Misfortune: Christmas With Scrooge (6 page)

Dexter O’Reilly made it impossible for her to
so much as like him, let alone be grateful toward him. He was rude,
obnoxious, unsympathetic and above all—a hero. No matter how hard
she tried, she could not bring herself to dislike him. Without
being able to describe it, he was to blame for her present
melancholy state and feeling of loneliness.

Idly strolling down the hall, she stopped
inside the sitting room. Against the bay window stood an old
antique bureau where a colorful miniature village was gaily lit.
Tiny figurines of mothers, fathers, and children were historically
dressed for the cold Christmas climate, their faces beaming of joy
and love.

The village had belonged to her mother. Each
piece collected over the years she was alive. It was her favorite
collection. Carl Witherow had left the home completely as his late
wife had left it on her deathbed. Not wanting to change a single
thing. Each Christmas they pulled out her decorations and hung them
as she had done years before. Visual memories of her mother graced
the walls in honor of her memory and in doing so, Laura never
forgot the image of her mother.

The night before, she left the lights of the
village burning brightly, so when she arrived home from the party,
alone, the Christmas spirit would remain. With a despondent sigh
she reached over and flicked off the large black switch. The
festive lights blinked off leaving the shop windows dark and bleak.
Reminiscent of her heart.

Still, she hadn't spent Christmas Eve alone,
though she could think of plenty more pleasant ways of spending it,
and she was alive today. For that, she was grateful. But, oh, how
he made it so difficult!

Determination gripped her suddenly. She had
been given a second chance, a second chance at life. With a sudden
surge she realized it was time she picked up the shattered pieces
of her life and try to get on with it.

Quite frankly, as she felt her car go off the
road, she felt a sense of resolution. She almost welcomed death. In
matters of only hours, her life suddenly had meaning once more. For
the first time in months she sincerely believed that, yes, she
could live on without her beloved father.

What plans she decided to make and follow in
the future would need to be thought thoroughly through. For some
uncertain reason she knew getting another chance at life, would not
come again.

* * *

The day was especially hot for late August as
Laura swiped yet another strand of hair from her sweaty brow. It
had been eight months since her brush with death. In those eight
months she decided to make use of her education and follow a desire
she had always had before her father's death, to work with troubled
teens. Her inheritance was a godsend, leaving her doors open and
choices to make. The choice she decided in the end was to transform
her home, which she had shared so lovingly with her parents, into a
shelter for troubled teenage girls. Hoping the homey environment
would help make the teenagers feel welcome and safe. With her
educational training she was able to hold group meetings which
included group counseling. At present, Laura found the program to
be successful.

More than half of the teenagers were sent
from the Family and Children’s services, however a vague number
were young offenders on probation. For the teenagers who visited
her shelter, the majority discovered their problems weren't as big
as themselves and they were worth dealing with. Many went back home
to anxious parents, but the odd one Laura knew had no home to
return. To those, she reinforced they would always have a home at
the shelter. Then when the time arrived, she would help them with
the next stage of their lives. At present though she allowed them
to be teenagers, reinforcing responsibility with unconditional
love.

This decision in Laura's life left her
completely fulfilled and happy with her choices. But, as any new
small organization, there were some drawbacks. Namely, the cost.
For the past few months she relied on an annuity her father left
behind, which arrived on a monthly basis and helped supplement her
expenses. However, as teenagers came and went minor damages were
left behind as reminders of their stay, as well as the unexpected,
Laura’s bottom dollar had unwillingly been thrown into the
negative.

To make matters worse, a bleak hindrance
arrived in the post the morning before when the federal funded
grant which she had applied for at the outset had been declined.
Early on, she came to the realization she would not be able to
supply all required provisions and setbacks on her tiny
inheritance.

Such as the alternator on the aging van she
presently attempted to fix. Grimacing, she fiddled with a
thing-a-ma-jib and was rewarded with a splat of some type of black
oozy oil across her already dirty plaid shirt. With a defeated
sigh, she admitted she knew absolutely nothing about vehicles.
After she lost her pretty little Chrysler to Hungry Hollow gorge
that Christmas morning, Laura took the insurance money and
purchased this eight seater van.

It was perfect with her plans to transfer her
three-bedroom home into a shelter for homeless teenage girls. The
house could easily sleep eight, including herself, and when the
situation called for it, she was able to transport all seven girls
in the van.

However, at present, she was at nine
occupants if you included Darcy's four-month-old baby. They arrived
five weeks before. Her parents refusing to acknowledge their
fifteen year-old daughter's pregnancy and after attempting to live
with an abusive boyfriend, Darcy ended up one rainy night on
Laura's doorstep, baby in tow. They were given a clean change of
clothes, a warm bed for the night, and had not left since.

Unfortunately, however, Laura discovered the
cost of formula would not help matters with her meager rations. She
had pointlessly been depending on the much-needed federal grant,
which now would never be arriving. But she would not give up, she
had to find the money and somewhere fast.

Conditions were getting dire. The roof needed
to be replaced, the washing machine groaned it's last that very
morning, and the upstairs bathroom had plumbing problems. On top of
all that, winter was coming and the cold months ahead would drive
the thermostat higher. Which meant Laura could face higher medical
bills rather than heating bills if all the girls came down with
illnesses.

She simply had to find someone who felt her
shelter was worthy of an investment. She attempted, thus far,
without any luck. Six companies turned her down flat. Tomorrow she
had an appointment with the seventh. She crossed her fingers,
praying her fortune would turn.

* * *

The following day, Laura drove into the
business sector of Bracebridge and parked in front of a tall-story
building. Gazing up at the blue and white sign, she read Britten
Investment and Financial Group. She had an awful forbidding ache in
the pit of her stomach, but immediately quenched it remembering the
innocent faces of the teenage girls at the shelter. Straightening
her shoulders, she crossed the cement walkway leading to the
entrance of the building.

