Darius’s stomach began to churn. He knew that look, and it usually meant trouble.
“You are going to use your charms to convince Ruth Bennington that this maternity home is a terrible idea and that she should sell her house to us. With what I’m willing to pay her, she could open three homes in another part of town.”
Darius bit back an immediate rebuttal. What his boss said was true. If Mrs. Bennington sold to Walcott Industries, she would get top dollar and could easily open a more modern facility somewhere outside the heart of the city, which would make more sense for that type of establishment. How did the caption under the photo phrase it? A home for underprivileged women.
Darius held back a snort of disgust. He wasn’t an idiot. This so-called maternity home was meant to harbor morally corrupt women whose foolish life choices had landed them in trouble of their own making. Wouldn’t they rather be hidden away on the outskirts of town?
He skimmed the rest of the article. Black-tie event. $25 a plate fundraiser. Investors welcome. Proceeds will be donated to Bennington Place.
So Mrs. Bennington was looking for financial aid. That meant the whole enterprise could be on shaky ground.
“Did you read the entire article?” Darius asked.
“Of course I did. Why?”
“It sounds like the lady needs more capital and without it, she might not be able to stay in operation long.” Darius raised a brow. “We could use the black-tie event as an opportunity to warn any potential backers away from this venture.”
“Hmm. Good point.” Walcott plopped back onto his leather chair and rubbed his goatee, a sure sign that the cogs were turning. “Get yourself a tuxedo, boy. You and I are going to this shindig. Between the two of us, we should be able to persuade anyone foolhardy enough to attend not to waste their money.”
Darius kept his expression even, masking his dismay at having to attend another tedious affair, not to mention having to find suitable attire, since his usual good suit wouldn’t do for this event. Plus, it would mean another night he’d have to disappoint Sofia.
“In the meantime, I want you to pay the widow a visit. Get a feel for what’s really going on there and make a case for why she should consider selling. Use those persuasion skills you’ve picked up on our dime.”
Darius forced his lips into a smile, though it felt more like a grimace. Mr. Walcott took every opportunity he could to remind him that Walcott Industries was paying for the business courses he took on Saturday mornings—courses he needed to eventually earn his degree, which would hopefully merit a large raise, or maybe even a promotion. “Fine. I’ll call and arrange—”
“Don’t call. She’ll only refuse to see you. Go over unannounced. You’re much more likely to get in that way.”
Darius nodded. “Fine. I’ll go first thing tomorrow.”
He tugged his tie loose as he left the room. Arguing with a stubborn old widow would likely be a colossal waste of time, but if it kept the boss happy, then Darius would consider it a win.
7
The next morning, Olivia whipped the eggs into a frenzy in the ceramic mixing bowl, then poured them onto the hot skillet. It was the cook’s day off, and Olivia didn’t mind stepping in to fill Mrs. Neale’s shoes. In fact, she rather enjoyed it.
From the open kitchen window, the melodious sounds of the birds cheered her soul. Mornings were her favorite time of day, when everything seemed new and fresh, untainted by the events to come. She loved to sip her coffee as she helped in the kitchen and watch the sun rise over the hedges in the backyard, the stillness of the early hours creating a cocoon that suspended reality for a brief interval.
It was a time when Olivia could pretend that the tragedies in her life hadn’t happened and that she was still a young girl full of hope for the future. Not the jaded twenty-two-year-old she’d become.
The eggs sizzled and hissed, reminding her to stir them before they burned. Margaret and Patricia didn’t need their breakfast ruined, especially since Olivia was still trying to make a good impression on them.
Margaret sometimes seemed restless, unsure whether to stay or go. But Olivia hoped that with an outpouring of kindness, she and Ruth could convince her to stay.
She spooned the eggs onto a platter and turned off the heat. Glancing at the clock, she calculated the time remaining for the biscuits. Five more minutes should be perfect. Then she’d make tea for Margaret, who didn’t like her brew too strong. For Patricia, who preferred coffee, a fresh pot sat on the stovetop, filling the kitchen with a delectable aroma. Olivia had missed her favorite morning beverage while at the reformatory, where she’d been lucky to receive some lukewarm tea. Amazing how such small luxuries could be taken for granted.
The sound of chimes from the doorbell rang through the house. Olivia startled. Who would be coming here at this early hour? Her head snapped up. Maybe another woman in need had read about their home in the paper.
With fresh eagerness, Olivia hurried down the long hallway toward the front of the house, a fervent prayer on her lips. Lord, help me to be a welcoming face to whomever you’ve brought to us.
Putting on her best smile, Olivia opened the door. Her expression turned to a frown as she took in the dark-haired man on the porch. “Can I help you?”
The man scanned her from head to toe in one quick glance. Then his vivid blue eyes focused on her with an intensity that made her squirm.
“Um . . . yes,” he said. “That is, good morning. I’m
