After changing a few bulbs, adjusting the bathroom taps and greasing a squeaky door, Momma made good on her promise of a tour, starting from the top and working her way down. A quick sweep of his eyes and Gage could see the home was quickly falling to disrepair. Not that any of the inhabitants, grateful for a roof and walls, seemed to mind the cracking plaster or shoddy plumbing. Each room was lovingly decorated in hodgepodge of floral prints, hand-me-down furniture and linens, beds and cots crammed into every available nook and cranny, housing women of all ages and ethnicities, some with young children, and all facing hard times.

Each of them standing at a crossroads in life, in need of a helping hand and direction. Momma was that beacon. She took them in and gave them hope.

At the top of the landing, he paused by a framed and faded picture of a young woman, her arms draped around the shoulders of a proud and stately man who gazed at her with a tender sort of affection that touched his heart.

"Wasn't I a looker?" Momma gave his ribs a nudged with her fleshy elbow, and then slipped a hand around his waist and squeezed. "Such a babe."

"Yes." Gage admitted. His eyes assessed the sandy grain of black and white to imagine the honey hue of her once blonde hair, curled and drawn back from a delicately boned face, smiling in a way that only a woman with secrets and mystery could smile. And although age had robbed her of the lush lips, her soft and dewy skin, even her bright and golden tresses, her eyes, in a face now wizened with age, were just as bright and just as playful as those captured in the photograph.

They hadn't lost their sparkle. Or sense of playful mystery.

"Oh, these floorboards creak almost as much as my joints," she laughed as she steered him towards the stairs, holding on to him and banister as she took the first shaky step. "I've lived here for forty-three years. Moved in with my late husband after we got married, bless his bones. Never had any children, not for want of trying. After he passed, I opened my doors to stray travellers to earn a tidy living, but soon I discovered there was a pressing need in the city. And twelve years ago, Crossroads was born."

At the bottom of the stairs, limping a bit with effort, Momma leaned heavily on him as he led her through the foyer and into the sitting area. Although she'd appeared as vibrant and spry as a woodland fairy, the hiking up and down the flights of stairs during their tour of her three story home had exacted its toll.

"I've got fifteen beds in here, and I provide everything from meals and clothing—whatever I can get donated from the city. I've had women who've faced violence, substance abuse, physical illness, women fleeing from domestic nightmares, extreme poverty and trauma. Throughout the week, a couple volunteers come and help these poor souls with finding and securing permanent housing, government welfare, and, whenever possible, jobs or educational enrichment. But it's not easy."

"I don't imagine so." Gage agreed, scooping an arm around her shoulder, taking more of her weight. "They come to you broken, and you help them pick up the shattered pieces, putting back together what can be salvaged, and rebuilding what can't. They leave you scarred, but whole."

"Yes, but not all women who come through my door leave to face a better life," Momma replied, her tone heavy with sorrow. "Some fall back into the streets, back into despair and drugs, or even into the arms of the very man who had them riddled with bruises and broken bones. But not my Victory, oh no."

"Tell me about her." Gage poured out a glass of chilled lemonade with mint and fresh raspberries from a pitcher Victory had set on the coffee table while they were upstairs. A few of the houses inhabitants had already helped themselves to the tray of cookies, and were scattered about the main floor, nestled in the chairs by the television watching Days of Our Lives, or on the veranda by the garden to enjoy the company of flowers and sun.

His eyes drifted to a young girl at the dining room table, nibbling on the crust of a sandwich, nose in a book and his heart seized. Kid couldn't be a day over seventeen, if that. Long sable hair, stringy and dull, draped over one bony shoulder, pale skin and hollow cheeks with bruising under her dark eyes. The jittery legs, the itching fingers and gnawing teeth chewing lips and cheeks until raw—he'd seen enough junkies along the Hollywood strip to know the telltale signs.

"Victory is a trusting soul." Momma explained, drawing his eye and ear as she lifted a white chocolate and macadamia nut cookie from the silver tray and set it on a napkin. She glanced up at him with speculative eyes, wary, watchful and protective as a mother hen. "How much has she told you?"

