Chances Are

MILLS & BOON

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Chances Are
Donna Hill

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Chances Are is sincerely dedicated

to the wonderful young women and their

children who I had the pleasure of working

with in a setting very much like Chances,

and who provided the inspiration for this

story. I think of you all often, and wish you all

continued success and many blessings.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Prologue

Fear, such as she’d never known, rose along her flesh like prickly heat then spread mercilessly through her slender seventeen-year-old frame. Every limb ached, partly from the uncontrollable tremors that rocked her, but mostly from the vicious beating inflicted upon her by her father—with the two-inch thick, black leather strap that he used to sharpen his razor—even as he prayed to God for forgiveness, and tears of remorse coursed down his tortured cheeks. If her mother hadn’t finally pulled him off her, she was certain she’d be dead.

Cowering in the farthest corner of her bed, eyes swollen, throat raw from crying, she jumped at the sound of breaking glass and raised voices from the floor below. Her parents had been screaming and yelling at each other for what seemed an eternity. And it was all her fault. Her fault.

Oh, God, what would she give to turn back the clock, use her head and remember all the lessons that had been drilled into her over the years? How could she ever face her mother again and not feel her shame, or face her father and not feel worthless and dirty? She didn’t know if she ever could.

Fresh tears coursed down Dione’s cheeks, surprising her. She was sure she’d had no more tears to shed. And then, suddenly, the three-story brownstone on Madison Street, grew silent, which was more frightening than the noise.

She sat up in the bed, listening. The front door slammed, rocking the house. Then she heard footsteps on the stairs. They were light. Her mother.

The door opened and her mother stepped into the dimness of the frilly, but precisely ordered bedroom. Margaret Williams didn’t say a word, but went straight to Dione’s closet, took out a suitcase and began pulling clothes off hangers then out of drawers, stuffing them inside.

Dione watched in silence, her horror mounting with each breath she took.

Her mother snapped the suitcase shut and turned toward her daughter, unable or unwilling to meet Dione’s pleading eyes. She reached into the pocket of her pale peach robe, pulled out a thick, white envelope and handed it to Dione.

“You have to leave. Now. Your father doesn’t want you here when he gets back.”

Dione’s eyes widened in terror, her stomach lurched and seemed to rise to her chest. “Mommy, please! Don’t let him do this to me.”

“There’s nothing I can do. I can’t go against your father. I can’t.”

“Where can I go? What will I do?”

“You should have thought about that before—” Her voice broke. She turned away and walked toward the door.

“Ma, please! Please!” Dione scurried to the end of the bed and went after her mother, wrapping her arms around her mother’s stiff body. “You can’t let Daddy put me out,” she begged as tears streamed down her face. “I have nowhere to go. I’ll do anything. Hide me,” she begged in desperation. “Please—”

She felt her mother’s body tremble as she struggled to contain her sobs. “Don’t be here when he gets back, Dione. For your own sake. I don’t know if I can stop him if he goes after you again.”

Dione dropped her arms to her sides, feeling as if the life had been sucked from her and she wished, at that moment, that her father had killed her, because it had to be better than this.

“There’s enough money in the envelope to last you awhile.”

“And then what?” she choked. “What’s going to happen to me when the money runs out? How can you let him do this to me? Do you even care?” she screamed at her mother’s back.

Her mother took a breath and walked out, shutting the door and her daughter out of her life.

Through clouded, tear-filled eyes, Dione stared at the closed door and vowed from that night forward that no door would ever be closed to her again.

Chapter 1

Eighteen years later

Dione Williams sat in her small, but neat, afrocentric office, located on the basement level of the four-story brownstone she’d purchased five years earlier in the Clinton Hill section of Brooklyn. Laid out from end to end on the gray metal table she used for a desk—purchased at a discount city auction—were utility bills, invoices from vendors, taxes due and another pile of rejection letters for the three proposals she’d written for additional funding.

She rubbed a hand across her forehead, then began to massage her temples with the balls of her thumbs.

Chances Are was in trouble. Serious trouble, and according to her accountant if she didn’t secure a solid influx of capital within the next four to six months, the ten teen mothers and their babies who’d come to live at the reconverted residence and who depended on her for their survival would be put out onto the street, and her staff would be out of jobs.

All around her, she felt the doors closing, and that old fear underscored by more than a decade of anger resurfaced like a swimmer gasping above the water for air. She looked up and out of the small basement window, catching a glimpse of the near-barren trees, the branches reaching out at her, begging for her help and the grass that was turning a honey brown before disappearing until next spring, were all symbolic of her life.

Sighing, Dione tucked a wayward strand of shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ear, her hand brushing against her damp cheek. There had to be a way to save her dream. Unfortunately, she’d completely run out of original ideas. And the one alternative was too far-fetched and much too risky. Absently she toyed with the tiny gold stud that adorned her lobe. There had to be another way.

The soft tap on the door momentartily drew her attention away from her disturbing thoughts. Quickly she wiped her tears away.

“Come in.”

“Hey, Dione, I had a feeling I’d find you down here.” Brenda Frazier, her assistant director, right and left hand, breezed into the room and shut the door. “Do things really look as bad as the expression on your face?” She eased her hip along the edge of the desk.

Dione tried to smile. “I’m afraid so.”

“What about the bank—can’t we get a loan?”

“The building is mortgaged to the hilt. Without any substantial flow of capital, the bank won’t front another loan.”

Brenda folded her arms beneath her breasts. “Dee, we may have to go with the documentary thing. I mean if it works and we could get the attention we need and deserve—” Brenda’s eyebrows rose.

Dione shook her head. “I can’t do that to the girls, Brenda. Some of them are here because they’ve had to get out of abusive situations. There are others who don’t want anyone to know where they are, or that they’re homeless and living in a shelter.”

Brenda threw her hands up in the air in frustration. “I wish I had such hard living. We may be categorized as a shelter, but these apartments are plenty fit for these queens. I wouldn’t mind living in one of them myself. You’ve done miracles with this place and with these girls. People need to know that.”

Dione pressed her lips together. “Not at the expense of the girls’ privacy, Bren.”

If it was one thing that Dione was always adamant about, it was the privacy of the residents, Brenda knew. Dione guarded it as fiercely as a lioness governing her cubs. But even a lioness had to let her cubs out into the world. Dione couldn’t protect the girls forever. “Why don’t you put it to the girls for a vote? Have a house meeting. We all have a lot to lose if we have to close down. You more than anyone. You put your whole life into this place. And what about Niyah? Your salary pays for her education. And mine keeps a roof over my head. So, I don’t know about you, but I’ll be damned if I’m leaving without a fight.”

Dione grinned. If there was one thing she could depend on Brenda for, it was a challenge. “All right.” She blew out a breath. “Set up a house meeting for tomorrow night after dinner. And would you pull out the proposal for me? I want to take another look at it.”

“Now you’re talking.” She patted Dione’s hand. “It’s going to work out, Dee. This may be just the opportunity we need.”

“I hope so. For everyone’s sake. What was that producer’s name again?”

“Garrett Lawrence.”

Slowly, Dione nodded. The last thing she needed was someone taping, and snooping into all of their business. But if it could save Chances Are, and the girls were willing, she’d have to take the risk. She’d just deal with the repercussions when they came, and she was certain they would. She only hoped that this Garrett Lawrence didn’t have the sensitivity of a gnat.

