Wes glanced over at Rebecca. “Come on. Let’s get out of their way.”
He took a step to walk around them, shoulders hunched, but she grabbed the sleeve of his shirt. “Wait.”
He turned to face her, his look pleading. “Bec, come on.”
She ignored Wes and looked at Mr. Madan. “Sir, I’m really sorry about what you walked up on, but Wes brought me here because he wanted me to see the bus.” She took a deep breath. “I’m prepared to make an offer for a thousand over the asking price, which you
know is at least two thousand more than it’s worth. I can write you a check tonight, but you have to agree to it now. I don’t want a bidding war with these two.”
“What?” Wes said, his expression full of what-the-fuck.
But Mr. Madan grinned wide, flashing bright white teeth. “Fantastic, my dear. You have yourself a deal.”
“Wait, hold up,” the bearded guy said with a frown. “We should have a shot, too.”
Mr. Madan patted the guy on the shoulder. “I have other things to show you. Perfect things. Wes is family. He gets privilege.” Mr. Madan held his hand out to Rebecca to shake on it. “And I like a lady who knows what she wants and gets to the point.”
Wesley looked on, horrified. “Rebecca, what the hell? You can’t—”
“Thank you, Mr. Madan.” She shook his hand, shooting Wesley a nervous glance. This wasn’t exactly how she’d planned to do it. She’d planned to propose the idea to Wes, to give him the option. Not force things. But at the thought of the couple snatching the bus out from underneath Wes, her mouth had opened and out everything had come. Too late now. She’d deal with the consequences later. “Where do I sign the papers?”
Mr. Madan told her to head to his office on the other side of the lot and he’d meet her there after he showed the couple another option. Rebecca headed that way, Wesley in her wake. He caught up to her, her bad leg making it impossible to get too far ahead of him. “What the hell are you doing?”
She tipped up her chin. “Buying Adele.”
“Buying? No. This is insane. You can’t… You’re not buying me a bus. I told you I don’t even want to accept the ovens!”
“You’re taking the ovens. And I’m not buying the bus for you…at least not exactly.”
He stepped in front of her, blocking her way between two dinged-up Fords. “I’m not going to let you do this. Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s not going to happen.”
“It’s going to happen whether you want it to or not. This is why I had you bring me here tonight. I was going to talk to you about it, discuss options, but the plan just got a little…accelerated.”
“The plan?”
“Yes.” She crossed her arms. “And if you calm down for a second, you’ll see that it’s a good one.”
“I doubt that. Because whatever it is, you just bought a bus you don’t need and I don’t want.”
She ignored him. “I don’t throw together plans lightly. I’ve given this a lot of thought the last few days. I’m in charge of a charity fund at work, and it’s at my discretion what we use it on this year. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but after I spent time with your class the other day, it hit me. I could buy Adele for the program.”
He reared back. “What?”
“I know you don’t want a handout for yourself or them. I get it and respect the stance. This is not that. It’s a project. One with real-world application. The kids could help you refurbish the bus, set up a business plan, a menu, all the things that go along with opening a business. It could be a project that rolls into the summer and could teach them great skills, give them job experience.” She was talking fast now, trying to get it all out before Wesley blew another gasket.
“And then when you open it, a portion of the sales could go to the school to fund the program. The kids could even work the truck and earn some money once it gets going, if they want. It could be an ever-flowing source of support for the program. And you…” She swallowed past the knot in her throat. “I know it’s not exactly what you envisioned, but you could have a restaurant to run again.”
“I could have…” He stared at her, dumbfounded. “Holy shit, this is some sort of guilt thing, isn’t it? You’re trying to fix things. You’re trying to give me a restaurant. Rebecca, that’s nuts.”
“It’s not guilt, Wes, it’s—”
“No. Listen to yourself,” he said, squaring off with her. “People don’t do this. People don’t meet strangers and offer to dump a truckload of money on them. They don’t offer to hand them a business on a platter for the hell of it.”
“I swear it’s not guilt.” She pursed her lips, nerves trying to take over. “It’s—”
He held his hands out, beseeching. “It’s what? Please tell me because I sure as shit don’t understand.”
“I’m a Long Acre High survivor.” The words tumbled out of her and fell into the tense space between them.