Chapter 2 - THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WAS WORKING FOR DINNER
“Because if I don't help, Mommy doesn't eat.”
The little girl's voice came from behind Gideon Hartwell.
He turned.
Mara stood beside the service station, clutching her plastic container against her chest.
Restaurant manager Richard Halden went pale.
“Mara, sweetheart, go back to the kitchen.”
“I'm done,” she said.
She lifted the container.
“I got two rolls today.”
Gideon looked at the food inside.
Two dinner rolls.
Three carrots.
Half a potato.
And a thin slice of chicken somebody had left beneath a pile of lettuce.
He had paid eighty-seven dollars for an appetizer he hadn't finished the previous Friday.
The comparison made his stomach tighten.
He lowered himself onto one knee.
“What's your name?”
“Mara Brooks.”
“I'm Gideon.”
“I know.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“You do?”
She nodded toward Halden.
“He said you're the important man.”
Gideon glanced at the manager.
“Did he?”
Mara studied his expensive watch.
“Are you the boss?”
“Of a company.”
“Then you should tell them not to throw away the potatoes.”
For the first time that evening, Gideon had no immediate answer.
Halden stepped forward.
“Mr. Hartwell, perhaps we could discuss this privately.”
“No.”
The single word stopped him.
Gideon stood.
“We'll discuss it here.”
Several nearby diners had begun watching.
Halden lowered his voice.
“We're doing the best we can. Her mother lost her regular work. We allow the child to collect food that would otherwise be discarded.”
“After she clears tables.”
“She enjoys helping.”
Gideon looked at Mara.
“Do you enjoy it?”
She considered the question carefully.
“Sometimes.”
“What don't you like?”
“The glasses.”
“Why?”
“I'm scared I'll break one.”
The busser named Luis approached from the kitchen.
He was a broad-shouldered man in his fifties, with tired eyes and a towel folded over one arm.
“She doesn't carry glasses, sir. I make sure of that.”
“Then why is she working at all?”
Luis looked at Halden before answering.
“Because she won't take anything unless she thinks she's earned it.”
Mara nodded.
“Mommy says we don't take things that aren't ours.”
Gideon felt something painful settle beneath his ribs.
“Your mother sounds like a good woman.”
“She is.”
Mara's expression brightened.
“She makes pretty dresses. And she fixes buttons better than anyone.”
Halden rubbed his forehead.
“Her mother, Naomi, used to handle alterations for our staff. We paid her properly. Then she became ill, and things got complicated.”
“What illness?”
“Respiratory problems, I believe.”
Luis spoke quietly.
“She has trouble breathing. Some nights are worse than others.”
Gideon turned toward the kitchen.
Through the swinging doors, he could see a worker scraping an untouched serving of roasted vegetables into a garbage bin.
“Stop throwing that away.”
Halden blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Have the kitchen package whatever can be safely donated. Properly stored, properly handled. Not scraped off customers' plates.”
“We have health regulations—”
“Then follow them. I didn't ask you to break the law.”
Halden opened his mouth, then closed it.
Gideon turned back to Mara.
“Have you eaten tonight?”
She nodded.
“What did you have?”
“One bread.”
“A dinner roll?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
She shrugged.
“I was saving the chicken.”
“For your mother?”
“And Mrs. Flores.”
“Who is Mrs. Flores?”
“She's old. Her legs hurt.”
Gideon stared at the container.
The child wasn't gathering dinner for one sick woman.
She was dividing leftovers among people who had even less.
He took out his wallet.
“Mara, I'd like to buy you a proper dinner.”
She immediately stepped backward.
“No, thank you.”
“Why not?”
“Mommy said not to go places with strangers.”
“She's right.”
“And I can't take money.”
Gideon put his wallet away.
“Then I won't give you money.”
He stood and called Luis closer.
“Does her mother know she's here?”
“Yes. I walk her home after my shift. Her mother waits up.”
“Would you introduce me?”
Luis hesitated.
Halden quickly interrupted.
“Mr. Hartwell, Naomi has specifically asked us not to involve outsiders.”
“Why?”
The manager's jaw tightened.
“She's had unpleasant experiences with people offering assistance.”
Gideon studied him.
There was fear in Halden's face.
Not embarrassment.
