I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions before. It wasn’t fair.”
He studied her face until she felt her cheeks heating, then seemed satisfied with whatever he saw. He nodded once.
“So . . . whatcha working on?” she asked.
He looked at the papers spread around him, sighing. “Applications.”
“For . . . ?”
“Kids.”
“Kids? Oh. Kids.” There must have been fifty applications there. Her mouth went slack. “All of them? Those are all kids wanting to come here?”
“Yep.”
She saw the painful quandary in his troubled green eyes. In the hunched set of his shoulders. Most of these kids would be turned out on the street? The glow of her opening night dimmed.
“How are you going to choose?”
He shrugged. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Want some help?” Where had that come from?
“Don’t you have to be up early?”
“I’m jacked up on caffeine and adrenaline.”
He stared at her long and hard again before lifting a shoulder. “In that case . . .” He gathered a stack of applications and held them out. “Haven’t looked at these. Put the most promising ones in this pile.”
“Promising meaning . . .”
“The ones most at risk. No family to turn to, learning disabilities, et cetera.”
PJ took them as she settled on the rug across from him, folding her legs pretzel style. She ran her hand over the soft brown rug. “Love this.”
“Garage sale. Still had the price tags.”
“Nice.”
She looked over the first application. Seventeen-year-old boy. Been in foster care for eight years. No living relatives.
No family. Ugh. PJ couldn’t even imagine not having her family. She didn’t need to read any more. She put it in the Promising pile and started on the next one. Girl. Mild learning disabilities. Mother was a drug addict. Father was in jail. Eight foster homes. Eight. Promising pile.
Boy. Father unknown. Mother deceased. Abused in first foster home. She thought of Cole’s scar and wondered if abuse had put it there. How many knocks could one kid take? She put the file in the Promising pile.
She read through the next three, her heart tugging at each one as they went into the same pile.
“PJ.”
She looked up.
“You can’t put them all in that pile.”
“But they all need help.”
His face softened. His eyes filled with shadows. “I can only take four—and one spot is already spoken for.”
A lump formed in her throat. She hated this. It wasn’t fair. Why did she have a boatload of family, and these kids had no one? She thought of Cole and how strong he must be to come out of the system and find a way not only to support himself but to help others like him.
“I need to narrow it down to ten,” he said. “If I try to interview all fifty-seven I’ll be at it till Christmas.”
Fifty-seven.
“As it is, they’ll barely get to finish high school.”
Because he could only guarantee they’d have a place until June 1. Frowning, PJ went back to the applications.
It was amazing how fast fatigue set in once the adrenaline and caffeine faded away. Once she was making decisions that would put parentless kids on the street.
After they’d been at it awhile, a yawn sneaked up on her. But she only had a handful left.
“What time do you have to be up?” he asked.
“Five.”
He checked his watch. “That’s in four hours. Go to bed. I’ll finish up.”
She stretched, her neck and shoulders aching from sitting hunched over so long. He was right. She was going to be exhausted tomorrow, and she had her first brunch to get through. Strawberry crepes, maple-flavored bacon, quiche lorraine tartlets, and so much more.
“All right.” She handed him the few she hadn’t read and headed for the door. “Good night.”
“Night.”
At the threshold she turned. He was already bent back over an application, a frown marring his forehead. He rubbed his chin with a knuckle.
When she stopped seeing him as her competitor, she could see what her sisters saw—a
He studied her face until she felt her cheeks heating, then seemed satisfied with whatever he saw. He nodded once.
“So . . . whatcha working on?” she asked.
He looked at the papers spread around him, sighing. “Applications.”
“For . . . ?”
“Kids.”
“Kids? Oh. Kids.” There must have been fifty applications there. Her mouth went slack. “All of them? Those are all kids wanting to come here?”
“Yep.”
She saw the painful quandary in his troubled green eyes. In the hunched set of his shoulders. Most of these kids would be turned out on the street? The glow of her opening night dimmed.
“How are you going to choose?”
He shrugged. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“Want some help?” Where had that come from?
“Don’t you have to be up early?”
“I’m jacked up on caffeine and adrenaline.”
He stared at her long and hard again before lifting a shoulder. “In that case . . .” He gathered a stack of applications and held them out. “Haven’t looked at these. Put the most promising ones in this pile.”
“Promising meaning . . .”
“The ones most at risk. No family to turn to, learning disabilities, et cetera.”
PJ took them as she settled on the rug across from him, folding her legs pretzel style. She ran her hand over the soft brown rug. “Love this.”
“Garage sale. Still had the price tags.”
“Nice.”
She looked over the first application. Seventeen-year-old boy. Been in foster care for eight years. No living relatives.
No family. Ugh. PJ couldn’t even imagine not having her family. She didn’t need to read any more. She put it in the Promising pile and started on the next one. Girl. Mild learning disabilities. Mother was a drug addict. Father was in jail. Eight foster homes. Eight. Promising pile.
Boy. Father unknown. Mother deceased. Abused in first foster home. She thought of Cole’s scar and wondered if abuse had put it there. How many knocks could one kid take? She put the file in the Promising pile.
She read through the next three, her heart tugging at each one as they went into the same pile.
“PJ.”
She looked up.
“You can’t put them all in that pile.”
“But they all need help.”
His face softened. His eyes filled with shadows. “I can only take four—and one spot is already spoken for.”
A lump formed in her throat. She hated this. It wasn’t fair. Why did she have a boatload of family, and these kids had no one? She thought of Cole and how strong he must be to come out of the system and find a way not only to support himself but to help others like him.
“I need to narrow it down to ten,” he said. “If I try to interview all fifty-seven I’ll be at it till Christmas.”
Fifty-seven.
“As it is, they’ll barely get to finish high school.”
Because he could only guarantee they’d have a place until June 1. Frowning, PJ went back to the applications.
It was amazing how fast fatigue set in once the adrenaline and caffeine faded away. Once she was making decisions that would put parentless kids on the street.
After they’d been at it awhile, a yawn sneaked up on her. But she only had a handful left.
“What time do you have to be up?” he asked.
“Five.”
He checked his watch. “That’s in four hours. Go to bed. I’ll finish up.”
She stretched, her neck and shoulders aching from sitting hunched over so long. He was right. She was going to be exhausted tomorrow, and she had her first brunch to get through. Strawberry crepes, maple-flavored bacon, quiche lorraine tartlets, and so much more.
“All right.” She handed him the few she hadn’t read and headed for the door. “Good night.”
“Night.”
At the threshold she turned. He was already bent back over an application, a frown marring his forehead. He rubbed his chin with a knuckle.
When she stopped seeing him as her competitor, she could see what her sisters saw—a
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