CHAPTER TWO
MARCUS
The meeting finished earlier than Marcus James expected. Marcus was glad he’d agreed to a group interview format. If he’d had to endure more sob stories than what he had to just sit through, the activity would have been interminable.
As it was, he gave a brief presentation and asked everyone to say a little bit about themselves. Now he could put a face to the name. All but one of the finalists had shown up to be considered for his million-dollar contest.
He had called it the Santa Project. A feel-good competition that doubled as a publicity stunt for their newest jewelry line.
Santa indeed.
Deep down, Marcus no longer believed in Christmas. And not just Santa and all that jazz. He no longer believed that goodness prevailed in the world. Bless the heart of these do-gooders. They were a dying breed. Maybe by helping them, he’d get extra points to get into heaven.
His assistant’s voice crackled on the intercom. “Mr. James, you have one more applicant for the Christmas Contest. Shall I send her in?”
“She missed the appointment. Tell her we’ll consider her application along with everyone else’s.”
His door opened. Latrell poked her head in.
“Sir, the lady requests just one minute.”
Marcus closed his eyes and then opened them again. “Latrell, I have a lot to do. I don’t have time for this.”
“I understand, sir. But…” She glanced over her shoulder. “She’s begging to see you. She seems really nice.”
Latrell, usually hard-nosed about guarding Marcus’s time, surprised him by her persistence. She normally wouldn’t have given anyone the time of day. This person must be pretty persuasive. “Two minutes.”
Latrell smiled, looking relieved. “I’ll tell her.”
His eyes widened when the woman entered his office.
“You!” they said at the same time.
It was the woman who’d chewed him out on the curb for stealing her parking spot. He decided right then and there that she wouldn’t win the contest.
Her cheeks turned pink. “My name is Katy Stevens,” she said.
He nodded. “Marcus James.” They shook hands. Her hand felt small and frozen.
“I’m sorry I missed the interview,” she said. “I……I couldn’t find parking.”
His lip twitched. “Oh?”
“I…I’m sorry I yelled at you at the curb.”
Her apology disarmed him. He couldn’t stay mad at this girl. Leaning back in his chair, he took a couple of seconds to study her. Pale, glowing skin framed by long russet hair. Her eyes transformed her from pretty to beautiful. They were huge and expressive.
He wondered, idly, if she was single. She had no ring on her finger, so…
No. He wasn’t looking for a new relationship, thank you. Especially not around Christmas, of all times.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry I yelled at you too.”
She sobered. “Mr. James—”
“Marcus. Please.” He gestured to the chair. “Sit down.”
She did and then plunged on. “Marcus, the people of Conchilla, Guatemala, need to win your million dollars.”
“Katy, is it? There are so many other worthy causes. I just met nine others here today. You will get your fair shake—”
“No,” she said. “You don’t understand. They need it more than anyone. They…” Her words trailed as emotion overtook her.
“Sorry.” She put her hand to her mouth. “If you could just see how devastated they were by the earthquake.” She struggled to calm her breath. “But, yes, you’re right. The others deserve the money too.”
“Wait. Did you say you’re Katy Stevens?” He stared at her. “Are you the daughter of the mall mogul Arlo Stevens?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“I don’t understand, then, why you’ve come to me. Your family can easily pay a million dollars for your friends in Guatemala.”
She raised her chin. “I wish my father could help,” she said slowly, “but the last few years have resulted in losses. People are changing the way they buy.”
“Not as much mall traffic?”
She shook her head.
Marcus gestured toward the folders on his desk. “What do these people need, a hundred thousand, tops? A little bit of the dollar goes a long way there, I imagine. Get them some huts, and they’re set.”
She stood, her expression turning cold. “Why don’t you give them some rice and beans while you’re at it?” She paused, wincing. “Sorry. It’s just…you sit there cool and aloof. Is that really how you’’ll pick the winner?” She glanced at the stack of folders on his desk. “Based on some group interview and impersonal applications?”
Softly, she added, “You know, until you’ve walked in a man’s shoes, you wouldn’’t know what it’s like. Maybe you’ve never lost someone or gone without.”