Upstairs, the house, as usual, was full of activity for a Monday morning. The young mothers and their babies could be heard in their one-bedroom apartments dashing around in preparation for their day. On each of the four floors were three apartments, except on the ground floor where there were two. One of which was where Ms. Betsy lived, subbing as housemother during the night and child-care worker during the day. Each of the apartments was fully furnished with a small living room/dining room, bedroom, washer/dryer unit and full-sized bathroom. When Dione had purchased the house, she’d had it completely gutted and renovated to accommodate the number of rooms she needed. Although the original sprawling rooms had been cut down substantially, they still maintained a sense of warmth. She’d painstakingly selected every piece of furniture, every crib, bed, dinette set, sheet, towel, pot and pan. When the girls arrived they came into a place that they could immediately feel was home.

The girls were taught how to take care of their apartments, do laundry, shop on a budget, and cook and clean. All in preparation for them eventually leaving and moving out on their own. Dione’s vision was to provide the girls with an environment that they wanted to aspire to. So many of them had come from places that only nightmares were made of. They hadn’t been taught how to do anything, and even though they balked at the cooking classes, parenting and permanent housing workshops, she knew they appreciated it—appreciated the fact that someone had finally taken enough time to care about them and about their future.

Dione went up to the second floor and knocked on apartment 2B. Gina, their newest resident, was notorious for oversleeping, which always made her late for her GED classes at the local high school.

Ms. Betsy, “mother in spirit” to Dione, refused to coddle Gina by giving her a personal wake-up call every morning. It was Dione and Betsy’s biggest bone of contention. So Dione had to sneak upstairs every morning and do it herself. There was no way she would sit back and let Gina sleep through opportunity. Maybe Gina did need some tough love, but Dione painfully remembered how desperately she’d needed love and nurturing and how she was turned out into the street. She couldn’t let that happen to anyone else.

She pressed the bell that sat like a wad in the center of the heavy wood door and listened to the chime echo against the stillness inside, a sure sign that Gina was still asleep. Dione looked from side to side and peered over the railing while she waited, crossing her fingers and toes that Gina would get to the door before Ms. Betsy spotted her.

“Yes?” came a very groggy voice.

“Gina, it’s me, Ms. Williams.”

Gina cracked the door open, her micro-braided extensions that nearly reached her waist, shadowed her seventeen-year-old turning twenty-five face like a black veil, but couldn’t hide the spark of intelligence in her brown eyes.

“It’s past time to get up, sleepyhead. Where’s Brandy?”

“She’s still asleep,” Gina mumbled, rubbing sleep from her world-weary eyes.

“Get her up and downstairs to day care, and you hurry up. I don’t want to hear any excuses about you being late for class. I expect to see you downstairs in a half hour. Understood?”

“Yes, Ms. Williams.”

“Good. Now get moving before Ms. Betsy catches me.”

Gina giggled. “Okay.”

Dione turned away, smiling. Gina had potential. She could see it in her schoolwork, in her conversation. Gina had a future that Dione didn’t want to see her lose because of having a baby too young. She just needed someone to remind her that she was worthy and worthwhile. They all did.

Walking down the hall and then upstairs to the third floor, Denise and her two-year-old son Mahlik were on their way down, followed by Kisha who carried her six-month-old daughter Anayshia in her arms.

From the moment Kisha moved into the residence, three months earlier, she and Denise were inseparable. It was like watching a modern-day miracle. The once recalcitrant and hostile Denise began to bloom, watered and fed by Kisha’s friendship and outgoing personality.

“Good morning ladies, and gentleman,” Dione greeted, bending to give Mahlik a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Mornin’, Ms. Williams,” they chorused.

Dione took a peek inside the pink bundle in Kisha’s arms. “How is Anayshia feeling?”

“Much better. I took her to the doctor like you said and I’ve been giving her the new formula.”

“So it was the formula that was making her sick?”

Kisha nodded. “Just like you said, Ms. Williams.” She grinned. “You should have been a doctor.”

“I don’t think so.” She smiled. “But I’ve seen the symptoms enough. My daughter was allergic to her formula when she was a baby, too.”

“I didn’t know you had a daughter, Ms. Williams.”

“Sure do. Almost eighteen years old. She’s away at college.”

“Wow. How old does that make you?” Kisha quizzed.

Dione put her hand on her hip. “Old enough not to have to answer. Now get moving all four of you.”

“Bye, Ms. Williams,” they chimed as they brushed by her and down the stairs.

Dione shook her head and smiled. “How old am I? Ha.”

She continued up to the top floor, making certain that everyone was up and about, then headed back downstairs. It was her regular routine and she had yet to grow tired of it.

Brenda was right, she thought, making her way down. This was hers, her baby. She’d given birth to Chances Are as sure as she’d given birth to Niyah. She loved and nurtured the girls and their children who came through her doors seeking help, the same way she’d finally found the love she’d needed.

A shudder of remembrance ran through her every time she thought about those lonely, frightening, difficult days when she’d wandered the streets after school and slept on the trains at night, sneaking into the girls’ bathroom at school first thing in the morning to wash up and brush her hair. She’d stashed her suitcase in her locker and changed clothes every day before class started. On Fridays she’d take the suitcase out of the locker and wash her clothes at the laundry, bringing the clothes back on Monday. If anyone asked why she always had a suitcase, she told them she was staying with her cousin on the weekends.

For nearly a month, she’d drifted through life not sure how, just by pure willpower. She could barely stay awake in class and constantly felt sick. She wasn’t sure how Ms. Langley, the guidance counselor, found out about her secret life, but she did and called her into her office.

“Please close the door, Dione and have a seat,” Ms. Langley said.

Reluctantly, Dione did as she was told, tried to smile and act nonchalant even as her stomach roiled and her heart bounced around in her chest.

“Is there anything you want to tell me, Dione?”

“No,” she muttered.

“Then I’ll start.” Ms. Langley folded her hands on the desktop and leaned forward. “I think you’re in trouble, Dione, and so do your teachers. We’ve all noticed the difference in your appearance, your mood and your classwork. If you’ll talk to me about what’s wrong I can help you, or talk to your parents for you if you want.”

Dione violently shook her head. “No!”

“I want to help you, Dione.” She came around the desk and put her arm around Dione’s shoulders, and the dam burst.

“Good morning, Dee.”

Dione blinked, shutting out the images of the past. “Good morning, Ms. Betsy.”

Betsy stepped out the door of her ground floor apartment. “I know you were up there checking on that lazy Gina,” she grumbled, wagging an accusing finger at Dione.

Dione tried not to look guilty. “I was checking on everybody.”

Betsy pursed her lips, then sucked her teeth. “You gotta get these young girls to stand on their own feet. Be responsible. What are they gonna do when they have to step out into the real world without you there to keep them under your wings?”

A surge of heartsickness swept through her. “I don’t even want to think about it, Ms. Betsy. You know how hard it is for me to let them go. They’re just babies themselves. And—”

“You’re not your mother, Dione. You’re gettin’ them ready for life, not throwing them out onto the street.” Betsy wagged her finger again. “You were just as young as these girls when—”

“Yes. But I had you.”

Betsy clucked her tongue and patted Dione’s arm. “I have work to do,” she fussed. “I know my early birds Denise and Kisha are waiting on me to take those babies so they can get to school.”

Dione grinned. “You have a good day.” She kissed the older woman’s cheek before they parted, a ritual that began nearly eighteen years earlier, when Betsy was her landlady for the rooming house she and her infant daughter Niyah lived in.

She remembered walking for what seemed like forever to find that building. Ms. Langley had given her the address after she’d spent a week in a shelter and refused to go back. She’d had to sleep on a cot with a mattress no thicker than the thin blanket that covered her. She heard things—noises in the night and the soft sobs of the young women around her. The second day she was there she’d awakened to find most of her clothes missing and five dollars out of her wallet. When she arrived at school with what she had on her back and stormed teary-eyed into Ms. Langley’s office, she swore she’d kill herself if she ever had to go back.