Fear.
“What aren't you telling me?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Luis looked toward Mara.
Then he spoke.
“Naomi's landlord is trying to make them leave their apartment.”
“Luis,” Halden warned.
“No,” Luis said.
His voice was trembling, but he didn't lower it.
“The child comes here because there's no heat at home. Her mother gets sicker every time it rains. And the people who are supposed to fix that building keep sending papers telling everyone to move.”
Gideon's eyes hardened.
“What building?”
Luis hesitated again.
Mara answered.
“The one with the broken elevator.”
She reached beneath her apron and pulled out a folded piece of yellow paper.
“Mommy said I'm not supposed to lose this.”
Gideon didn't touch it.
“May I look?”
She nodded.
He unfolded the notice.
HARTWELL COMMUNITY HOUSING TRUST
Temporary Relocation Directive.
Property: 214 West 112th Street.
Mandatory relocation preparation.
Forty-eight-hour compliance period.
Gideon stopped breathing for a moment.
Hartwell.
His mother's name.
His mother's charitable housing trust.
The foundation he personally funded.
He read the next paragraph.
The building had reportedly failed essential safety inspections. Residents were instructed to prepare for emergency relocation while major repairs were completed.
At the bottom sat an electronic authorization.
Gideon Hartwell.
Chairman.
He stared at his own name.
“That isn't possible.”
Mara looked worried.
“Did I do something bad?”
He immediately lowered the paper.
“No, sweetheart. You didn't.”
“Then why are you mad?”
Gideon forced his voice to soften.
“I'm not mad at you.”
He turned toward Halden.
“Did you know this was my foundation?”
The manager looked away.
“Mr. Hartwell—”
“Did you know?”
“Yes.”
The answer was almost inaudible.
Gideon felt an anger unlike anything he'd experienced across a negotiating table.
“You let me come here every Friday while a child from my own housing program picked through leftovers?”
Halden's face flushed.
“I didn't know what you would do.”
“You could have asked.”
“We did.”
Gideon went still.
Halden swallowed.
“Naomi wrote to the foundation. More than once.”
“Who received the letters?”
“I don't know.”
“Who told her she had to move?”
Halden looked directly at him.
“The same people who told me to stop employing her.”
The room seemed suddenly quieter.
Gideon carefully folded the notice.
“Luis, when does your shift finish?”
“Nine-thirty.”
“Would you be willing to take me to Naomi? With Mara's permission?”
Luis nodded.
Mara considered Gideon suspiciously.
“Are you going to make Mommy move?”
“No.”
He looked again at the signature.
“At least, I'm going to do everything I can to stop that from happening.”
Forty minutes later, they stood outside an aging brick apartment building in Harlem.
The elevator was broken.
The hallway smelled of damp plaster.
A handwritten sign warned tenants not to use the hot water.
On the third floor, Luis knocked on apartment 3B.
A woman opened the door.
She was thin, with tired brown eyes and dark curls pulled into a loose bun. She wore a gray sweater over a faded dress.
She began smiling when she saw Mara.
Then she noticed Gideon.
The smile disappeared.
“You.”
Gideon stepped forward.
“Ms. Brooks, I'm Gideon Hartwell.”
“I know exactly who you are.”
She gripped the doorframe to steady herself.
Mara lifted her container.
“Mommy, I got chicken.”
Naomi looked at the food.
Then at the billionaire standing behind her daughter.
“You've seen how we live,” she said quietly. “Is that why you're here?”
“No. I just discovered what's happening.”
Naomi gave a tired, bitter laugh.
“That's what your people said before they took the heat away.”
Gideon held out the yellow notice.
“My name is on this. I need to understand why.”
Naomi stared at him.
Then she reached into her sweater pocket and unfolded a second paper.
“This came yesterday.”
It was a payment statement.
A relocation settlement.
Recipient: Naomi Brooks.
Amount: $120,000.
Status: Paid in full.
Gideon looked up.
Naomi's eyes filled with tears.
“I haven't received twelve cents, Mr. Hartwell.”
She pointed at the signature beside her name.
“And I never signed that.”
Gideon examined the document.
Beneath Naomi's forged signature was the name of the person who had witnessed the payment.
May you like
Luis Mendoza.
The man standing beside him.
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