At His Fingertips

“That fits Dale. He’s not big on generating income.”

“And that makes you angry?”

“No. Worried.” Concern instantly replaced sarcasm. “He’s stuck in limbo, kind of an eternal adolescence. Ever since I dragged him to L.A. If I’d thought he’d drop out, I’d never have done it.” Mitch shook his head. “So I feel responsible. If I can help him get his life straight, I want to do it.”

“But is he happy with his life?”

Mitch shrugged. “He’s got the rhetoric down, the old ‘screw materialism and Yuppie striving.’He’d never tell me what he really thinks.”

“Because you’re his big brother.”

“Exactly. We push each other’s buttons. You know how it is.” His hard eyes had softened as he talked about his brother, which made her like him a little more.

“I can imagine.” She was an only child of a single mother, but she understood sibling dynamics from clients and friends. “So tell him about the workshop. If he’s interested, confirm with my assistant tomorrow. You can pay the fee when you get there.”

“There’s a fee?”

“Nominal. Just a hundred dollars. That way participants make a real commitment to the process. That’s why we offer matching grants, so they invest financially as well as emotionally and spiritually.”

“You ask them for capital? Up front?”

“Investment signals action. We encourage them to find outside investors as well.”

“I see.” But the idea seemed to confirm some suspicion he had.

“We eventually want the foundation to be self-sustaining.” Part of the long-range plan she had no clue how to create.

“If Dale does the workshop, will he get a grant?”

“If he meets our criteria. And if it’s his dream. I had a client today who thought she wanted a business, but what she wanted was to become a teacher.”

“So you turned her down?”

“I shifted her focus. She’s coming to the workshop and she’ll probably change her application to a scholarship. Bring Dale and you’ll see how it works.” She touched his hand—a reassuring gesture she used all the time—but it was like a lightning rod for the sexual current between them. She jerked her hand away.

Mitch looked at his hand, then at her face, as if he’d felt the charge, too. When he spoke, he seemed groggy, like someone awakened from a stage hypnosis. “What are the, uh, criteria?”

She used words he would respect. “We have a rubric to evaluate the viability of the idea, the level of the applicant’s commitment and the value of the service or product.”

“That sounds good.” He seemed relieved, which irked her.

“And, of course, I read the palm of every applicant.”

“You what?”

“I’m teasing, but my gift helps me choose who to fund.”

“Ok-ka-a-ay.” He wanted to laugh, she could tell, and that irritated her. She usually avoided skeptics or ignored their insults, but Mitch got to her. Maybe because of her own recent doubts.

“If it makes you feel better, just call it my strong intuition and knowledge of human psychology.”

“Fair enough,” he said. “What’s your approval percentage?”

“I’ve only been here for a few weeks, so I can’t say. The first director funded a dozen projects and I—”

“What happened to the first director?”

“She had to leave because of a family illness.”

“I see.” Was he thinking she was a desperation hire? She’d feared that, too, though Olivia had said no. You are tuned to the beat of every heart, cara, like I don’t know what for, she’d said in her charming Italian-cum-New Jersey accent. I should have gone with my heart and hired you first. Forget my brothers and their obligations.

“Anyway, I’ve funded six grants so far, including an earth-friendly organic bakery, a program for poor kids to earn computers through good grades and another to help prostitutes turn their lives around.”

“Prostitutes?”

“Yes. It’s a career-skills program. You can see how wide-ranging our projects can be.”

“Is there a prospectus or annual report? I noticed you don’t have a Web site.”

“Just the brochure so far. Belinda, my assistant, is working on the Web site, which should be up soon. We’re doing good work, Mitch, even if we don’t have a paper trail.”

“Sorry. I’m a lawyer. If it’s not in triplicate with six signatures, it doesn’t exist.” He gave a self-mocking smile.

“Have a little faith.”

“Not in my nature.” He shrugged.

“That’s not quite true.” She’d caught flickers of a wistful optimism behind his judgmental eyes. His self-mocking humor spoke of the humility she’d remembered. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll decide to draft your own grant.”

“Why would you think that?”

“I sense some dissatisfaction in you.”

“You’re reading my mind?” He was teasing, but she answered him straight.

“Only dimly. When I know someone my gift fades.” She had picked up a muddy blue coated with gray when she first saw him, signifying emotional reluctance, guardedness and suspicion. Not at all the openhearted guy she’d met that star-streaked night. But then maybe she’d read him wrong, read his palm wrong, too, as with her mother. That made her throb with pain. The day after she’d met Doctor X, her confidence, her world, had been rocked to its foundations.

She didn’t need any gift to read Mitch’s skepticism. “Everyone has psychic abilities, Mitch, however rudimentary or undeveloped. Even you. We all respond to subtle information about the people around us.”

She watched him fight a sharp remark, then decide to keep the peace. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Come to the workshop with an open mind and you’ll see.”

“Okay,” he said softly. “Surprise me.”

He’d sure surprised her.

Why hadn’t it been the friendly and familiar Jonathan smiling down at her when she’d shoved the eye bag off her face? Instead, it was Doctor X, who’d turned out all wrong.