Ms. Langley jumped up and shut the door. “Dione, what happened?” Her green eyes raced across Dione’s ravaged face and body to assess if there was any damage.

“I’m not going back there, Ms. Langley. I won’t.”

“Dione, you can’t live on the street. You’re going to have that baby in two months. You have to have someplace to live.”

“I’ll live on the street if I have to. I did it before. But I can’t go back there, and you can’t make me go.”

“Yes, I can, Dione. By law you’re still a minor. I should have had you placed in foster care instead of sending you there.”

Dione looked at her defiantly. “You can’t send me anywhere I don’t want to go. Nobody can. I’m eighteen.” Her eyes filled and she felt her throat constrict. “Today’s my birthday.”

It was Betsy who cared for Niyah while Dione returned to finish high school, and worked part-time at the local supermarket three days per week after giving birth to her baby girl. And Betsy always made sure that when Dione dragged herself home after her long days at school and then at work, there was a meal for her to eat.

Humph, that building. It was an old, raggedy building that was hotter than Hades in the summer and could rival the Arctic in the winter, located smack in the middle of the notorious East New York section of Brooklyn, one of the most dangerous areas of the borough. But it was inexpensive. The only thing she could afford. The check she received from Public Assistance for her and Niyah and the small salary she earned at the supermarket just about made ends meet.

One thing she was always grateful for, Ms. Betsy was real careful about choosing her six tenants, so Dione always felt safe, and Betsy seemed to have taken an instant liking to her and Niyah. She always went out of her way to make sure that they had enough to eat and extra blankets during the bitter winter nights.

When Dione graduated from high school, it was Betsy who sat in the audience cheering for her, with Niyah squirming on her lap.

Dione promised herself that if—no, when—she made a success of her life she would get Ms. Betsy out of that building and take care of her the same way she had taken care of her and Niyah. And Dione had kept her promise. She smiled as she walked toward the main office. Yes she had.

When Dione entered the office, Brenda was busy pulling files that were scheduled for the monthly review.

This was one of the aspects of the job that was a mixture of triumph and disappointment. When the girls’ progress files were brought before the staff for review, Dione always believed that the results, whatever they may be, were a direct reflection on the staff and the program, and ultimately on her.

If the girls were unable to achieve the goals set out for them, Dione felt the staff should have done more, she should have done more. The comprehensive program that she’d developed for the residents relied on all of the pieces working together: continuing education, finding employment, attending on-site housing preparation classes that taught budgeting, cooking, housekeeping and parenting skills.

In the five years since the house had been opened, thirty young women and their children had come through the doors and lived under that roof. Most of them took the opportunity, love and support that was give them and multiplied it when they went out on their own. But there were those who were beyond saving. The ones who’d come to her too late, too damaged by life. The ones who kept her awake on so many nights.

She pushed the thoughts aside as she crossed the rectangular room. “What time is the case review meeting scheduled for?”

Brenda looked briefly over her shoulder. “Four-thirty.”

Dione nodded. “What about the house meeting?”

“I’ll draft up the notice and have it under everyone’s door. The proposal is on your desk downstairs.”

“Thanks.” She turned to leave, then stopped. “Bren?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you really think this documentary is the way to go?” She folded her arms and leaned against the door frame.

Brenda laid down the file and faced Dione. “We’ve pretty much run out of options. The proposal sounds good and if marketed properly could get us the financing we need. That’s what we have to focus on.” She waited a beat, looking at Dione’s faraway expression. “What’s really bothering you, Dee? I don’t think it’s just the girls.”

Dione straightened. “Why would you think that? Of course that’s all there is. I don’t want them exploited.”

Brenda looked at Dione for a long moment. “If you say so.” She turned back to the file cabinet.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

“Sure,” Brenda mumbled.

Dione returned to her basement office, leaving the door partially open. Even though Brenda and Ms. Betsy had insisted that she close her door while she was working, Dione never wanted any of the girls to feel that she was inaccessible. Her steadfast policy interrupted many a thought process, but she stood by it.

She turned on the small lavender and white clock radio that was given to her as a gift from one of the former residents the previous Christmas. As the sultry sounds of Regina Bell overcame the static and filled the room, she thought about the question Brenda asked.

How could she tell Brenda that yes, she was right, the girls’ privacy wasn’t all that she was concerned with. She was concerned with her own privacy and what the probing of this documentary may uncover, that the lie she’d woven for the past eighteen years would become unraveled.

That’s what she didn’t want to risk, hurting Niyah with the truth. But at what cost?

She blew out a breath and opened the folder that contained the proposal. G.L. Productions stared back at her in thick, black capital letters. A tiny jolt shot through her. She wasn’t sure why. Blinking, she turned the page and began reviewing what G.L. Productions had proposed to do in order to fulfill the requirements of the granting agency.

According to what Mr. Lawrence wrote, his intention was to get personal interviews with some of the residents and ask them all about their backgrounds and how they found themselves at Chances Are. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “That’s out.”

She continued to read, becoming more agitated by the minute. She was right when her first thought told her to scrap the whole documentary idea. Not only did they want to interview all of the girls, but the staff as well. They also wanted to take footage of the activities in the house. And with the girls’ permission, get interviews from any family members. She couldn’t see that happening.

Closing the folder, Dione leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her index fingers. She’d only given the proposal a cursory glance when it had come in two months earlier and dismissed it as something she had no intention of participating in. But after a careful review, she had even more doubts than before. Only now, the dire situation at Chances had escalated.

Well, she conceded, if she was going to go through with it, as she was feeling compelled to do, she’d have to outline her own set of requirements. But she’d let the girls decide at the house meeting.

Chapter 2

Garrett Lawrence sat in the tight editing suite of his production studio, facing three television monitors, the video player and recording decks, putting together the final touches on an instructional video for a collection agency. The piece was well done, all of the important points were highlighted with animated graphics over narration. He knew the client would be pleased with the finished product—and he was bored. He wanted a project he could really sink his teeth into, something that had meaning, substance.

When he’d opened his production company four years earlier, he saw himself as the next Spike Lee, doing important, controversial work. The day had yet to arrive. It had taken all of his savings and a major bank loan to get G.L. Productions up and operational. For a small facility, it had all the latest in digital equipment and could easily compete with the bigger houses if it had the chance. But a small, black company already had two strikes against it right from the starting gate. Small and black.

If he could only get that Williams woman to accept the proposal, he knew that would be his ticket. Although, he had to admit that wasn’t his thought two months earlier. But now he had thirty days to get her to agree, or he would lose his grant, unless he could miraculously find another shelter for wayward girls that fit the grant criteria. And grants like this one were few and far between.

In the two months since he’d made his telephone pitch, which he followed with a formal letter and the outline of what he wanted to accomplish, he’d called several times to try to get an appointment, but he’d never been able to get past her assistant. He knew if he could sit down face-to-face with her, he could convince her to go for the project.

Garrett made an adjustment to the image on the screen. Who did she think she was anyway that she didn’t even have to give him the courtesy of a reply?

Satisfied, he turned off the equipment and stood, stretching his arms above his head hoping to loosen the kinks from hours of sitting.

Chances Are. Hmm. Wonder where they came up with the name? Chances were, loose girls wound up in places like that, or worse. People needed to see that. See them for what they really were: a burden on society.

When the request for proposals from the funding agency had been sent out, he originally had no intention of going for a contract documenting the lives of teen mothers—glorifying them. The very idea resuscitated the anger and the hurt he struggled to keep buried every day. It was his business partner and best friend, Jason Burrell, who’d finally convinced him that with the money and the exposure, it was the ticket they needed to take the company to the next level. “Get away from this instructional BS and do something worthwhile,” he’d said.

