. Her soft skin warmed his fingertips. “I want to know.”
“Fund-raise,” she said. “Raise money so you can deliver meat and diapers and lots of other stuff with the vegetables and eggs, including a few luxuries like coffee and tea. Maybe even deliver seeds in the spring so they can grow their own stuff.”
She was right, damn her.
“I don’t think I’m qualified to fund-raise,” he responded.
“I am,” she said and he heard in her a confidence that was missing on the farm.
“How so?”
“I was tutored by the best fund-raiser around.”
When he looked at her questioningly, she said, “Believe it or not, my dad. He might look like he does nothing but sit around all day and have lunch at the country club, but boy, does that guy know how to network.” She lifted the hair from the back of her neck where a sheen of sweat glistened, her arms strong and firm, and her breasts high. Noah glanced away before he started some pretty hot daydreaming. “When I was little, he took me with him everywhere. I watched and listened and learned. I could set up a charity event in Denver that would bring in big bucks.”
Noah snorted.
Monica shot him a look. “Really, Noah, that’s uncouth. If you don’t believe me, just say so.”
“I don’t believe you can do it.”
“I can.” She sounded huffy, indignant, and he found it far too cute, so cute he wanted to provoke her further.
“How do I know it wouldn’t be a waste of time?”
“You’d have to trust me.”
Ah, there was the rub. He’d trusted before and where had it gotten him? Screwed, royally, by a woman just like Monica, a woman who walked, talked and spoke like Monica...and who schemed like the devil.
“Wouldn’t it be a lot of work?”
“Yes. Dad worked his tail off when he raised funds, but he also had a host of women organizing the events, women with wealthy husbands, who donated their days to running charities. Lucky for you, I still know all of them.”
The desire to do more and feed more people threaded tentacles of temptation through him. “You would do all of that work for my charity?”
She looked surprised. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I? I like this helping-people business, Noah.”
A gentle, satisfied smile spread across Noah’s face. “So do I.” And it felt fabulous to share that with someone. So good, in fact, he was willing to eat crow after all and admit he had a thing or two to learn about charity from Monica. In his hubris, he’d thought the learning would go only one way.
* * *
ON MAIN STREET, Monica headed for the organic market, Tonio’s, hoping to figure out what she’d have for dinner.
Until a year ago, it had been called the Organic Bud, but the Colantonios had since bought it. Now, along with local organic produce, they had introduced a lot of international products.
Monica