Chances Are. Donna Hill
behind Chances Are is a gem. Your story especially.”
Dione’s stomach fluttered. “That’s my biggest concern, Terri. You know that. Niyah doesn’t know everything.”
“Dee, it’s time that she did. She’s almost eighteen.”
“I know,” she said, a sad hitch in her voice. “I just don’t ever want her to feel the same worthlessness that I felt for so many years. Or that my bringing her into the world was the cause of—”
“Don’t even go there. If anything, Niyah was and still is the catalyst for everything that you’ve become. Everything that you’ve done for so many other young girls who had no one and nowhere else to turn. That’s something to be proud of, Dee, not ashamed.”
“And how many times over the years have I had this very conversation with myself? It’s just easier said than done.”
“Well, sister-friend, it’s got to come out sometime.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. But I’ll work it out.”
“You always do. Now make that call, girl. I’m itching for a new project.”
Dione laughed. “I will and I’ll call and let you know what happens.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks, Terri. Talk to you soon.”
Slowly Dione replaced the receiver, a soft smile framing her mouth. She was blessed. That was certain. She was surrounded by people who cared for and believed in her. And they were depending on her. How would her life have been different if her parents had been there for her when she needed them most?
She took a long breath, picked up the phone and dialed Garrett Lawrence’s number.
Garrett was right in the middle of putting the crucial piece of a choreographer’s video together. Painstakingly he ran and reran the tape to get it in perfect sync with the music.
At first he ignored the ringing phone, intent on what he was doing, until he realized that everyone else was in the studio taping the pubic service announcement.
“Man!” He stopped the tape, silently promising himself for the millionth time to set the answering machine for those days when Marva, their part-time receptionist, was off. He snatched the phone from its base on the wall behind him.
“Hello,” he barked. “G.L. Productions.”
Dione frowned at the abrasive voice on the other end and hoped that whoever this was, wasn’t representative of who she’d have to deal with.
“Yes. Good morning. This is Dione Williams from Chances Are. May I speak with Mr. Lawrence please?”
Garrett sat straight up in his seat, the video forgotten, partly from the jolt of the call itself, but mostly from the throaty, almost hushed voice of the caller.
“This is Garrett Lawrence. How are you, Ms. Williams?”
Now that’s more like it. “Fine. I’m calling because I’ve gone over your proposal again—and,” she forced the words out of her mouth, “I’d like to set up a time when we can meet to discuss the arrangements. That is if you’re still interested in working with us.”
“Yes, I’m still interested,” he said, fighting to hold back his enthusiasm. “Whatever time is good for you. I’ll make myself available.”
She was hoping he’d say it was too late, but—“How’s this afternoon, about four o’clock?”
“Four is fine. I’ll be there.”
“No. I mean, actually I’d prefer if we met somewhere else.”
It was his turn to frown. He would have thought she’d want to meet on her turf. Women. “You’re welcome to come to the studio. That would give you a chance to see the facility and I can show you some of the work I’ve done.”
“All right. What’s the best way to get there by car?”
The morning sped by entirely too quickly. Before Dione knew it, it was three o’clock and if she had any intention of being on time, she needed to leave. She’d put off the inevitable for as long as possible.
Dione signed off on the last case file. Overall she was pleased with the reviews of the girls’ progress. Her staff meeting the previous afternoon had yielded glowing remarks for the ten residents. Only two out of the ten were in need of new physicals, and appointments had been set up.
Everyone with the exception of Theresa was either in school or working. According to her files from the group home she’d been transferred from, she hadn’t gone any further than seventh grade and had been diagnosed as a “special ed” student.
However, in the three months that she’d been at Chances Are, the staff had determined that Theresa’s problem was dyslexia, which was never properly diagnosed or treated. Brenda had investigated several special programs and they’d finally found one that would be perfect for Theresa. Now the only problem they faced was convincing Theresa that she could succeed in school and in life—with a little help and hard work.
Dione closed Theresa’s file and put it with the stack to be returned to the cabinet. Getting up, she took her purse and coat from the coatrack and headed upstairs.
She peeked in the door of the main office. “I’m going to the meeting with Mr. Lawrence,” she said to Brenda.
“I can go with you if you want.”
Dione smiled. “No. Thanks. I’ll deal with it. See you in the morning.” She turned to leave.
“Keep an open mind, Dee,” Brenda called out.
“Yeah, yeah. I will.”
“Why did she decide to come here?” Jason asked.
“That’s the way she wanted it and I wasn’t going to debate the point.”
They walked side by side through the facility checking each of the rooms, wanting to make a good impression, then returned to the front office.
“I’d like you to sit in on the meeting, Jason. Fill in anything I might overlook.”
“No problem.”
Garrett checked his watch. “She should be here in a few minutes. We have anybody to cover the phones while we meet?”
“I’ll get Najashi or Tom. Whoever’s not busy.”
The front door buzzed.
Jason looked at the security monitor mounted on the office wall. “Mmm, if this is her, we’re in luck buddy.” He buzzed her in.
Garrett just shook his head, knowing that Jason thought any woman with a grain of looks was fair game, even though he was solidly married. So his assessment could often leave a lot to be desired.
They could hear her heels click down the hall.
Garrett stepped out of the office into the corridor to meet her.
“You’re on,” Jason whispered.
Garrett stopped, watching her approach and was immediately reminded of those sleek Ebony Fashion Fair models strutting down a runway.
She wore a full-length cream-colored cashmere coat that she’d left open to showcase a body-hugging jersey knit turtleneck dress. Her auburn hair barely brushed her shoulders and was swept away from her face. Dark glasses shielded her eyes and when she removed them, startling hazel eyes zeroed in on him, set against a rich tan complexion devoid of any noticeable makeup, save for a hint of cinnamon-colored lipstick.
His stomach seesawed. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this vision. Somewhere in his subconscious he’d convinced himself that anyone who ran a home for girls was a short nondescript plain-Jane, who couldn’t get a man,