Reluctantly, Garrett had agreed. He knew it would be hard working with and talking to a group of females who epitomized everything he despised. But he knew Jason was right. So he did his research and found Chances Are, and wrote his proposal based on the premise that the director would agree to be filmed. Ha. So much for assuming.

“Hey, man. Whatsup?”

Garrett turned toward Jason who stood in the doorway. “Just finishing up the collection agency piece.”

“Hmm, glad that’s out of the way.” Jason stepped into the room and straddled an available stool. “Hear anything from the shelter?”

“Naw. Not a word. She doesn’t even have the decency to return our calls.” He sneered. “Probably too busy trying to keep those girls out of trouble—again.”

“I say we start looking elsewhere before we blow the grant, man. It’s a lot of money to lose.”

“Yeah, I’ve been tossing around the same idea. Problem is, the grant was real specific about what it wanted: a documentary on teen mothers living in a residential setting and how they got there. Chances Are is the only one of its kind not funded by the government. And we dug the hole deeper by detailing how we were going to do it.”

“I hear ya. That does limit our choices. But we gotta make a move. And soon. You want me to try to call again? Maybe I’ll get lucky and get past that guard-dog assistant of hers.”

Garrett blew out a breath. “Let’s give it another day or two. I’m going over to the research library this afternoon, do some more hunting. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find someplace else that meets the guidelines.”

“I sure as hell hope so.” Jason stood. “Well, I have a shoot at New York University. I’m gonna pack up the equipment and get rolling.”

“Who’s on the crew?”

“Najashi, Paul, and Tom.”

Garrett nodded. “I’ll probably see you in the morning, then. I’ll lock up when I’m done in here. Make sure they give you our check before you guys leave.”

“I’m getting the check before we start. I don’t want to hear nothing about how ‘the person with the check is gone for the day’ after we’ve done the work.”

Garrett chuckled recalling the many times they’d been stiffed and had to wait weeks, sometimes months, after a shoot to get paid.

“All right, I’m out. Good luck with your research.”

“Yeah.”

Garrett switched off the lights, checked the studio where they did their on-site shooting and the adjoining rooms, set the answering machine and the alarms and stepped outside to the lukewarm October afternoon. He stood in the doorway of his West Village office space and watched the passersby.

All up and down the avenue, folks strolled, stopped, peeked in antique shop windows, hugged, laughed. Everyone seemed to have somebody. Someone to experience and share their day with. He watched a young mother laughing with her son, then she bent down and picked him up and gave him a big hug before setting him back on his feet. The little boy looked up at her, a hundred-watt smile on his face.

A sudden, razor-sharp pain of hurt and betrayal sliced through his stomach. Why wasn’t he good enough to be hugged and kissed from the mother who gave him life to the wife who left him for greener pastures?

His chest filled. His throat constricted. Most times he didn’t think about those things. His work filled his days, and most of his nights. But this whole business with the documentary and the shelter brought back all the ugly memories. Hey, he’d get through it. He was tough. That’s what he’d been told the doctors said when he’d been found only hours old, wrapped in a sheet, wedged between two garbage cans.

He swallowed. Yeah, he was tough.

Chapter 3

The last of the girls, accompanied by their infants or toddlers, filed into the basement, which had been transformed from the day-care setting to a formal meeting space, the cribs, bassinets and playpens replaced with folding aluminum chairs.

Everyone tried to find a seat next to their buddy, whispering and speculating among themselves about why they were there.

“They’re probably going to tell us about the loud music again,” Kisha whispered to Denise. “You know how Ms. Betsy is about music.”

Denise sucked her teeth. “Pleeze. They wouldn’t call an emergency house meeting just to tell us about no darn music.”

“Betcha,” Kisha insisted.

“Probably gonna tell us about curfew again,” Gina said under her breath, knowing she was one of the culprits and hoping she wouldn’t be singled out to have her visiting privileges suspended. She wanted to see her boyfriend on the weekend. But she’d come in late two nights last week and had her toes and fingers crossed that she’d gotten over this time. Her daughter Brandy began squirming and whimpering. Gina stuck a bottle in her mouth and began bouncing Brandy up and down on her knee.

“If everyone will settle down, we can get started,” Brenda said from the front of the room. “If any of the babies are asleep, or you want to lay them down, take a sheet from the cabinet in the back and put them in one of the cribs or playpens.”

She waited while two of the girls leaped at the opportunity to put their bundles down. Once they were seated she began again.

“We have some serious business to discuss tonight and I want all of you to listen carefully to what Ms. Williams has to say. It affects all of us.” She turned to Dione, who moved from the side of the room and took Brenda’s place in front of the girls.

“An opportunity has presented itself to us. But as Ms. Brenda said, your decision—and it will be your decision—affects everyone.” She looked from one questioning face to the next before she continued. “A gentleman by the name of Garrett Lawrence would like to do a documentary, a short film, about you girls and Chances Are.”

“A movie!” Kisha beamed.

“Something like that,” Dione qualified.

A wave of murmuring rippled through the room.

“Okay, settle down. Nothing gets settled by talking among yourselves. It may sound exciting, but there are some other things to consider. He’s going to want to interview all of you, and your faces will be on film. I have no guarantees about who will eventually see it.”

Denise’s hand shot up in the air. “I can’t be on no film, Ms. Williams. I can’t.”

“Me, neither. None of my friends in school know I live in a shelter,” said another girl in the back.

“Yeah. Yeah,” chimed a few others.

“So don’t be in it,” snapped Kisha, looking behind her and giving the whiners dirty looks.

“Oh, shut up. It ain’t all about you,” snapped Theresa, one of the oldest in the group who’d been the victim of incest and held a blatant distrust of everyone and everything. It had taken Dione months to be able to get her to talk at all. The last thing she wanted for Theresa was a setback.

Kisha jumped up out of her seat, squaring off for a fight. She was always ready to defend herself or somebody and she was the smallest one in the bunch.

“Kisha! Sit down. Now!” Dione ordered.

Kisha blew out a breath and took her seat.

“Now just settle down. Everybody. Nothing is going to happen without everyone’s cooperation. I know this is a very sensitive issue for many of you. And you know that I’ve always done everything in my power to keep your privacy intact. We’ll put it to a vote.” She looked around the room. “All those in favor of the film being done, raise your hand.”

Four hands shot up in the air, leaving the majority of six in disagreement.

Dione sighed, partly in relief, partly in disappointment. “That’s it then. No film.”

There was a sudden outburst of conversation among the opposing sides, everyone trying to outshout the other.

“Quiet! Enough. End of discussion.” By degrees everyone settled down. “Thank you all for coming. The meeting is over.”

There was a lot of scraping of chairs and loud murmurs as the girls started to get up.

“Wait a minute.” Brenda stepped to the front of the room, her face a mask of barely contained fury.

Dione put her hand on Brenda’s shoulder in warning.

“No. They need to hear what I have to say,” she whispered.

She turned toward the assemblage. “Everybody take a seat.” She waited, tapping her foot with impatience. “I can understand some of you being reluctant about the whole thing for a variety of reasons. Ms. Williams didn’t tell you all everything, but I will.” She cut Dione a quick look from the corner of her eye and could see that Dione was fuming but resigned. “This is the real deal…”

Brenda told them plainly and slowly about the financial troubles Chances Are was in, and how making the documentary and getting it to important funders could be the key to saving the house.

