“Oh no. I’m not from the community college. I’m here for the mentor interview with Mr. Whittaker. At eleven. I arrived a little early.” I smiled and shrugged. “Thus my detour outside.”
“You’re . . . Miles McKenzie’s sister?”
“Yes, that’s right. I’m Molly. You know my brother?”
“I do.” A hint of confusion crossed his features before he glanced down at his watch. “Would you please excuse me a moment?”
“Of course.”
He rotated to address the group. “Let’s take five, everyone. Diego, you can lead our wrap-up in the Plaid Room. Also, Wren, would you hang back a minute and kindly walk Ms. McKenzie to the lobby?”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not necessary. It wasn’t a far—”
But before I could finish the statement, his eyes were focused on me once again, or rather on my hair, as he gently removed a neon missile from my now tangled tresses. “It’s a safety protocol—for our guests, as well as for our residents.”
“Oh, of course. Sure.” But seriously, it wasn’t like they didn’t have security cameras lining every hall and doorway.
The residents moved like a swarm of bees across the grass, all except for a young woman with waist-length hair the color of wet pennies in sunlight, braided into an elaborate double Dutch plait. She slipped away from the mob and focused intently on the ground as she walked. Her voice was the faintest whisper as she passed me. “It’s this way.”
I felt obligated to follow the poor girl, even though I could literally see the French doors from where I stood.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby, Ms. McKenzie. At our scheduled appointment time,” the man at my side said with a distinct air of professionalism that snapped my earlier assumption wide open: Mr. Whittaker wasn’t a bearded Santa look-alike with a jolly grin and a rounded belly. Mr. Whittaker was Zorro.
“You’re the director?” I clarified, my voice a bit weaker than I’d intended.
“I am.” He held out his hand, and this time I shook it with a much different understanding. If I took this position, this man would be my supervisor. Which would be fine, of course, just not at all what I’d been expecting. An ongoing theme with this place, it seemed.
“Miles speaks highly of you,” I said.
“Your brother’s a respectable man.”
“He is.” A good sign of commonalities to come, I hoped. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today.”
He responded with a simple nod.
Not everybody made the instant connection between my twin brother and me, but then again, if Mr. Whittaker had been expecting the female version of Pastor Miles, then he would be sorely disappointed.
As we reached the French doors, Wren moved aside to let me go in first. She might be a bit unsociable, but her manners were intact.
“The color of your hair is gorgeous. It’s natural, isn’t it?” I asked as she stepped over the threshold into the house.
Her eyes flicked up to mine, and her porcelain skin flushed pink within a few blinks of her lightly mascaraed eyes. “Yes.” She touched the twin ends of her braids.
Unlike the majority of the girls I’d seen on the lawn, Wren’s face was almost makeup free. She could benefit from some coral rouge, an auburn eyebrow pencil, and some tinted lip gloss to highlight her best features, but even with a nearly naked face, the girl was uniquely pretty. Her body was curveless, no hips or chest to speak of, but she had the kind of svelte frame most people could only duplicate with Photoshop.
“If I had natural color like yours, I’d never dye it,” I said. “It’s siren hair.”
“My mother used to call it that,” Wren said in a voice so low it was barely audible.
“Did she?”
Wren nodded. “She was Irish, but her hair was a lot more . . . carrot color. And a bit frizzier than mine. She used to complain about it a lot. Wished she could be a blonde—like you.”
The past tense of her mother’s description chilled me. Where was Wren’s mother now?
“Well, don’t tell anybody, but I’m not a natural blonde. I’m a brunette.” I smiled. “Actually, that makes it sound prettier than it is. My natural color is more like . . . hmm.” How did I describe such a shade of boring brown? “It’s more like the color of mud when it dries on the bottom of rain boots.”
Wren cracked a smile and gave a lift of her shoulders. It almost could have been classified a chuckle . . . if there’d been any sound to it. “I can’t imagine that.”
“Good. Because I’ve paid way too much money to a hair wizard named Charise so that nobody can imagine it.”
This time Wren did more than shrug. She laughed. It was only a tiny squeak of a sound, but it definitely qualified. Yet as quickly as the humor had lit up her eyes, her face downshifted to an expression that looked as if she wanted to become one with the wall plaster. “Silas should be out here to meet with you soon.”
“Is that what you call him?”
“What?” she asked nervously.
“Silas.”
“Yeah . . .” She drew out the word as if searching for the hidden meaning in my question. “All of us here call him Silas. Only guests call him Mr. Whittaker.”
I found it interesting that a man with so much authority would approve of being addressed so casually. Then again, that had little to do with the timid girl still waiting for some sort of explanation for my curiosity. I smiled extra big to put her at ease. “Sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” I said. “Thanks for walking me back to the lobby, Wren. I appreciate it. Maybe we can chat a bit longer the next time I’m here.”
Something opened in her expression. “Will you be teaching a class here?”
“I think so, yes.”
“What will you teach?”
Honestly, I hadn’t narrowed it down to a single topic yet. I always had more ideas than time to plan. “I have a few thoughts, actually, so maybe you can tell me what you’d like to learn.”
She rubbed her lips together for a few seconds, her eyes flashing with a hope I understood so well. “I dunno . . . like maybe something to do with how to talk to people or whatever.”
How to talk to people? That’s what this girl wanted to learn?
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound like her suggestion was totally normal. “Well, I’ll do my best to work that into my curriculum.”
Another faint smile. “Okay. Cool.”
She looked behind her down the hallway. “I should get going. I have chores to complete after our group session, so . . .”
“Oh, sure. I won’t keep you, then.”
Slowly, she retreated a few steps, her eyes lowering to my hand. “You probably shouldn’t put that down while you’re here.”
“What?” I followed her gaze and lifted my left arm. “You mean, my purse?”
She nodded. “Not if you like everything inside it.”
“Wren! Are you coming? We have chores.” A female voice hollered from some unknown location.
“Sounds like your friend needs you.”
She glanced up at me, her eyes saying so much more than her words. “She’s not my friend.”