Immediately in the entrance was a huge
circular desk with an elegant woman somewhere in her late forties
seated behind it. Laura approached the receptionist with as much
professionalism as she could project, and announced herself. “My
name is Laura Witherow. I have an appointment with Mr. Virgil
Britten.”

The older woman smiled politely up at her.
“If you go down this hall to the right, there is a set of
elevators. Take them up to the tenth floor. You'll be expected
there.”

She thanked the woman then followed her
directions. The corridor floor was long and elegantly fashioned in
red marble with large black diamond eyes peering up at her. Its
surface so smooth, Laura found herself carefully watching her step
hoping her pumps would not give way from underneath her.

After she rounded a bend of wild ferns she
came across the full-length mirrored covered elevators doors.
Taking the opportunity, Laura quickly checked her reflection for
any untidiness before pressing the red button glowing against the
wall.

Up on the tenth floor she was faced with a
long carpeted hallway, lined with offices, stretching both ways
across the elevators. With surprising assuredness she turned right
down the hall, recalling a time before when a decision to turn left
landed her on the rocky edge of a ravine.

She was startled at the unexpected
comparison. It had been a long time since she thought about that
incident. A time she kept firmly in the back of her mind. Dexter
O'Reilly was a man she cared not to think of twice. After the
accident, she had more than her share of thoughts of him.

Many, many times she had an urge to drive by
the Sunny Meadows grocery just to get a glimpse of him. She
convinced herself it was simply to thank him for rescuing her and
closing that chapter of her life. She even went so far as going
into the shop one day. A quick perusal brought up no familiar faces
so she quickly snatched up a head of lettuce, purchased it, then
swiftly fled from the store. She never returned since.

Since then she firmly set the man and the
incident from her mind. He had not wanted her gratitude and so
Laura simply had to accept this, whether she agreed or not. She
wasted enough time in her life she wasn't about to waste anymore.
Chasing down a man who obviously did not want to be chased would
have been fruitless.

She needed to do something productive and
begin to see results immediately. With the shelter, it had done
just that. It gave her great satisfaction to know she was able to
help young teenagers who, otherwise, could end up on the streets
doing only God knew what. This way she gave them not only shelter
but safety from a harsh world that preyed on young vulnerable
girls.

The corridor suddenly opened up to a large
room lined with office desks and computers. She doubted she made
the right turn after all, but at least here were faces and someone
to direct her to Virgil Britten's office.

A young woman, not older than Laura herself,
looked up as Laura approached her desk. Over the smooth hum of
keyboards, she asked, “I've got an appointment with Virgil Britten.
Could you please direct me to his office?”

“Is your name Laura Witherow?” After nodding
yes, she was directed down yet another corridor.

This corridor was much shorter to Laura's
relief. At the end was another small office, consisting of only one
person. This woman, too, was around her own age and smiled upon
greeting her, obviously expecting her. Laura returned the smile
uncertainly. The small quarters hardly appeared to be the reception
area for the president of the company.

“Laura Witherow? If you'll just have a seat,
he'll be with you in a few minutes.”

She took one of the two cushioned seats
against the opposite wall of the receptionist's desk then took a
quick survey of her surroundings. The office was small, fairly
empty, and modestly plain for one who was head of the company. The
walls were a weary cream tone with one print of nothing in
particular hanging from it. Laura's eyes digested the only sense of
life in the room came from the receptionist's desk. It was
splattered with color consisting of family photos, comic clippings,
and humor mugs. She looked up to find the receptionist smiling
across at her.

“Decorating is left in the hands of my boss,
but the desk is all mine.” She cared to explain.

Laura smiled just as the buzzer on the girl's
telephone rang. Without hesitation, the woman, Cara Henderson, as
her nameplate identified, picked up the receiver. “Yes, you're 9:15
appointment has arrived. Ms. Witherow is—”

Laura glanced up as the woman's voice was cut
short and her pleasant smile averted into a frown. With a brief
glance in Laura's direction she looked down at her appointment
book, then said into the receiver, “Laura. Laura Witherow.”

In the next second, the door adjoining the
small office swung open and a large familiar form filled its
entrance. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

CHAPTER 3

Laura spun around, startled at Dexter
O'Reilly's unexpected appearance. Her eyes drank in his appearance,
taking note of his business attire and how it formed his masculine
physique and gave him a semblance of power. He was exactly how she
remembered him. Right from the thick brown locks above those
forceful but dynamic eyes, down to the small shadow of growth along
his hard sturdy jaw-line.

She caught herself floundering as she
attempted to get to her feet nonchalantly. “I see your mood hasn’t
improved in the past eight months, Mr. O'Reilly.”

He shot Laura a troubled glare. “Who told you
where to find me?”

Laura was taken aback. “No one. I found you
myself—I mean, I found Britten Investment myself. Where you came
from, I've no idea.”

“I happen to work here. I’m Britten’s chief
financial officer. What are you doing here?”

“I thought you ran Summer Meadows?”

“I’m just their financial adviser. So again,
what are you doing here?”

“I thought you were the owner?”

His lips thinned. “It’s none of your business
my position in the food chain. Now, whatever your reason, I suggest
you turn around and leave the same way you came. I have no interest
in a reconciliation with you.”

Angry, she threw back at him. “I’m not here
to see you. I'm here to see Virgil Britten. I have an
appointment—”

He swore under his breath and scowled down at
her for the longest moment before growling, “When will you get out
of my life?”

Startled, she muttered, “Pardon?” But then
found herself hurt by his blunt words and immediately went on the
defense. “I'm not in your life. And if you would kindly direct me
to Virgil—”