He pushed off the desk. “Oh, yes, I’ve walked in many a man’s shoes.” Disdain burned in his eyes. “I know what it’s like to lose a loved one. To wake up the next day and realize they’re never ever coming back.” His lip curled. “Yet you fling at me that I have no heart? How many billionaires do you know who sponsor a contest like this?”
She drew herself up, this slight girl with huge eyes. “You’re right,” she said, looking stricken. “Thank you for your kind gesture.”
“Kind gesture.” He scoffed. “It’s hardly a kind one.”
A furrow formed between her brows. “What do you mean?”
He recalled the idealistic glow in her eyes earlier. “Ma’am,” he said, “I’m no billionaire Santa. I’m doing this kind gesture, as you call it, because it’’s my business empire’s attempt at improving our reputation. I don’t believe in Christmas.”
Understanding dawned. “You mean all its trappings of commercialism?”
“No.” He enunciated every word. “I mean, I do not believe in Christmas. In goodness. In hope. It’s a rotten world filled with nasty things, including Christmas.”
There. She was adequately shocked. Her face went slack. Good. Sooner or later, someone was going to burst her bubble.
“I…I’m sorry for bothering you.” She averted her gaze. “I’ll wait like the others for your call. I hope…you’ll pick Conchilla.”
With one last glance, she left in a hurry.
***
Marcus sat at his desk and stared at the door for a long time, mulling Katy Stevens’s words. He pictured her in his mind, impassioned in her plea. She was an interesting girl. He wondered why she cared so much about Conchilla. Her, a white girl, trying to raise funds for her friends in Central America.
His gaze lit upon the application folders. Latrell had tabbed them all with each applicant’s name and cause. He pushed each one from the pile until he came to her name.
Katy Stevens.
He opened the folder and read the bio on her application.
Twenty-six. Just four years younger than him.
Works for her dad’s commercial real estate investment company.
Lives in Manhattan.
In a ritzy neighborhood, if Marcus wasn’t mistaken.
He flipped over her cover letter, and several photos slid out. Pictures of Katy with cute Guatemalan kids, smiling into the camera. Debris piled behind them, houses leveled flat from the earthquake. What would it take to rebuild a place like that? Probably not much.
Why did she think she would need so much money? And how much of their problems could money actually solve? After this quick fix, wouldn’t they revert back to their former poverty?
He read her cover letter.
Dear Mr. James,
I am writing on behalf of my friends in Conchilla, Guatemala. In August of this year, they suffered from an earthquake. Today, many still live under tarps in harsh conditions. No running water, no electricity. No schools.
A million dollars will help them not just now but for the future. I am hoping that the award will also be enough to give them seed money for trade work. Thus, they will be able to live free of fear, facing the future confidently.
The children need schools. In turn, they will help their country rise out of generations of poverty.
I first became acquainted with Conchilla when I visited with my father as a young teen. Their humble ways touched my heart, and ever since, I have been serving their community in whatever way I can. I hope you will consider my application on their behalf. I will be visiting the area for a few days starting December 13. If you decide to visit, I would be happy to introduce you to the people so you can see what has already been done and what still needs to be completed.
Marcus clutched the paper in his hands, his mood shifting. In the past, he had a heart. But, frankly, none of what he had read moved him.
He shoved away from his desk and stood, walking over to his floor-to-ceiling window to look out at the gray New York skyline. He recalled the earthquake victims and Katy, looking happy despite the devastation of their city.
“God,” he prayed, feeling so out of practice since his beloved wife and child were killed. “If you really exist. I need to feel again. I need to love again. I want meaning in my life. I want to be like these people. Simple in their needs and yet happy despite all that. Show me what to do.”
He thought he might feel something warm in his chest, but he only felt…nothing. He formed a fist and clenched his jaw out of frustration, when an answer floated into his head.
Go to Conchilla. Take up her invitation.
His mind resisted, even though his heart knew the answer lay in those words.
Would Katy Stevens welcome him into her world? Would she be willing to play tour guide for him as she promised?
There was only one way to find out.