Free Toss the Bouquet by Ruth Logan Herne

years of hard work could come to fruition soon. The dream of landing an office in lower Manhattan was close . . . so close. And it wasn’t the money, although he liked to make a good living. It was the prestige of making it to the pinnacle of his field in seven years. His sacrifices were about to pay off, and unlike his father, he hadn’t surrendered a family to become successful.
    He walked two blocks, then crossed to his side of the street. A neon-colored flyer on the door of the small, storefront Christian mission stood out. Down the road, two elderly men sat huddled around a heat vent, talking, the cold, wet night offering no reprieve.
    The situation didn’t add up. Greg paused and read the notice, a jumble of pseudo-legalese that said the mission was being closed due to lease infractions. He stepped back and raised his eyes to the sign above the broad, wooden door.
    Old City Mission, est. 1987
    Nettie Johnson, director
    All are welcome
    Two churches flanked the ends of the street. Upscale housing, a small park, and high-end stores had migrated to the quaint setting of the new and improved Old City, but the mission had been a Christian mainstay for people as long as he could remember.
    He approached the two men. Heads down, they ignoredhim, as if eye contact put them at risk, and they were most likely right. He squatted so he wouldn’t tower over the two older men. “Guys, who closed the mission?”
    â€œLandlord.” One old guy spit to the side in disgust. “I expect he don’t think we’re proper clientele anymore.”
    â€œNettie said she was gonna fight it, but she’s just normal folk,” added the second man. “Normal folk got no chance against money. She knows it, but she’ll do her best. And in the end, it won’t be enough.”
    Normal folk got no chance against money.
    Tara’s story came back to him, how her father’s attorney caved to the higher bidder, and he lost his fight for disability benefits. Was this what it came down to in the streets? People in dire circumstances forced onto the pavement because a landlord got a better offer?
    He’d look into it further over the weekend. He hooked a thumb left. “My car’s in the garage over there. Do you guys need a lift somewhere?”
    The men gaped, then the one with the longer beard shrugged. “Too late to get into a shelter tonight.” He looked at his companion. “We could use the bridge overhang. If Toby’s not there.”
    â€œToby don’t like strangers under his part of the bridge,” the second man explained.
    â€œGentlemen.” They all turned toward the voice from the nearby brick church. “Come in. Get dry. Spend the night. It’s not luxury, but you’ve got great company.” The middle-aged priest smiled toward the statues flanking the door. “And it’s warm.”
    Greg stood. He reached down to help one of the menup and realized the man was missing a limb. The other man followed the direction of his gaze. “Ollie’s a war hero, but we don’t make a lot of it, do we, Oll?”
    â€œOnly when the whiskey’s just right,” the amputee agreed, and his words offered a quick, cryptic explanation of his plight. “Nettie gave me what for ’bout two years back, and I gave it up, but I’m willin’ to start again about now.”
    â€œI expect being warm and dry will help.” The priest sent Greg a smile of gratitude as the men shuffled in. “But I’ll lock up the communion wine. Just in case.”
    The old men laughed, and the priest waved to Greg and shut the church door. Greg went back down the steps and turned right.
    Lights splayed before him, leading to the bank of the Delaware River.
    American history had been born here. Nurtured here. Fed here. This land before him had housed presidents and peasants. Independence Park had seen the labors of lawyers and landowners come to