“From the moment each of you walked through the doors, we have gone out of our way to make a home for you, help you in any way we could, get your lives and your children’s lives back on track. I think it’s about time you all began thinking about more than just yourselves and just today, but all the tomorrows and all the young women who will need Chances Are when you’ve moved out and moved on.” She took a breath. “I want you all to think about this. Think about it real hard.” She turned away and walked out, leaving them all in open-mouthed silence.

Dione found Brenda in the upstairs office, with the lights out, sitting in a chair by the window, her silhouette reflected against the moonlit night.

“Bren.” Dione heard her sniffle.

“Yeah,” she mumbled.

Dione stepped into the room. “Can I turn on the light?”

“I’d really prefer if you didn’t.”

Dione walked over to where Brenda sat and put a hand on her shoulder. “I think you really shook them up down there,” she began trying to get a chuckle out of her.

“I had to. They need to know the truth, Dee.” She sniffed again. “Our hearts and souls are in this place.”

“I know. We’ll find a way, Bren. Work on some more proposals, do some fund-raising. I’m not giving up.”

Brenda clasped the hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want them to know how bad things really were. But—”

“It’s all right. You were right. They do need to know. It’s not fair to them to leave them in the dark. The reality is, if we can’t get some funding in here, we’ll have to start looking for placement for them.”

Brenda sighed. “I’m not looking forward to that, but it’s a reality.”

Dione squeezed her shoulder. “Something will work out. Go home and get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Yeah.” Slowly she rose and Dione could see her wiping her eyes in the shadowed room.

They both got their coats from the closet and walked out together to the front door.

Just as they reached the exit, Kisha came running down the stairs.

“Ms. Williams, Ms. Frazier. Wait!”

They both turned, fearing the worst, like a fight broke out upstairs or something.

“What’s the matter, Kisha?” Dione asked, holding her breath.

Kisha came to a stop in front of them. “We took another vote. We can’t let you lose Chances Are, Ms. Williams. It ain’t right.”

“Isn’t,” Dione corrected with a smile.

“Isn’t. But we want to help.”

Brenda turned to Dione and a smile broke out across her face. She grabbed Dione and hugged her. “Amen!”

Dione hugged her back as fear whipped through her. The racing of her heart had nothing to do with happiness.

That night Dione tossed and turned, her life, her youth, her lie tracking her like the most skilled of hunters. Everywhere that she tried to hide from the painful memories—there they were.

She ran, darting behind her successes, her degrees, her small cluster of friends, the security of Chances Are, but still the memories sought her out and found her. All in the form of Niyah who held out the accusing finger. “How could you have done it—lied to me all these years? I hate you,” she screamed. “Hate you!”

Chapter 4

When Garrett arrived at the studio the following morning Jason was already there setting up to shoot a public service announcement for the local historical society.

Garrett poked his head in. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“I should be asking you,” he said adjusting the teleprompter for the woman from the society.

“No luck if that’s what you mean.”

Jason stopped what he was doing. “’Scuse me a minute,” he said to the woman seated in front of the monitor. He crossed the studio floor to where Garrett stood in the doorway. “I’m telling you, man, call her. Lay the cards on the table. Just be upfront,” he said under his breath.

“Listen, I ain’t begging nobody for nothing. We got this far without this project, we’ll keep going.”

“Yeah, doing the same thing day in and day out,” he hissed. “What about our plans, man? Huh?”

“Listen, Jas. If we could get one grant, we’ll get another. I’m not going to sweat this. If she decides to call and accept, fine. If not we’ll move on.”

Jason tossed it around a minute and looked long and hard at his friend, knowing that once Garrett made up his mind on something that was it. “Yeah, all right, man. You’re the boss. Whatever you decide to do I’m behind you.” He slapped him on the shoulder. “Just don’t take too long to think up something brilliant.”

Garrett chuckled. “Yeah, right. Thanks. No pressure. See you later. I’ll be in editing. Tom and Najashi in yet?”

“Tom is. Najashi should be here around noon.”

“Cool. Later.”

Dione had alternately been staring at the phone then at the proposal. Debating. Yes, the girls had re-thought the idea and had decided to go along with it. But what about her? She felt as if she were being squeezed like a lemon. There was no easy win. Either way she stood to lose a lot.

All during her restless night, she thought about her options, and her level of participation. The bottom line was she only had to reveal as much or as little as she wanted. Niyah didn’t have to find out how ugly her beginnings really were.

Resigned, she reached for the phone, just as it rang.

“Good morning, Chances Are. Ms. Williams speaking.”

“Hey, Dee, it’s Terri.”

Dione’s face and spirit instantly brightened at hearing the voice of her dear friend Terri Powers.

“Girl, it’s good to hear your voice,” she enthused, easily slipping into the sistah mode. “When did you sneak back into town?”

“Just got in last night,” she said with her barely there Barbadian accent. “Clint and I were overdue for a vacation. We’ve been burning the candle at both ends.”

“Yeah, I hear you. But it’s always extra nice when you have your own getaway resort to get away to.”

They both laughed. Terri’s husband, Clint, had opened a small resort several years earlier in the Bahamas and it had really taken off. Between Clint’s uncanny business skills and Terri’s public relations savvy, their careers and their finances were set. They’d gone through hell and back before finally getting together; from the kidnapping of Clint’s daughter, Ashley, to the resurrection of Terri’s brother, Malcolm, who she’d believed had been dead for years—but they did get together and they were exceedingly happy.

“So, what’s been happening? Any luck with the proposals?”

“No,” she pushed out a long breath. “But we’ve finally decided to go with the documentary.”

“Fantastic! I told you weeks ago it was a great idea. You know I’d be more than thrilled to put a promo campaign together for you once it’s done. No problem.”

Dione smiled. “I’m going to hold you to that. We’ll need all the help we can get.”

“If you hadn’t wanted to carry the weight of that place on your shoulders, I told you I would have worked out a P.R. campaign for you to pitch to those stuck-up funders.”

“I know, I know. Don’t rub it in.”

“When does it start?”

“That’s the thing. I’m not sure. Actually, we just decided last night. We put it to a house vote. I haven’t even spoken to the producer yet. He may not want to do it at this point.”

“He’ll do it. The story behind Chances Are is a gem. Your story especially.”

Dione’s stomach fluttered. “That’s my biggest concern, Terri. You know that. Niyah doesn’t know everything.”

“Dee, it’s time that she did. She’s almost eighteen.”

“I know,” she said, a sad hitch in her voice. “I just don’t ever want her to feel the same worthlessness that I felt for so many years. Or that my bringing her into the world was the cause of—”

“Don’t even go there. If anything, Niyah was and still is the catalyst for everything that you’ve become. Everything that you’ve done for so many other young girls who had no one and nowhere else to turn. That’s something to be proud of, Dee, not ashamed.”

“And how many times over the years have I had this very conversation with myself? It’s just easier said than done.”

“Well, sister-friend, it’s got to come out sometime.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. But I’ll work it out.”

“You always do. Now make that call, girl. I’m itching for a new project.”

Dione laughed. “I will and I’ll call and let you know what happens.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks, Terri. Talk to you soon.”

Slowly Dione replaced the receiver, a soft smile framing her mouth. She was blessed. That was certain. She was surrounded by people who cared for and believed in her. And they were depending on her. How would her life have been different if her parents had been there for her when she needed them most?

She took a long breath, picked up the phone and dialed Garrett Lawrence’s number.

Garrett was right in the middle of putting the crucial piece of a choreographer’s video together. Painstakingly he ran and reran the tape to get it in perfect sync with the music.

At first he ignored the ringing phone, intent on what he was doing, until he realized that everyone else was in the studio taping the pubic service announcement.