"A bit." Gage answered honestly. "She was young when she met Derek Cole. I'm sure you wouldn't be surprised to hear she glossed over most of the darker details, but it sounded like before she came here Victory was in a real mess." Holding both glasses, Gage offered Momma his arm and walked her over to a faded navy upholstered side chair perched in the nestled cove of the bay window, overlooking the front garden and quiet residential streets.

He sat in the matching one facing her and set his glass on the windowsill, and Momma's on the side table atop a shamrock shaped coaster.

"Oh, she was. She was, indeed. Wafer thin, starved near to bone. From what she described of Derek, he was handsome, silver-tongued with ten years on her, full of bold dreams and bad credit. She'd been on the streets a couple of days before pride finally bowed to reason and she sought a shelter. But unfortunately there are only so many beds in Toronto and far too many in need." Momma sighed, lifting the chilled glass of lemonade to her lips. She sipped, rolled the cool liquid in her mouth before swallowing, then slid her eyes back to Gage. He sat with his elbows propped on his knees, chin on his fist and eyes intent. Focused.

Now here was a man, she thought, the sort she'd often prayed would come Victory's way, and now wondered what would Victory do, now that he had?

"She'd tried four before reaching my doorstep." Momma returned her glass to the coaster, folded her hands in her laps and crossed sore, aching feet at the ankles. "I had too many women and too few beds as it was, but I took her in. All I had to offer was a scrap of floor and an old blanket, but I couldn't turn her away. From day one, Victory was adamant about earning her keep. I try to get all the women to pitch in with cleaning, the garden, you name it. But I saw Victory's passion was in the kitchen. She was untrained but willing to learn. And talented. So talented. She caught on quick, taught her everything I knew but she had real potential to shine."

Gage saw a glimmer in Momma's wistful grey eyes. Pride, joy. And love. For a moment, she looked as young and vibrant as she had in the photograph he'd so admired.

"So, I did what I could, sold what little valuables I owned, cashed in what savings I had left to get the vultures off her back, and took out a loan to get her into a prestigious culinary program with George Brown."

"You did all that?" He asked, astounded, and moved by the generosity this woman shared as freely and openly as her smiles.

"I would have done more." Momma bit into the cookie and took a moment to savour before she swallowed. "The rest fell on her shoulders, but I believed in Victory, and sure enough she got accepted. I even pulled a favour with a fellow I knew from church who owned a little bakery out on Jarvis. He gave her a job and a room in the apartment above his shop where she earned a meager and modest living. She had to stretch every penny, but it was a fresh start to a new life. One she seized hungrily with both hands."

Leaning back into the chair, Gage imagined Victory, scrapping through school, working the counter or bussing tables. Each day, up to her elbows in dough, covered in flour, then crawling into a narrow bed in a tiny room with stacks of bills and looming debts hanging around her shoulders, haunting her in sleep.

All because she believed in the empty promises of a man, who, with a twisted tongue and selfish ambitions, bled her dry then left her ruined, destitute and alone. And heartbroken.

Beneath the astonished disbelief, anger sparked in his belly, dark and primitive and raw.

"Christ. All because of that sonofabitch." He bit into the word, shook his head. Seeming to share his sentiments, Momma nodded knowingly.

"Sonofabitch, is right. That snake was so lowdown, he'd have to look up to see the bottom. Took her almost five years to climb out of the hole Derek shoved her into, financially and emotionally. Another three or so to get everything else back in order, and now look at her—shining bright as the sun she named her little restaurant after.

"Now, I never asked her to, never expected anything from in return except that she get back on her feet, but Victory insisted on returning every dime I paid out, and then some. And she's never failed to come back here every Sunday and make breakfast for the women, to bring them goodies for the week, and to teach those who are interested how to cook on a budget, how to stretch money and groceries so they can eat healthy and nutritious and smart." A tear welled at the corner of Momma's eye and she dashed it away with a gnarled knuckle and a smile.

