His only reply was #dramaqueen.
I slid my Coach sunglasses down the bridge of my nose and scanned the oversized locked mailbox at the edge of the road. The address stenciled along the side matched the one I’d written down: 589 Fir Crest Lane. Much like the majority of my expectations thus far, the building ahead of me was not at all what I’d been anticipating. The setting was as fairy-tale as you could get in this part of town, with its rolling hills and farm-like landscape. Nobody would guess that the industrial blue-collar districts of Spokane were only a few miles away. Yet it was the massive craftsman-style home parked in front of me that was beyond anything I could have imagined. It certainly was not the typical Band-Aid–beige government institution with barred windows and a cement slab for a yard. No, The Bridge Youth Home was a gorgeous display of crimson and buttercream brick laid between tapered columns, sweeping balconies, and exposed rafter tails, framed by turrets worthy of a Disney princess collection.
I knew this architect’s work well. My Mimi had taken me on a tour of all the mansions in this area when I was seventeen years old. All built by the same man. Only I’d never been to this one. Of that I was certain.
As I locked my car and crunched over the gravel in my nude peep-toe sandals, my phone buzzed against my palm. Ethan. I shot him a quick text stating I’d call him when I got back home to my office. I had a mission to check off my list today.
The sun warmed my back as a stiff breeze caught the underside of my midi chambray wrap dress. I pinched the light linen fabric closed and climbed the porch steps. Taking in the solemnity of my surroundings, I reached for the buzzer on the side of the front door, noticing the gold lettering above the doorjamb: Fir Crest Manor. A tiny, rectangular wooden sign to the side caused me to hesitate for only a moment: No soliciting.
I pressed the shiny black button, and an instant later, a female voice crackled over a speaker I couldn’t locate.
“May I help you?”
“Uh, yes. Hello, I’m Molly McKenzie. I have an interview at eleven with Mr. Whit—”
A pleasant two-note chime sounded from overhead, and the front door unlocked. “Come on in, Miss McKenzie. I’ll be out to meet you in the lobby shortly.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.”
The heel of my sandal caught in the tight weave of the welcome mat, and it took me three hard yanks before I could free myself and open the door. I hoped whoever was on the other side of that hidden camera had missed that little faux pas. But the instant I was inside the lobby, all thoughts of shoe shenanigans disappeared. This place had the kind of grand entrance that should require a butler named Jeeves, someone who’d offer to take my coat and handbag and then quickly show me to the drawing room for crumpets and mid-morning tea. A mansion like this could make a person question which Clue character they were supposed to represent upon entry. Was it Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick?
The space before me was vast yet sparse, first drawing my gaze upward to an elaborate chandelier surrounded by an ornate stained glass skylight, then to the mahogany spiral staircase that led to many doors and windows I could only catch a glimpse of from the first floor. I spun in a slow circle, continuing to marvel at the details of the home’s architecture.
“Welcome to The Bridge.”
I shifted my attention from the minimally furnished room to search out the owner of the same voice I’d heard on the porch speaker. A middle-aged woman with long silvering hair tied loosely at the base of her neck entered the room. Her coppery complexion was so dehydrated by the sun I wanted to dive into my handbag to offer her an SPF moisturizer sample. Black Birkenstocks slapped against the hardwoods unapologetically as her open flannel revealed a faded ribbed tank top and a pair of worn mid-rise jeans.
“I’m Gloria Harvey, the house manager at The Bridge.” She stuck out her hand, and I quickly obliged. “Though most folks around here just call me Glo.”
“It’s great to meet you,” I said. “This house is beautiful.”
There was a beat of silence as Glo scanned the length of my dress and bottomed out on my shoes. “You wear shoes like those often?”
I glanced down at my feet, confused. “Like what? Sandals?”
“You call those sandals?” She chuckled and tapped her own sandaled foot. “I own plenty of sandals, but none of mine have a heel that could knock me flat on my face if I lost my balance.”
So, it would appear my little issue at the doorstep had not gone unnoticed. “Believe it or not, I’m actually more comfortable wearing heels than I am flats.” I shrugged sweetly, and Glo’s eyebrows twitched. “That is, aside from an occasional confrontation with a welcome mat.”
“You know,” she said with a puckered side smile, “I’m not sure I’ve ever worn a pair of heels in my life, and I’ll be fifty-eight in September.” A warm, raspy sound sputtered out of her, followed by a hacking cough she tried to mute with her elbow. “I haven’t had too many occasions to wear something that fancy, I guess.”
“Oh,” I said, my mind sparking to life at her comment. “But not all heels require a fancy setting. Take kitten heels, for example. They pair lovelily with a casual denim blend or even a flexible knit pant.” I pinched my thumb and forefinger to show her the heel measurement I referred to. “Most are only about a half inch high or so, but they can add so much pizzazz to almost any outfit.” I stopped myself from adding “like the one you’re wearing today” because something about Glo’s expression told me she didn’t discuss fashion trends on the regular.
“Kitten heels, huh?”
I nodded encouragingly, and again she smiled so wide that the skin around her eyes forked into four distinct lines. Most women I knew her age had already Botoxed those wrinkles out upon first sighting—with the exception of my mother, who was far too pragmatic for anything anti-aging related. And maybe it was that same sensible quality in Glo that I found so inviting now.
She tilted her head, her face softening as she took me in. “How much do you know about our mission here at The Bridge, Miss McKenzie?”
“A fair amount,” I said confidently, hiking my purse higher up my shoulder. “I’ve read through all the online materials, and I share a mutual acquaintance with Mr. Whittaker.” I wasn’t exactly sure how well Miles and Mr. Whittaker knew each other, or the full extent of their relationship, but whatever I’d learned about The Bridge was a drop in the bucket compared to the information they’d obtained about me.
“Ah, well good.” She nodded, though her curiosity seemed to climb. “We’ve been needing some fresh faces for mentoring around here for a while now.”
“How many are there? Mentors, I mean.”
“We try to keep a rotation of three to five, since not every girl bonds with the same mentor. But for various reasons, we’re down to only two ladies this summer. And one is getting fairly close to delivering her first baby.”
“Oh . . . well, I can see how that might pose an issue.” I was just about to ask how many young adults called The Bridge their home when an alarm on her digital watch beeped.
“Ah, that’s my meeting reminder. We have a new community college rep headed here in a minute, an advisor to help the kids get squared away with summer credit options. I need to get a few things set up for her arrival.” She slowly began her retreat down a corridor I couldn’t see the end of. “You have about fifteen minutes to kill before your interview time, but Silas will take you to his office for the interview as soon as he wraps up the morning session. Feel free to help yourself to the water cooler over there, or we have some drip coffee on the table in the back corner . . . but between you and me, I’d stick to the filtered water.”