“Man!” He stopped the tape, silently promising himself for the millionth time to set the answering machine for those days when Marva, their part-time receptionist, was off. He snatched the phone from its base on the wall behind him.

“Hello,” he barked. “G.L. Productions.”

Dione frowned at the abrasive voice on the other end and hoped that whoever this was, wasn’t representative of who she’d have to deal with.

“Yes. Good morning. This is Dione Williams from Chances Are. May I speak with Mr. Lawrence please?”

Garrett sat straight up in his seat, the video forgotten, partly from the jolt of the call itself, but mostly from the throaty, almost hushed voice of the caller.

“This is Garrett Lawrence. How are you, Ms. Williams?”

Now that’s more like it. “Fine. I’m calling because I’ve gone over your proposal again—and,” she forced the words out of her mouth, “I’d like to set up a time when we can meet to discuss the arrangements. That is if you’re still interested in working with us.”

“Yes, I’m still interested,” he said, fighting to hold back his enthusiasm. “Whatever time is good for you. I’ll make myself available.”

She was hoping he’d say it was too late, but—“How’s this afternoon, about four o’clock?”

“Four is fine. I’ll be there.”

“No. I mean, actually I’d prefer if we met somewhere else.”

It was his turn to frown. He would have thought she’d want to meet on her turf. Women. “You’re welcome to come to the studio. That would give you a chance to see the facility and I can show you some of the work I’ve done.”

“All right. What’s the best way to get there by car?”

The morning sped by entirely too quickly. Before Dione knew it, it was three o’clock and if she had any intention of being on time, she needed to leave. She’d put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

Dione signed off on the last case file. Overall she was pleased with the reviews of the girls’ progress. Her staff meeting the previous afternoon had yielded glowing remarks for the ten residents. Only two out of the ten were in need of new physicals, and appointments had been set up.

Everyone with the exception of Theresa was either in school or working. According to her files from the group home she’d been transferred from, she hadn’t gone any further than seventh grade and had been diagnosed as a “special ed” student.

However, in the three months that she’d been at Chances Are, the staff had determined that Theresa’s problem was dyslexia, which was never properly diagnosed or treated. Brenda had investigated several special programs and they’d finally found one that would be perfect for Theresa. Now the only problem they faced was convincing Theresa that she could succeed in school and in life—with a little help and hard work.

Dione closed Theresa’s file and put it with the stack to be returned to the cabinet. Getting up, she took her purse and coat from the coatrack and headed upstairs.

She peeked in the door of the main office. “I’m going to the meeting with Mr. Lawrence,” she said to Brenda.

“I can go with you if you want.”

Dione smiled. “No. Thanks. I’ll deal with it. See you in the morning.” She turned to leave.

“Keep an open mind, Dee,” Brenda called out.

“Yeah, yeah. I will.”

“Why did she decide to come here?” Jason asked.

“That’s the way she wanted it and I wasn’t going to debate the point.”

They walked side by side through the facility checking each of the rooms, wanting to make a good impression, then returned to the front office.

“I’d like you to sit in on the meeting, Jason. Fill in anything I might overlook.”

“No problem.”

Garrett checked his watch. “She should be here in a few minutes. We have anybody to cover the phones while we meet?”

“I’ll get Najashi or Tom. Whoever’s not busy.”

The front door buzzed.

Jason looked at the security monitor mounted on the office wall. “Mmm, if this is her, we’re in luck buddy.” He buzzed her in.

Garrett just shook his head, knowing that Jason thought any woman with a grain of looks was fair game, even though he was solidly married. So his assessment could often leave a lot to be desired.

They could hear her heels click down the hall.

Garrett stepped out of the office into the corridor to meet her.

“You’re on,” Jason whispered.

Garrett stopped, watching her approach and was immediately reminded of those sleek Ebony Fashion Fair models strutting down a runway.

She wore a full-length cream-colored cashmere coat that she’d left open to showcase a body-hugging jersey knit turtleneck dress. Her auburn hair barely brushed her shoulders and was swept away from her face. Dark glasses shielded her eyes and when she removed them, startling hazel eyes zeroed in on him, set against a rich tan complexion devoid of any noticeable makeup, save for a hint of cinnamon-colored lipstick.

His stomach seesawed. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this vision. Somewhere in his subconscious he’d convinced himself that anyone who ran a home for girls was a short nondescript plain-Jane, who couldn’t get a man, even if they did have a great voice on the phone.

He swallowed and a sudden heat swept through him when the sexiest smile he’d seen in far too long slowly slid across her mouth.

And then she was right in front of him, her hand outstretched.

“I’m Dione Williams. I’m here to see—”

“Me. I’m Garrett Lawrence.” He took her hand and had the overwhelming urge to caress it instead of shake it. Get it together, brother. “Good to finally meet you, Ms. Williams. Come in. I’d like to introduce you to my business partner.” He released her hand and Dione inexplicably felt adrift.

While she was walking down the corridor and had seen him standing there, her first thought was that he was an actor, or something, here to do a taping. Never in her wildest dreams did she associate this delicious-looking man with the voice on the phone. Garrett Lawrence was a work of art in motion.

The tight black sweater outlined the breadth of his shoulders and defined the hard contours of his upper body. The pale blue jeans he wore—well, they set her imagination into high gear.

She couldn’t remember the last time simply meeting a man had this kind of powerful effect on her. There had to be something wrong with him. And then he turned and smiled, flashing the deep dimple in his right cheek and the sexy gap in his front teeth.

It was hot. Too hot. She needed to get out of her coat.

“Ms. Williams, this is my business partner Jason Burrell.”

Jason stood and extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Williams.”

Dione gave him a tight smile, trying to give herself a minute to recoup. “You, too.”

“Can I take your coat?” Garrett stepped behind her and helped her with her coat.

A shiver raced up her spine when his fingers brushed her back, and the subtle scent that he wore, wafted around her, light as a breeze.

“Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable,” Jason said, indicating a chair at the circular conference table.

“Thank you.” Dione slipped her glasses in her purse and sat down, crossing her long legs at the knee.

Garrett and Jason took the two remaining chairs and tried to keep their eyes off her legs.

“I hope you don’t mind if Jason sits in on the meeting,” Garrett stated more than asked.

“Not at all.” Now she wished she had brought Brenda along. At least between the two of them, one would have been able to pay attention to what was being said and not the timbre of Garrett’s voice or the brilliance of his dimpled smile.

“Good.” He blew out a breath and folded his hands on the table. “I know you probably have a lot of questions about the proposal, so why don’t you start.”

Now she was in her element. She could focus on what she’d come to say and not how he kept making her stomach jump up and down every time he looked in her direction. She cleared her throat. “Not so much questions,” she began in that low-down voice that shimmied in the air then settled in the center of his belly and vibrated. “More like guidelines.”

“Fine. Let’s hear them.”

Item by item she went down a laundry list of “do nots.”

“The outside of the building can never be filmed at any time. I have to ensure their privacy and in some instances their safety. None of the girls can be filmed or interviewed without a staff member present and they are not to be asked questions without being advised what they will be beforehand.”

Minute by minute Garrett was becoming more annoyed. By the time she finished with her litany of what he couldn’t do, he wouldn’t have anything worth filming. Yet even with his anger rising to the surface like molten lava, ready to overflow and scorch everything in its path, he couldn’t help but be fascinated by Dione. He could hear the intelligence, determination and fire in her voice. He could see the intensity and passion flame in her eyes, and feel the strength that radiated from her like an erotic scent, all mixed together in one incredible package.

So what made a woman like Dione Williams use all her intellect, beauty and strong will to work with a group of loose, moralless girls?

