I've Always Had a Weakness for a Beautiful Face

I was late to the Bellwether House because I had stopped to choose between two photographs of the same child. The foundation's communications director had sent me both. In one, a twelve-year-old girl named Cora was laughing with her whole face. In the other, she was looking directly into the camera, her chin lifted, her expression steady. The caption called her resilient. I was supposed to pick the picture for our annual appeal. I picked the laughing one. Then I looked at the clock, grabbed my coat, and ran. Rain blurred the windows of my car as I turned onto Harbor Street. Bellwether was an old coastal city built around a deepwater harbor, all salt-stained brick and steep roofs. The Bellwether House stood between a shuttered bakery and a row of narrow homes with blue trim. My great-grandmother had bought the building decades earlier and donated it to the Mercer Foundation. It had once been a boardinghouse. We wanted to turn it into temporary apartments for young adults leaving foster care. The front door was propped open. A man stood beneath the narrow awning, one hand holding a roll of plans against his chest. Rain had darkened his coat and curled the edges of his hair. He looked up when I hurried toward him. I stopped. He had the kind of face that made a person forget the sentence she had been forming. Strong nose, gray eyes, a mouth that seemed made for smiling and had apparently been advised against it. I knew at once that I wanted him to smile at me. "You must be Ms. Mercer," he said. "I am. You must be the architect." "Julian Cross. I'm the restoration consultant." He shifted the plans out of the rain. "I've been waiting for twenty minutes." "I'm sorry." "I'm not." He glanced toward the open doorway. "The building's giving me plenty to look at." I laughed, though he hadn't made it sound like a joke. "You've already been inside?" "Just the first floor. I didn't want to start without you." That should have been my first clue that he was careful. Instead, I noticed how neatly his shirt collar sat above his coat. My family had taught me to admire beauty before I had the words for it. When I was seven, my mother gave me a few dollars to hand out at the church pantry. I gave my last bill to the prettiest child in line, a boy with shining hair and a clean, bright smile. The girl behind him had a split lip and a coat too thin for winter. I offered her one of the bruised apples in our basket. When I was thirteen, our housekeeper, Miss Dottie, broke a porcelain bowl. I begged my mother not to dock her pay. Miss Dottie had a delicate face and kind eyes. The gardener, Mr. Hanley, once cracked a vase worth more than his car, and I told him he should have been more careful. I had never thought of those moments as anything but kindness. "Ms. Mercer?" Julian asked. I realized I was staring at him. "Sorry. Let's go inside." The house smelled of dust and damp plaster. I showed him the rooms we hoped to convert into small apartments, the old staircase we planned to preserve, and the basement where the heating system had failed twice in the previous year. Julian listened without interrupting. When I described the proposed schedule, he asked whether we had a structural survey. "We have the preliminary one," I said. "May I see it?" I handed him the folder. He studied the pages, his expression changing as he turned them. "This doesn't include the north wall." "The original contractor said it was sound." "The original contractor is guessing." Julian tapped a diagram with one finger. "There's movement here. I'd want a full survey before anyone signs off on the renovation." My stomach tightened. "How much would that add?" "I don't know yet. But it'll cost less than building over a problem." He said it plainly, with no attempt to soften the answer for me. I liked that. Or perhaps I liked the way he looked when he spoke plainly. At the end of the walk-through, I offered him the contract. He hadn't submitted a formal bid. His firm had been recommended by our property manager, but the board had not approved an appointment. "I can ask you to submit a proposal," I said. "If you're interested." "I am." "Then I'll make sure you have a chance." He studied me for a moment. "A fair chance?" The question struck me as oddly personal. "Of course." He nodded, as if he'd heard the answer and still wasn't sure whether to believe it. That afternoon, I sent the board an email recommending that we invite Julian's firm to bid. I attached his résumé, his references, and the notes from our meeting. I also attached the photograph of Cora I had chosen for the appeal. For reasons I couldn't have explained, I kept thinking of both faces.