Page 39 of One Southern Summer

“Privacy concerns, mostly.” Cole picked up another french fry. “Women who live at the house currently aren’t going to want a crew snooping around.”

“I’m not asking you to endanger anyone or put a woman on camera who isn’t ready to tell her story. But put aside your fear for three seconds and think about what this can do for the future of your organization.”

Cole chewed slowly, envisioning Avery’s bright smile and optimistic spirit shining like a beacon into the dark and sometimes hopeless void that comprised his work. Was it wrong that he wanted more time with her? More of her light in his life?

“If privacy is your main concern, I can have a waiver drawn up by the end of the day,” Hemby added.

Cole shook his head. The privacy argument was weak. A cover for his real fear. He didn’t trust himself to not fall completely in love with Avery. Because no matter how Hemby tried to spin this, she’d end up being involved in the process somehow. That meant even more time they’d be spending together.

“Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?”

Hemby lobbed him a look of dismay. “Don’t shoot down a great idea because you’re afraid.”

He hated when Hemby was right. A documentary raised the kind of awareness this crisis so desperately needed. Billboards, social media and fundraisers only went so far. He needed more artists across a variety of platforms to speak out against the social injustice of modern-day slavery if they had any hope of putting an end to it. A well-made documentary on a reputable streaming service had a greater reach. Which meant more people paying attention. Possibly more contributions. And maybe freedom for the many still caught in trafficking’s suffocating snare.

Cole pushed his plate aside. “I can’t give a definitive yes. Not yet. I need to think about this.”

“Shocker. When was the last time you made an impulsive decision?”

“Accepting Maribelle’s check was impulsive.”

“I suppose one impulsive decision per decade isn’t too bad.”

Cole crumpled his napkin and jammed it under the edge of his plate. He didn’t want to talk about how much trouble that one decision had caused already. He’d gone from vowing to keep his distance to having supper with Avery and her family and sharing frozen custard on the porch swing. Every minute spent with her chipped away at his best intentions to guard his heart. Hemby didn’t mind playing fast and loose, but Cole was a man who liked order and careful analysis. Besides, he’d already said yes to Maribelle’s bribe. If he said yes to a documentary, what would he risk losing next?

“I have a suggestion.” Avery picked at the seam of the cardboard sleeve on her disposable coffee cup and avoided Cole’s gaze. Her skin prickled, bracing for rejection. It had been ages since she’d pitched a creative idea. Especially one of this magnitude. Trey had often shot down her suggestions, or offered false praise then quietly eliminated her contribution from the final design plans.

“Do tell.” Cole leaned his elbows on the table, granting her his undivided attention. Conversation hummed around their small table tucked in a corner of Camellia’s popular new coffee shop.

“What would you think if the women at Imari’s Place had jobs making a line of products?” The words tumbled out. She forced herself to make eye contact, quietly assessing his reaction.

“We’ve discussed it a few times, but nothing ever panned out.” Cole slid his own coffee cup closer then shifted in his chair. “It can be challenging to raise enough funds to cover all the residents’ needs. We’ve made housing and vocational training outside the facility our main focus.”

Was that a no? She couldn’t quite interpret his neutral expression. He hadn’t shut her down, so she kept going. Flipping open her new notebook that housed all the thoughts and musings, she turned to the last page she’d filled with her research. “I’ve done some fact-finding. There are a few programs similar to Imari’s Place that make products available at a retail location. It’s a way for the women to recover and transition back to life in the world. Handbags, jewelry and other accessories.”

Cole craned his neck to get a better look at her notes. “Wow, I’m impressed. You’ve done your homework.”

“I found this organization in Nashville. They’ve had success with a variety of products.”

“Yeah, the founder’s a friend of mine.” Cole sipped his coffee.

She splayed her hand over the page and ducked her head, blood rushing to her cheeks. She was so presumptuous, trying to tell Cole about a cause he’d devoted his whole life to.

“Hey.” His voice was warm. Gentle. He dipped his chin and found her gaze again. “I wasn’t criticizing you. Simply acknowledging that other organizations have done this well and we can certainly look at emulating them. Tell me more about your idea.”

She straightened. How refreshing. Instead of discrediting her like Trey had done countless times, Cole wanted to hear more. The fact that he hadn’t dismissed her idea injected her with confidence. “Well, you know me. I want to do something unique, something no one else is doing, but the overhead might be too high and we don’t really have access to a warehouse or a manufacturing space.”

“All excellent points. We can get to those details later. Talk to me about the products.”

“Candles, bath bombs and soap are top of mind. Perhaps essential oils and lotion too if we had the bandwidth. Women helping women, and women building each other up is so important. I know a lot of people who would love to buy products made by people rescued from trafficking.”

Cole’s fingers moved along his jaw. “I have some contacts on the ground in other countries where women make jewelry and sell it in their community. That can be sort of a feast-or-famine kind of thing. The slightest amount of political instability or the unpredictable nature of consumers, and the whole operation is off the rails. To your point, a facility here in Camellia or close by would be huge.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the women who will stay at Imari’s Place.”

He nodded. “Me too.”

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