“It’s great, huh?” Usually, I don’t see pride register on Rowan’s face, but when he talks about the nonprofit, I see how proud he is. And coming here, I understand exactly why. “There’s a whole art studio down the hall. There’s a kiln and everything. Once it opens up for the day, we’ll see all the families who live here.”
“People live here?”
“We provide temporary housing for families in need. And there are plenty of families in need, even in ski resort towns. Any town near a reservation is going to be that way. We’ve got lots of people who’ve had to declare bankruptcy, or who just need a place to stay between leases. There are a hundred dormitories, and we want to expand to a thousand by 2017.”
“A damn big goal.”
“Like I said, I could build it myself, but I can’t run it myself. I need community support, and support at the reservation. Otherwise, we won’t have any damn clients, no way to help people.” I hear one of the doors down the hallway opening, and about ten kids—all wearing their backpacks—run into the main area. The kids are all different ages, most of them Apache, but there are many different races and backgrounds represented here. A few parents straggle behind and wave at Rowan like he’s someone they see at their bus stop every day. One of the littlest kids—a small girl—runs up to Eliza Doolittle and slides in to hug her around the neck. Eliza looks up at me and grins and then lays her head down on the girl’s shoulder.
“Morning, Rowan!” the girl chirps into Eliza’s fur. She darts off out of the door with the gaggle of other kids and parents to wait for the bus.
“Did I mention that Eliza’s our favorite therapy dog? Had her trained once she was all housebroken and that kind of thing. She has a real affinity for the little ones.” Rowan waves at the kids as they walk outside, and Eliza follows them out to the bus stop, sticking close to the kid who stopped to see her.
“For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me,” I say.
“Scuse me for just one minute, Cadence,” Rowan says and steps over to the parents to chat. I watch him as he puts an arm around one of the fathers and claps him on the back, then as he embraces one of the women in a hug. Their faces light up when they see him, and one of the toddlers in the crowd comes hurtling toward him at full force and hugs his leg. Rowan picks the small boy up and stows him on his hip as he talks to the mothers and fathers who live at the Coming Home Foundation.
*He doesn’t talk to them like he’s a billionaire. He talks to these people like they’re his friends.
The toddler fiddles with the buttons on Rowan’s jacket, and Rowan bounces the child on his hip like it’s nothing. I just stand and watch him, lost in thought until he turns to look at me and gestures for me to come over to the crowd of parents. After introductions are made and the parents all make their way to the bus stop, Rowan takes my arm and walks me through the halls, pointing out the paintings and sculptures he had commissioned to fill the place with brightness.
Warmth expands and flows through my body as he walks with me, my arm still in his. I have half an impulse to pull away, to make sure that I don’t get caught up in a silly crush on a man I shouldn’t have--no, can’t have. But the clean and cozy beauty of the Coming Home Foundation lulls me into a sense of false security, and I cling tight to Rowan’s perfectly formed bicep as we walk through the U-shaped hall, exploring the colorful rooms that he created with the help of this community.
*Is he real? How can he be real?
I’m starting to get it--to get him--the heart of this unusual man who lives so far removed from the world, but who wants to make it a better place when and where he can. I know that if I looked at him from the outside, I might not understand. I’ve always chosen to surround myself with people, to hide inside a city where I’m anonymous more often than not. But Rowan is more comfortable with himself and the world he lives in. He *knows his place in it.
*But still, why is a man like this alone?
We walk along in silence as we round the corner that leads us back to the lobby. Even though we don’t speak, I feel comfortable walking beside him. As we walk into the lobby, full of light and green plants, I see a woman walking toward us. Instinctively, I let go of Rowan’s arm and step away from him. Something tightens in my chest, and pricks of electricity travel through my veins. The way she’s looking at him, the way he meets her eyes.
The woman laughs, and my image of her changes. Her dark eyes are warm and friendly, and when she brushes a shock of black hair over her shoulders, I’m struck by her casual elegance. She’s wearing a colorful caftan that looks like it must be hand-embroidered on the reservation, and her pants are equally bright but don’t match her shirt in any way. This must be--