Wedding Vows: With This Ring. Barbara Hannay
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one shoe missing, a nylon ruined.
And he had never, ever seen a woman so beautiful.
The jury was still out on whether she would make a good replacement for Miss Viv. So how could he know, he who avoided that particular entanglement the most—how could he know, so instantly, without a doubt, what a good mother Molly would make with her loving heart, and her laughter filled and spontaneous spirit?
And why did that thought squeeze his chest so hard for a moment he could not breathe?
Because of the cad who had made her suffer by letting her go, by stealing her dreams from her.
No, that was too altruistic. It wasn’t about her. It was about him. He could feel something from the past looming over him, waiting to pounce.
As Molly rejoined him, Houston focused all his attention on the little messy ones trying so hard to form perfect ranks on a makeshift stage. It was painfully obvious these would be among the city’s neediest children. Some were in old clothes, meticulously cared for. Others were not so well cared for. Some looked rested and eager, others looked strangely tired, dejected.
With a shiver, he knew exactly which ones lay awake with wide eyes in the night, frightened of being left alone, or of the noises coming from outside or the next rooms. He looked longingly for the exit, but Molly, alarmingly intuitive, seemed to sense his desire to run for the door.
“They’ve been practicing for us!” she hissed at him, and he ordered himself to brace up, to face what he feared.
But why would he fear a small bunch of enthusiastic if ragamuffin children? He seated himself reluctantly in terribly uncomfortable tiny chairs, the cramped space ringing with children’s shouts and shrieks, laughter. At the count of three the clamor of too enthusiastically played percussion instruments filled the room.
Houston winced from the racket, stole a glance at Molly and felt the horrible squeeze in his chest again. What was that about?
She was enchanted. Clapping, singing along, calling out encouragement. He looked at the children. Those children were playing just for her now. She was probably the mother each of them longed for: engaged, fully present to them, appreciative of their enthusiasm if not their musical talent.
And then he knew what it was about, the squeezing in his chest.
He remembered a little boy in ragged jeans, not the meticulously kept kind, at a school Christmas concert. He had been given such an important job. He was to put the baby Jesus in the manger at the very end of the performance. He kept pulling back the curtain. Knowing his dad would never come. But please, Mommy, please.
Hope turning to dust inside his heart as each moment passed, as each song finished and she did not enter the big crowded room. His big moment came and that little boy, the young Houston, took that doll that represented the baby Jesus and did not put him in the waiting crib. Instead, he threw it with all his might at all the parents who had come. The night was wrecked for him, he wanted to wreck it for everybody else.
Houston felt a cold shadow fall over him. He glanced at Molly, still entranced. He didn’t care to know what a good mother she would be. It hurt him in some way. It made him feel as he had felt at the Christmas play that night. Like he wanted to destroy something.
Instead, he slipped his BlackBerry out of his pocket, scanned his e-mails. The Bradbury papers, nothing to do with Second Chances—all about his other life—had just been signed. It was a deal that would mean a million and a half dollars to his company. Yesterday that would have thrilled him. Filled him.
Yesterday, before he had heard her laughter emerge from under a pile of children, and instantly and without his permission started redefining everything that was important about his life.
He shook off that feeling of having glimpsed something really important—maybe the only thing that was important—he shook it off the same way he shook off a punch that rattled him nearly right off his feet. Deliberately he turned his attention to the small piece of electronics that fit in the palm of his hand.
Houston Whitford opened the next e-mail. The Chardon account was looking good, too.
Molly congratulated herself on the timing of their arrival at the daycare program. The concert had been a delight of crashing cymbals, clicking sticks, wildly jangling triangles. Now it was snack time for the members of the rhythm section, three and four year olds.
They were so irresistible! They were fighting for her hands, and she gave in, allowed herself to be tugged toward the kitchen.
She glanced back at Houston. He was trailing behind. How could he be looking at his BlackBerry? Was she failing to enchant him, failing to make him see?
Well, there was still time with her small army of charmers, and Molly had never seen a more delightful snack. She felt a swell of pride that Second Chances provided the funding so that these little ones could get something healthy into them at least once a day.
Healthy but fun. The snack was so messy that the two long tables were covered in plastic, and the children, about ten at each long, low table, soon had bibs fashioned out of plastic grocery bags over their clothes.
On each table were large plastic bowls containing thinly cut vegetables—red and green peppers, celery, carrots—interspersed with dips bowls mounded with salad dressing.
The children were soon creating their own snacks—plunging the veggies first into the dressing, and then rolling the coated veggie on flat trays that held layers of sunflower seeds, poppy seeds, raisins.
Though most of the children were spotlessly clean beneath those bibs and the girls all had hairdos that spoke of tender loving care, their clothes were often worn, some pairs of jeans patched many times. The shoes told the real story—worn through, frayed, broken laces tied in knots, vibrant colors long since faded.
Molly couldn’t help but glance at Houston’s shoes. Chuck had been a shoe aficionado. He’d shown her a pair on the Internet once that he thought might make a lovely gift from her. A Testoni Norvegese—at about fifteen hundred dollars a pop!
Was that what Houston was wearing? If not, it was certainly something in the same league. What hope did she have of convincing him of the immeasurable good in these small projects when his world was obviously so far removed from this he couldn’t even comprehend it?
She had to get him out of the BlackBerry! She wished she had a little dirt to throw on those shoes, to coax the happiness out of him. She had to make him see what was important. This little daycare was just a microcosm of everything Second Chances did. If he could feel the love, even for a second, everything would change. Molly knew it.
“Houston, I saved you a seat,” she called, patting the tiny chair beside her.
He glanced over, looked aghast, looked longingly—and not for the first time—at the exit door. And then a look came over his face—not of a man joining preschoolers for snack—but of a warrior striding toward battle, a gladiator into the ring.
The children became quite quiet, watching him.
If he knew his suit was in danger, he never let on. Without any hesitation at all, he pulled up the teeny chair beside Molly, hung his jacket over the back of it—not even out of range of the fingers, despite the subtle Giorgio Armani label revealed in the back of it—and plunked himself down.
The children eyed him with wide-eyed surprise, silent and shy.
Children, Molly told herself, were not charmed by the same things as adults. They did not care about his watch or his shoes, the label in the back of that jacket.
Show me who you really are.
She passed him a red pepper, a silly thing to expect to show you a person. He looked at it, looked at her, seemed to be deciding something. She was only aware of how tense he had been when she saw his shoulders shift slightly, saw the corners of his mouth relax.
Ignoring the children who were gawking at