"She's the daughter I never had, but always prayed for. And I couldn't be more proud."

#

The city was alight with the fiery bursting glow of a setting sun, the crimson and gold shades of sunset with streaks of blue and purple of encroaching night painted the tall buildings of glass and concrete. Around them, the streets swelled with people, stepping out to enjoy the early evening with dinner, drinks, or both.

Taxis wove through the streets, cars honking and tires squealing as they passed, and Gage absorbed it all, his arm around Victory's shoulder as they walked, side by side, towards Victory's condo.

"Momma is..."Gage faltered, holding his breath and then smiled. "Incredible. She adores you, and I can see why you love her so much."

"I do." Victory glanced up at him, her fingers linked with the one draped around her shoulder and beamed with almost as much pride and joy as Momma had earlier that afternoon. "She saved me, Gage. Gave me just about everything she had because she believed in me. I'll never be able to repay her for her warmth and kindness."

Because she looked, in that moment, so completely happy, her beautiful face illuminated by the softened evening light, Gage gave in to the urge, and drew her in for a kiss. She tasted of laughter and simple joy. An intoxicating blend that spilled into his belly, warmed his core and shook him stupid.

Gage skimmed his hands down her arms and eased back to stare deep into her liquid brown eyes. And then it struck him, as his heart slid from his chest to land at her feet.

He was gone, hopelessly gone—ruined, madly and irrevocably in love with Victory Clarke.

"What?" She asked, her smile all question and wonder at the sudden and inexplicable emotion that flashed across his face.

"I...I was just thinking that you're probably the most incredible woman I've ever met."

She slid into him for another kiss, smiling against his lips, and nuzzled his jaw. "And you're good for the ego."

"Knowing everything now, it only makes your recent circumstances all the more impressive. My only question is how? How did you do it?" Gage shifted her to his side, as they strolled in through her lobby and Victory exchanged a friendly smile with Alex, the newest security guard only a tender nineteen. Gage punched the button for the elevator

"Naturally, I couldn't afford to own the restaurant." Victory explained as they waited for the people to file off the elevator before they stepped on. "Not outright. Because of my issues with money and debt, securing a traditional loan of that size proved to be...tricky. And when the banks made it clear that they wanted me to put my condo up as collateral, I walked away," she sighed, rubbing a heel over the ache in her chest. "Once you're caught in such a state of vulnerability, once you've experienced that sort of helplessness, the thought of risking the safety and security only a roof over your head can provide, nothing—not even the pursuit of one's dreams—is worth reliving that fear."

No, he imagined it wouldn't be, and wondered if his dreams had come at the cost of such a thing, would he have been brave enough to do the same? To walk away and find another path, another course rather than blindly risk it all?

"What if Matthias had turned you down?"

An excellent question. One she'd worried and gnawed over straight up to the moment they'd had their meeting. What if, what if, what if? Plagued to the point of losing all sleep and sanity.

"I would have had no choice but to set my dreams aside," she said finally, off the elevator they strode down the length of hall. "To work harder, and find another way, down the road, to see them realized. However long that road might be. But Niobe vouched for me, set up the meeting with Matthias and Roarke. I prepared for six months before our sit down where I hoped to sell them on the idea of Soleil. On me.

"And based off my resume, Matthias was the first to say that he didn't think taking this step was so much of a stretch as it was a smart and strategic move." Even now, just saying it, made her smile with pride. "He and Roarke negotiated a reasonable pay schedule with minimal interest—which I pushed for despite their offer to do a straight dollar for dollar loan. I didn't want a hand out. I didn't want pity."

"Did they know? About everything?"

Unlocking her front door, Victory paused in the threshold, keys jingling in her hand, "Highlights." She admitted with a hint of guilt. "I touched on the financial hurdles they needed and deserved to be appraised of, but the more personal elements that didn't affect the bottom-line I kept to myself. As for what little I did share, both Roarke and Matthias agreed to keep entirely confidential, which I appreciated."

