Chapter 2

I was surprised when Monica admitted me to Hope Haven. The front door led down a long passageway to another door. Behind the door was a glass-in entryway. She wasn't kidding when she said that forced entry would be difficult. I guess you can't be too careful when dealing with men who would strike a women or a child.

I didn't comment on the security as much as I wanted to.

I was led through an office into a large kitchen. I was surprised at the size of everything. The building didn't look that large from the outside. Again, I refrained from commenting. In fact, I was silent from the moment I left the car.

"Can you start heating up the food?" Monica asked. I nodded. "We plan to eat in about 45 minutes. Some of the women won't be home from their jobs until just before 6. I figure an hour or so for dinner and chit-chat then Santa can make his appearance at 7 or so. Does that work for you?"

Again I nodded.

"Mike, it's OK for you to speak," Monica said with a laugh. "Everyone knows you're here — well, some of the residents don't but you won't be interacting with them anyway. But the staff knows who you are and why you're here. Some of them weren't real happy about it but you can't have everything. You won't be bothered in the kitchen."

I smiled. I knew some of the administrators from my job. They were a diverse group with only two things in common — a hatred of the male species and the fact they thought they deserved something for nothing.

I first crossed paths with one of the directors about a week after I took my job. It seemed the former managing editor would do a fluffy column once or twice a year extolling the virtues of Hope Haven and urging the community to give generously to the organization. The columns were short on substance and long on platitudes. The director stopped in to ensure that I planned to continue the practice — something I had no intention of doing without research.

She didn't take my answer very well. In fact, she threw a tantrum that my son would have been proud to call his own.

"I should have known when they hired a man that we would get no more help," she spat at me.

I felt it important to interrupt at that point.

"My gender has nothing to do with it," I said sharply. "The fact is that I am unwilling to lend my newspaper's name to an organization I know nothing about. Because you are unwilling to be forthcoming about the services you provide in anything except generalities and you refuse to say where the money that the public donates goes, I am unable to promise you positive coverage in any fashion. Any good journalist would treat your organization that way."

I purposefully said the last statement to get my point across about the previous managing editor — who had left the paper under less than positive circumstances.

My answer didn't appease the woman in the slightest.

"If you think I'm going to let men who beat their wives know what we do, you're insane," she hissed.

"And if you think I'm going to subscribe to the same sort of management as my predecessor, so are you," I returned. "Open your books and tell me the specific procedures that you use and the specific programs that you offer and, if they are state-sanctioned, I might be willing to help you. As it is, I won't."

Needless to say the woman continued to maintain that secrecy was of the utmost importance and I refused to budge on my stance. So the fluff piece became a thing of the past. It didn't bother me in the least when another woman called to complain that donations had decreased that year.

"This paper is not your public relations department," I answered. "We deal in facts here. You give me facts and if they are corroborated, we can do a story. If you want to use supposition and anecdotes from unnamed sources, we can't. It's that simple. You get a huge state grant every year. If you want to do a PR piece, hire someone to do it. But the resources of the paper are going to be used differently than in the past."

I was surprised when my ex-wife supported my decision. I knew she was affiliated with the shelter and I had expected a confrontation with her. The confrontation still came — because they were as regular as a Swiss timepiece — but it didn't involve Hope Haven.

I knew the administrator in question had been demoted a few months earlier so I didn't exactly expect a warm welcome. I was happy to know that I would be left relatively alone in the kitchen.

The re-heating of the food was easy and I was in the middle of decorating the first batch of cookies — shaped as snowmen, candy canes and stockings — when my life changed forever.

I was whistling a Christmas carol as I finished striping a candy cane cookie so I didn't hear her enter. It was only when she spoke did I realize anyone was even in the room with me.

"Those are adorable," the woman said.

I glanced up and my good mood evaporated instantly. The woman looked like she had gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson. Still she had a brilliant smile across her face.

Even with the bruises and cuts on her face, I could tell she was beautiful. Or at least I thought she was.

I tried my best to ignore her injuries but I'm not sure I was successful.

"Thanks," I muttered as I went back to decorating. "My sister owned a bakery. I used to help her out in the summers when I was a kid."

The woman moved closer and peered over my shoulder at the cookies I'd already finished.

"You even put chocolate chips for the snowman's buttons," she said. "That is too cute."

Her closeness made me uncomfortable.

"Um, I'm sorry, Miss," I stammered. "But you're not supposed to be in here. I'm sure someone would be upset if they saw you here. I don't want to cause you any trouble."

The woman chuckled grimly.

"Any more trouble, you mean," she said. "It's OK. I just smelled the cookies and followed my nose. Do you need any help? I'd love to learn to decorate like that."

I stepped away to increase the distance between us.

"Not really," I said. "It's pretty simple after you do it a couple of times. The best part is, you get to eat your mistakes."

The woman's laughter was fuller than I expected. She seemed so tiny, so fragile. But the sound emanating from her throat was rich.

