Chapter 3
THREE
MOLLY
“Mr. Ainsle.” I dial up my smile to flirtatiously professional, while ignoring the pounding in my head. “So wonderful to see you.” I hold out a hand, letting him draw me in for a kiss on the cheek.
“Molly Archer.” His big voice booms out of his rotund body. “When will you run away with me?”
I withdraw my hand, smile locked firmly in place. “You know my heart is with the children.”
Duncan Ainsle chuckles, turning to take his seat at the boardroom table. “The children? I could give you a parcel.”
I ignore that he’s older than my father, has eight children to six wives, and doesn’t know the names of the three illegitimate sons he pays support for.
Afterall, what does that matter when he can assuage his guilt by contributing to our cause?
“Vivian has prepared your coffee.” I gesture at the cup and plate of cookies beside it. “I also baked, I hope you don’t mind.”
“Ah, buttering me up, are you?” He chuckles at his joke, reaching out for one of the chocolate chip cookies. He bites into it, moaning.
I wait, sipping my peppermint tea and regretting last night’s drunken shenanigans.
Dealing with men like Duncan Ainsle takes all my concentration on a good day, and today didn’t feel like a good day.
I have to focus; big donors don’t just fall from trees.
They require perseverance, praise, attention, and lots and lots of pandering.
Hendrix lends me a space in his office building twice a week to conduct these charity meetings. He likes to refer to it as his “philanthropic offering.”
My brothers have all put their schooling to good, making it rich in their respective fields. I’m the black sheep who decided that teaching and philanthropy were more my speed.
If only I’d taken coding classes. I could be a big shot billionaire who funds a charity without worry about wooing old men with more money than sense.
Duncan eats three cookies as he flicks through the proposal in front of him. He runs a finger around the plate, chasing the final crumbs before looking to me. “A new center?”
I replace my teacup in its saucer, pressing a polished finger to the intercom. “Vivian, can you send some more cookies and tea in, please?” I turn back to Duncan, knitting my fingers on the table. “We’ve outgrown the existing premises.”
He huffs. “But a million?”
I smile. “As a start. The million will allow us time to scope other buildings and start fundraising initiatives.”
He taps his fingers against the table. “I’m very generous.”
I incline my head, still smiling. “Very.”
“The charity dinner would be mine?” he clarifies.
“Of course, Mr. Ainsle. It’s essential we have your name to draw others to the cause. We need large donors. Think of all the children you’ll help.”
The door opens, permitting one of Hendrix’s admin staff. He hurries in, placing a plate of cookies in front of Duncan and refreshing the tea and coffee pots. He leaves a moment later, closing the door softly behind him, sealing us in once more.
I wait Duncan out.
“The dinner in my name and I expect a plaque on the new building.”
“Of course,” I agree. “Your generosity should be recognized.”
He nods once, almost dismissively, then reaches for another cookie. “Now, tell me about that brother of yours. I hear Samuel’s latest project is in Alaska?”
We make chitchat about Sam and his career, segueing to my older brothers and their various endeavors and investments.
My brothers capitalized on the opportunities going to Saint Michael’s had provided us.
Hendrix had moved into tech, becoming a leader in ethical artificial intelligence and sustainable, accessible app design.
Thom and Joe had started a boutique liquor label catering to the wealthy.
While Sam had moved into film, chasing his dream of telling stories.
Meanwhile, I attempted to coerce my contacts to part with their hard-earned cash. A surprisingly difficult feat.
I’d started my career as a teacher, following in my father’s footsteps, but quickly found that the school systems, while well funded, didn’t quite meet the needs of the children we taught.
Following a charity event with Brad’s mother, I’d floated the idea of establishing my own charity—one that partnered with not-for-profits to support their fundraising endeavors. And so the Archer House had been born.
Twice a week I used Hendrix’s meeting room to host donors and convince them to part with their money, and the other three days I split between charity admin, writing grant proposals, and teaching a remedial afterschool class or two as required.
I missed being in the classroom, but I loved the difference our programs made in areas that desperately needed them.
As I escort him out, Duncan raises the one topic I’ve managed to avoid. “And I hear that Peter Greenfeld is getting married.”
I nod. “Yes, to Bess Kirkson.”
He pauses at the elevator, waiting for the car to arrive. “Shame. Always thought you’d be marrying into the family.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
The doors slide open, and he steps through, hitting the ground floor button. “Always thought it would be between you and one of the Greenfelds. It made sense.” He shakes his head. “But then you married that no-good sham and, well. That’s that.” He eyes me. “Such a shame. Until next time.”