And they had, Gage noted, not even so much of a whiff or a whisper had been uttered about Victory or her past. Neither to Shayne, Paige or even to him.

Feeling peckish, slipping out of her shoes, tossing down her keys on a side table, Victory popped out an Oreo from the jar on her kitchen counter.

"I remember when Roarke came back from the meeting." While Victory moved to sit on her couch, Gage popped in her fridge for a couple of beers. "He'd told me how Matthias had been sold, ready to take you on board just based on your association with Niobe alone. It wouldn't have been too much of a gamble, and if he hadn't of liked how things panned out with you, than wouldn't have been too hard to pull the plug. But when he met you, Matthias told Roarke that he saw true grit and raw hunger in you that grabbed his attention. And earned his respect. He and Roarke have been in your corner ever since."

"Wow," she managed, voice soft and eyes damp. "I never knew..."

"So, that covers the restaurant. How did you afford this place?" Gage asked, sitting down next to her.

Taking a sip from the bottle he handed her, Victory smiled, grateful for the change of direction. The brew was cold, the taste sweet with bitter notes of yeast and barley, light and just what she needed after a long, emotionally draining weekend.

"About four years ago, as I was wrapping up culinary school, I made my weekly call to my mom. She was frantic and distraught. She'd had no way to reach me, you see, no home number—no cell, and I only checked emails about twice a week when I ventured to the public libraries to use their internet. My Grandma Pearl had passed away."

"The consummate flirt." Gage smiled in memory of the description. "Lived out in London, wasn't it?"

"Yes." Pleased because he'd remembered, she set her cheek against his shoulder. "As per her will, my parents sold her estate and assets, then, after paying off stray bills and expenses, they divided the money amongst the family. I was able to put a sizeable down payment, despite my limping credit score. And to offset the monthly mortgage, I hosted international students from September to mid-June, in both bedrooms. Still do."

"Both?" Gage frowned. "But then where do you sleep?"

"On the pull-out, in the den." Victory's lips twitched at the genuinely baffled expression on his face. "They're hardly ever home, too busy enjoying the city and freedom away from their parents to be under foot. So long as I keep the fridge stocked, the Wi-Fi running and the bathroom clean, they're happy. And it's great money. If I get both bedroom's going at the same time, that covers almost all of my housing costs for the majority of the year, allowing me to sock away that extra cash into savings."

"Savings, or furnishings?" Gage teased, giving the sideboard he'd been admiring a nod.

"I got that at an auction," she laughed, giving his thigh a pinch. "It was rough and tattered, needed a bit of fixing but altogether it didn't cost me more than a good pair of shoes. My place is furnished mainly with yard sale finds and bits discarded and unwanted by the side of the road that I turned into little DIY projects, like my coffee table." She brushed a hand over the glossy purple surface, bordered with brass nails.

"Hm." Gage answered by taking a long pull of his beer, more than a little impressed. Both pieces were examples of fine work, he noted with an appreciative eye for workmanship. "If you were decided to leave the kitchen, you'd certainly show promise with décor. Which would be your favourite?"

He watched as her beautifully intriguing face wrestled with a smiling thought before settling on a decision.

"Come." Setting down their beers, she brought him to the bedroom. Standing by the door, hands tucked in his pockets, he watched as she stood in front of the large dresser by the bed.

"I love this piece." She ran her hand affectionately over the warped top, fingers skimming the scarred wood beneath a layer of purple paint like wrinkles in an old, kindly face.

"Found it in a yard sale, all weathered and worn and sad. All I could think was the years it had endured, home after home, family after family, now battered and imperfect and unloved. So, for twenty bucks, I brought it home, sanded it down and painted it myself. Though we may disagree, from time to time," she gave the stubborn lopsided top drawer a wiggle. "It's the first stick of furniture I purchased for this place, and I'll never it go."

Maybe it was the lighting, the moment, the unexpected and recent realization of his deep, throbbing emotions, but suddenly all Gage wanted was her.

To taste and touch and lose himself in the tender, silky softness of Victory.

s_'V#