“Does that about cover everything, Ms. Williams?” Garrett asked when she’d finally concluded.

Jason shot him a look, knowing that Garrett was ready to bust, which Garrett totally ignored.

“There won’t be much for us to shoot,” he added.

She could see his smile was forced, but he couldn’t hide that dimple if he tried. Stay focused, girl. “I’m sure if you’re as skilled as you claim in your proposal you’ll find enough for your film.” She angled her chin in a challenge.

Hmm. He liked that. She didn’t back down. There was obviously no compromise with this one.

Garrett leaned forward, his voice dropped to a new low. “Believe me, Ms. Williams, I am as good as I say.”

She suddenly felt as if a raging furnace door had been opened and she was standing right in front. His comment was purely casual, it was the tone and the swift, dark look in his eyes that rocked her to the core.

She gave him a cursory smile. “We’ll have to see now, won’t we?” She stood. “May I have that tour now?”

“Sure.” He stood up. “Follow me.”

“Oh, I’ll just cover things until you get back,” Jason said, giving Garrett a wink on the side. “Nice meeting you, Ms. Williams. Looking forward to working with you.” He handed her her coat, which she draped over her arm.

Dione extended her hand and smiled. “Nice meeting you, also.”

Garrett and Dione stepped out into the corridor and across the hall. “A couple of my crew members are shooting a PSA—a public service announcement—in the main studio.”

“How many do you have—studios?” she asked as they walked into the control room and stood in the doorway.

“Two. The second one is down the hall.”

She watched the three monitors in the control room while the woman on the screen told whoever cared to listen why they should make a donation to the historical society.

“That’s Najashi,” he whispered not wanting to disturb them, as he pointed to a man in all black with the short twists in his hair. “And that’s Tom on the end working the audio.”

The first thing she noticed about Tom was the tattoo of a snake that peeked out from the collar of his oversized Tommy Hilfiger shirt.

“Come on, I’ll show you where the real work is done.”

He took her into the editing room, closed the door and dimmed the lights. Dione’s pulse quickened. Her body and mind went on full alert.

Garrett didn’t even notice her agitation. Once in the dimly lit editing room, he was in his element, explaining the different machines and lighted dials, what they did and how a program was put together from raw footage.

“Sometimes it can take hours just to put five minutes worth of usable footage together. But it’s the key to making the work look good.”

On the monitors, he showed her some of the projects he’d worked on and what each one was about.

As she listened to him talk, her tension slowly began to ebb. She could tell that he loved and believed in what he did, and he probably was just as good as he claimed. She had to admit she liked listening to the deep resonance of his voice when he spoke, watching the cool control of his long fingers as he demonstrated how the equipment worked and the way he took his time and answered her myriad questions about what each machine did and how without making her feel silly.

It was fascinating. And so was Garrett Lawrence.

“That’s about it for the dog and pony show,” he said switching off the tape and turning to her in the black swivel chair.

There was that nice smile again.

“Very nice,” she said in her best, I-don’t-impress-easily voice.

His smile didn’t waver. She’s a tough one.

“How long do you think our, I mean the documentary project will take to complete?”

Oh, I heard that one. You’re not as cool as you’d like me to think. “Hmm. If we get started within the next week, hopefully before Christmas.”

“Christmas! But I need—I mean, why will it take so long? The whole point in my agreeing was to…get this over and done with as quickly as possible. I don’t want your filming to interrupt the girls’ holidays.” She’d be damned if she’d tell him that Chances Are was in financial trouble and it needed this documentary to appeal to funders.

“Is interrupting the holidays another no-no that you forgot to mention?” He hated the holiday season. It always reminded him of what he’d never had. So he always made it a point of working right through them. Kept his mind off himself. After so many years he rarely thought of what it meant to others and didn’t care to know.

Her eyes widened and she was just about to open her mouth when Garrett held up his hand. “Listen, like I said before, the whole process takes time. We both want a great piece of work. Now I can come in and do something half-assed—excuse me, I mean—-no, that’s exactly what I mean.” His eyes narrowed. “Or I can do what I know I can do—a fantastic job that everyone can be proud of. It’s your choice.”

He leaned back in his seat, angled his head to the right and folded his arms.

Three months, she thought. That would barely give her enough time to resubmit any proposal before the end of the year. And then an idea began to emerge.

“Mr. Lawrence, how successful are those PSA things?”

He shrugged. “They get people’s attention if they’re positioned right. Some of my clients swear by them.”

“Do you think you could do some for me—for Chances Are while you work on the documentary?”

“Sure, I don’t see why not.”

She blew out a sigh of relief. Maybe she could get Terri to work out a publicity plan and use the PSA along with it. “When can we get started?”

Her excitement over the possibility sparkled in her eyes, Garrett noticed. “Whenever you’re ready.” He shrugged. “Tomorrow?”

She laughed. “How about next week?”

He liked the way she laughed, soft, but from deep inside. “Next week is fine. I’ll check our schedule before you leave and give you a date. Do you want to do it here or at your place?”

She knew what he was asking, but the question still sounded so provocative. “What do you think would be best?”

“We can do one of each. And a combination of both.” He grinned, slow and easy.

Her heart fluttered. “Great.”

“But in the meantime, fair is fair, Ms. Williams. I showed you mine, when will you show me yours?”

Oh, these word games. The corner of her mouth curved up. “Call my office in the morning. I’ll make arrangements.”

“I’ll do that.” His gaze held hers.

She took a breath. “I’d better be going.”

He took her coat from her arm and helped her to put it on.

She could have sworn he was standing a bit too close, especially when she felt his warm breath run along the back of her neck.

“Thank you,” she mumbled.

“I’ll walk you out.”

When they reached the front door, she turned to him. “Thank you for a very informative afternoon.”

“No problem.”

They stood there looking at each other seeming not to know what to do next.

Dione swallowed. “I’ll expect your call in the morning.”

“First thing. But until then, don’t keep me in suspense. Who’s going to be your on-air personality for the PSA?”

She smiled. “Me.”

His gaze rolled over her then back up to her eyes. The right corner of his mouth curved and his eyebrows arched. “Ever been in front of a camera before, Ms. Williams?”

“No. But I’m certain you’ll make sure it doesn’t look that way.” She turned and walked toward her car.

“It will be my pleasure,” he whispered, as he watched her slip behind the steering wheel. “It certainly will.”

Chapter 5

Dione arrived at work the following morning before anyone in the house had even gotten up for the day. It was barely seven-thirty and she’d been through the building twice. Checking. She wanted to be sure that everything was in place, that Garrett Lawrence could find no fault with her domain. She couldn’t put on a sideshow the way he had done, but she could certainly show him that she ran her facility with the same amount of care and attention to detail that he did. To her, finding fault with Chances Are was like finding fault with her. And for reasons that she didn’t want to admit, it mattered more than usual that Garrett Lawrence saw nothing but perfection.

When the phone rang at seven forty-five, her heart jumped. She picked up on the second ring.

“Good morning. Chances Are. Ms. Williams speaking.”

“Good morning.” He was pleasantly surprised to hear her voice. He hadn’t expected her to be there. Did she live there, too? “Hope I’m not calling too early. But I’m an early riser. This is Garrett Lawrence.”

There was no need for him to identify himself. She’d heard that voice of his in her dreams. “Not at all. I’ve been here for a while.”

Answers that question. “Just calling to confirm about today—for the visit. I thought about ten. If that’s good for you.”

“Ten is fine. Things should be calmed down by then.”

“Calmed down?”