The elevator doors slide closed, leaving me standing in the office reception, staring at my reflection in the stainless-steel.
What the hell was that?
“Molly?”
I shake off my confusion and turn to Vivian, my brother’s receptionist. She gives me a small, grandmotherly smile. “Did you get it?”
“He signed on the dotted line.” I hold up my clipboard with his check clipped safely to the front. “Now we just have to deliver.”
Vivian, claps her hands, bouncing on her heels and sending her silver corkscrew curls flying. “I knew it! Just think of those beautiful children we’ll help.”
“What’s next on the agenda?” I ask, handing the clipboard over. She tucks it under her arm and checks her tablet.
“For the charity? Nothing. But you’re tutoring at the community center at two. And you have a wedding dress lunch date with Miss Kirkson first.”
I nod, suppressing a sigh. “I’d better get a move on.”
“Shall I call you a car?”
I check my watch. “No, I’ll walk. It’s a beautiful day.” I glance down the office corridor. “I should say goodbye to Hendrix first.”
“He’s in a planning meeting until five. I’ll pass on your regards.”
I nod. “Thanks, Vivian. If I haven’t said it lately, you’re awesome.”
She chuckles, brushing me off. “Go enjoy your day.”
Chars in spring reminds me of a song—beautiful one day, a muddy slush the next. But the stroll through Romisah Park where the leaves are budding and the birds are singing and the sun is shining and couples are frolicking is just what the doctor ordered to snap me out of my funk.
Apologies, my cynicism is showing.
I swap heels for boots, tucking them into my new tote as I leave the building.
Biting wind aside, the day is entirely pleasant.
The sun shines valiantly through the clouds, lending a few degrees of warmth.
I should have taken Hendrix’s car, but I need the walk to get my head on straight.
Duncan’s comment have thrown me. I never thought others had tied Pete and I together.
Or Josh, for that matter.
We’re friends because they were in my life—between Bess and Sam, Josh and Pete had always just been there. There’d never been anything sexual about our relationships.
Right?
The walk from Hendrix’s Upper East Side office down to Ada Blue, an exclusive high-end wedding boutique, didn’t provide nearly enough time to sort my feelings. I step through the door of the store and am immediately embraced by a sense of muted anticipation.
A woman dressed in dove gray glides across the plush carpet toward me.
“Welcome to Ada Blue, I’m Julianne, you must be Ms. Kirkson. You’re right on time.” The smiling sales assistant greets me in a hushed, reverent tone.
“Ah no. Maid of honor. Molly Archer,” I hold up my ringless left hand. “Just a sexy single in your area.”
Her smile freezes, eyes widening. A look of pity crosses her face before she clears her throat.
“If you’ll follow me, Ms. Archer?” The stylish assistant turns, leading me down a hall and into a private dressing room complete with large sitting area. The plush suite is decorated in soft grays and contrasting blacks paired with bronze accents.
“Something to drink?” she asks, waiting as I drop my tote by the love seat and start to remove my coat.
“No, thank you. Not at the moment.” My gaze catches on the dresses hanging from a rack on the far side of the room. The sales assistant takes my coat, leaving to stow it as I drift over to the clouds of silk and lace.
In the dark room, they stand out like moonlight on a midnight lake—gorgeous but a little off-putting.
My fingers graze the skirt of an ivory princess cut. It shimmers, the silk dancing under my fingertips.
My wedding dress had been donated to goodwill. My wedding photos locked away. All I had were memories of a day filled with laughter and dancing that were both bitter and bittersweet, truths and lies.
He fucked a guest on your wedding day. He doesn’t deserve your thoughts.
“I like that one too.” Bess’s voice shatters my trance-like state. I jerk my hand back, twirling on my heel to face the door, where she stands, flanked by her mother, her eight bridesmaids, Peter’s mother and, for some bizarre reason, Josh.
I open my mouth to explain or justify or deny, I’m not sure, but the moment is already gone. They bustled into the room, the girls chattering, the mothers gossiping, and Josh in his motorcycle jacket, black boots, and faded jeans, looking entirely out of place in this feminine wonderland.
Hands gently shuffle me out of the way as the women fall on the dresses like hens in the farmyard, pecking over this princess cut and that ball gown, cooing sweetly to each other.
I move to the sofa, dropping beside Josh.