"I'm Carrie," she said extending her hand. "We don't use last names here for some odd reason. It's like they strip us of our identity since most of our dignity is already gone."

She seemed troubled by that statement.

"I'm Mike," I said. "Mike Cavenaugh. I got to keep my name when I came in."

More laughter from Carrie.

"Carrie Watson," she whispered. "But don't tell anyone. Are you related to Kelly Cavenaugh?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Related? No," I answered. "I was however married to her for a dozen years. I am related to our children though."

I saw Carrie was missing a tooth when she smiled.

"She's nice," she told me. "I like her."

I bit my tongue.

"Well, Carrie," I said. "I think you should probably go on out. I think they'll be serving dinner in a few minutes. I have another batch of cookies to get out of the oven and one more to put in."

Carrie was moving toward the doorway when one of the administrators came bustling through. She greeted me with an icy glare and ushered Carrie through the door.

"I knew this was a bad idea," she said. "You were to be told not to speak to any of the clients."

"Look lady," I bristled. "I was in the kitchen minding my own business. She came in here and started talking to me. It might be in your nature to treat these woman as if they are unworthy of your time and respect but it isn't in mine. I refuse to ignore them and I refuse to be impolite. When she started to talk to me, I answered her. She asked about the cookies I'm baking and I told her. That is the entirety of our conversation. If you don't like it, too damned bad."

Monica came into the kitchen and heard my last statement.

"I thought we agreed that you wouldn't bother Mr. Cavenaugh, Madelyn," Monica said. "He was nice enough to come here and help us."

"But he was talking to one of the clients," Madelyn insisted. "I don't care what he is kind enough to do. That is out of line."

Monica looked up at me.

"As I have explained to this woman," I said tersely, "I spoke only when spoken to. I was unwilling to ignore the woman. That seemed counter-productive to what you should be trying to accomplish here. I didn't see how that would improve her self-image in the slightest."

I saw a hint of a smile brush Monica's lips but just as quickly it disappeared.

"There you have it," she said. "He didn't go to the dining room nor did he behave inappropriately. Perhaps you overreacted, Madelyn. I'll handle things in here."

Madelyn was an unhappy camper when she trooped out of the kitchen. I have to admit that I was slightly perturbed myself.

"Sorry about that," Monica said. "That old bat just loves to cause drama. She would be happy if we were somehow able to turn the women here into lesbians. She tried to get us to exclude women who had male children older than 12. Can you believe that shit?"

Not surprisingly, I could believe it entirely.

"Anyway, Carrie smelled cookies and came in," I said. "Perhaps you should tell the 'clients' that the kitchen is off limits."

Monica's face took on a harsh expression.

"I can't believe she called them 'clients, '" Monica hissed. "Like we're running an escort service or something. Jesus Christ, they're residents. I hope you understand that not everyone is like Madelyn."

"Except for you, everyone I've met from here is," I said evenly.

"Kelly isn't," she said with a smile.

"Kelly is a bitch," I replied. Then I shook my head. "Sorry about that. It only came out the way I meant it. What I should have said is that Kelly probably would be like that if she found it suited her purposes. Anyway, please apologize to the young lady for me. She was only interested in learning how to decorate cookies. There was nothing unseemly going on."

Monica seemed to notice the cookies for the first time. I quelled the urge to slap her hand when she snatched one off the plate. First, I thought it would send the wrong message in a battered-women's shelter. Second, she outweighed me by a hundred pounds or more.

It wasn't two minutes after Monica departed when Carrie re-entered the kitchen.

"I figure if I get you tossed out on your can, I get all the cookies," she said. Again the kitchen was filled with her laughter. "Seriously, Monica sent me in to tell you that dinner will be served in about 10 minutes and for me to give you a hand with whatever you might need help with."

I glanced up in time to see a cookie disappear off the plate into Carrie's mouth. She winced slightly when she started to chew.

"Asshole," I heard her mutter under her breath. I wondered if she was talking to me.

"I have almost everything ready," I said. "The potatoes are ready to go and the ham and rolls are set. Could you put the green beans into a casserole dish for me?"

As Carrie went off toward the stove, I saw the bruises extended to the back of her neck as well. It was with fire and hatred in my eyes that I turned to see Monica in the doorway to the kitchen. She smiled sadly and shook her head. At least she didn't think I was a misogynist. I actually prefer the term misanthrope: I hate everyone equally regardless of gender.

"Thanks for sending Carrie into help," I said. "I was running out of hands."

"And God knows we don't want him using his feet," Carrie chimed in from behind me. I was amazed that she could maintain a sense of humor after whatever she went through to get to Hope Haven. Perhaps she used humor as a defense mechanism.

"Actually, I was getting my ass chewed by some old bag," Carrie informed me. "It appears that I broke a cardinal rule and was actually nice to someone with a penis."

She paused for a heartbeat.

"You do have a penis, right?" she asked with a laugh.