She laughed lightly. “What I mean is, chaos reigns supreme from about seven-thirty to nine, when everyone is rushing around trying to get ready for school, or work and getting the children that stay on-site down to childcare.”

He frowned. “They go to school and work?” the incongruity of the idea momentarily stumbling his thinking.

She heard the disbelief in his voice and although she was used to it in most others, in Garrett she was disappointed.

“Of course. That’s just one of the many criteria we have for the girls staying here.”

“Hmm.”

He almost sounded as if he thought she were lying. Now she really was annoyed. “Is there a problem, Mr. Lawrence?” she asked, snapping him to attention.

“No. Not at all.”

“Then I’ll see you at ten.”

“Yes. Definitely.”

“Goodbye.” She hung up the phone, then stared at it for a few minutes. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Lawrence. Well your thoughts are just about to be changed.”

“I thought I heard somebody moving around. What in the world are you doing here so early?” Betsy shuffled into the room, still dressed in her nightgown and robe.

“I had a lot I wanted to get out of the way before everyone was up and about.”

“Mmm. It must have kept you up last night to get you in here this early.” She yawned. “Anything I can help you with?”

“No. But I just want to let you know that the producer will be here today to take a tour of the building.”

Betsy straightened, fully awake. “Why didn’t you say so? I got to get these lazy girls up and together. Make sure their apartments are up to par. You know how they can leave their places sometime when they run outta here in the morning.”

“Maybe you can select one or two apartments for the visit and just let those girls know.”

Betsy nodded. “That’ll be easier. Kisha usually keeps a neat place, and Theresa.”

“Perfect. And it’ll be good for Theresa. Make her feel she’s a part of things.”

“I’ll get them up right now and let them know.” She turned away, then stopped. “So what’s this man like?”

“Seems to know what he’s doing.”

“I sure hope so,” she mumbled, moving away. “For these girls’ sake. I sure do.”

Dione blew out a breath. “So do I,” she whispered, even as the memory of the tingle of his touch raised the hair on the back of her neck.

By the time Brenda arrived at eight, the building was virtually vibrating with energy. She could hear excited voices and footsteps darting across the hall above her head, and spotted several girls dashing up the staircase. She walked into the office while pulling off her coat, surprised to see Dione.

“Morning. What’s going on? Feels like electric wires running through here. Betsy on another surprise inspection tear again?” She slid open the closet door, hung up her coat and sat down at her totally organized desk. She shifted her pencil cup to the center of the desk.

Dione smiled. “Something like that. Garrett Lawrence is stopping by this morning to take a tour. I wanted to make sure that everything was in order. He’ll be taking a look at Kisha’s and Theresa’s apartments.”

Brenda immediately noticed that Dione wouldn’t look at her while she was talking, something very unusual for Dee. Brenda swiveled her chair fully in Dione’s direction.

“So, the meeting went well.”

“I think so.” She shuffled some papers on the desk. “While I was there they were shooting a public service announcement for another organization. Mr. Lawrence said they work pretty well in getting attention. So I thought that we could do one and give it to my friend Terri, let her work up a promotional package for us.”

“Sounds good to me. But what about the documentary?”

Dione explained about the length of time it would take to complete and her anxiety about not having enough time to resubmit the proposals.

Brenda blew out a breath and slowly shook her head of spiral curls. “If it’s not one thing it’s something else. But at least we’ll have a shot with this public service thing.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

Brenda looked at Dione’s profile for a long moment, assessing the faraway look in her expression. Although they weren’t what you would call best friends, and didn’t share a lot of personal secrets, she felt she knew Dione well enough to sense when something was troubling her. But Dione had always been so self-contained, in control and focused. She seemed to have her life totally together. And even in the three years that she’d been working at Chances Are, Dione never shared her life story or why she decided to open the house. No more had ever been said beyond, “It’s something I felt compelled to do. Someone had to do it.”

Dione Williams was a private person. No one seemed to really know what drove her. What gave her the determination and drive. Maybe that’s just the way she was. But Brenda had serious doubts that it was that simple. Something pushed Dione Williams. Whatever it was, it had one helluva hold on her.

“What time is this guy coming?”

“Ten.” She fidgeted with the collar of her camel-colored silk blouse, then suddenly stood. “I’m going to check with Betsy. See how she’s making out with the girls. It’s time for day care to open.”

Brenda watched her walk out and wondered again what was stirring beneath the cool-watered surface.

For the third time that morning, Dione inspected her building from top to bottom, finally stopping in the basement where day care was in full swing. Sesame Street was playing from the small, portable television, the soft scent of baby powder and sweet formula filled the air.

Betsy looked up from changing the diaper of one of the toddlers, seeing Dione standing in the doorway. Betsy set the baby boy down on the floor, gave him a light tap on his bottom and crossed the pale blue floor. She stopped directly in front of Dione, the top of her graying head just reaching Dione’s chin. She stroked her cheek.

“What’s wrong, chile? You got that haunted look in your eyes like when you was worrying over one thing or the other. Or about that baby girl of yours.”

Dione forced a tight-lipped smile. “Just want to make sure everything is okay.” She looked over Betsy’s head, her eyes scanning the room.

“Of course everything is okay. Now, you want to tell me what’s really bothering you, Dione Williams?”

Dione met Betsy’s eyes. “I don’t want them to find any fault. We need this thing to work Betsy.” The little Betsy did know about their situation was enough. She didn’t want to tell her just how desperate things were. That she hadn’t taken a paycheck in more than a month, that she stayed up nights working and reworking the figures to make sure that the bills and the staff were paid, that the politicians were no longer interested in the plight of homeless young mothers, they had new agendas. How could she tell this to the woman whom she’d silently pledged to take care of?

“Of course it will. You just need to have a little faith.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Did you make out okay with Kisha and Theresa?”

Betsy waved her hand in dismissal. “Those two were so excited, I almost couldn’t get them out of here for school and Theresa off to that special reading test.”

Dione smiled, then checked her watch. “I’d better get upstairs.” She turned to go.

“I know something’s bothering you, Dione,” Betsy said, halting Dione’s exit. “Let it go. Everything will work out. Always has.”

Dione nodded, wanting to believe. But it had always been hard for her to have blind faith, ceaseless hope. She couldn’t depend on the intangible things—things she couldn’t see, couldn’t touch. Hopes and dreams dissolved, like mist burned off after the morning sunrise. She couldn’t trust emotion, only reality. Emotion got you in trouble. Made you stop thinking with your head. She couldn’t afford that. Emotion had cost her once, she couldn’t let it cost her again. Especially now.

Garrett slowed to a stop in front of the building and checked the address against the one written on the slip of paper. Frowning, he leaned closer to the passenger window and checked again. His gaze ran up and down the well-kept brownstone, the curtains and blinds that lined the oversized windows.

This couldn’t be the place. Maybe he’d gotten the address wrong. But he was pretty sure he hadn’t. This was a shelter? His vision of a shelter was nothing like what was in front of him. Probably just a front, he concluded. They couldn’t very well have an eyesore in the center of this middle-class neighborhood. He was certain the inside would meet his expectations.

He shut off the car, took his portfolio from the passenger seat and got out.

By the time Dione reached the main floor, she spotted Garrett through the glass-and-oak door, and was once again seized with a gentle wave of caressing heat, her earlier frustration soothed and massaged away.

She took a breath and unlocked the door, putting on her best, happy-to-see-you smile.

“Right on time,” she greeted, stepping aside to let him pass. She caught a whiff of his cologne.

“That’s just one of my many attributes.” He gave her that dimpled smile and tugged off his Chicago Bulls baseball cap.

For a moment their gazes connected and Dione had the strangest feeling that he wasn’t talking about his filming talents.

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