“Wow,” I say as the woman finishes the bun she’s pulled my hair into with a crystal accessory. “You look like you’ve just stepped off the runway.”
Leo’s husband Marcus appears at his side, pressing a quick kiss to Leo’s cheek. “You look divine, Rox,” Marcus says, turning to straighten Leo’s bow tie with the practiced ease of someone who’s been doing it for years.
“As do you,” I say as Marcus gives me two air kisses.
“Where is Alison?” Leo asks, looking at his watch.
“Here!” she calls, breezing in and plopping down in themakeup chair next to me. Her grin is almost overtaking her face. She looks radiant in a Jenny Packman deep emerald silk gown with a sweetheart neckline that perfectly complements her chestnut hair and her copper eyes.
“What happened?” Leo starts. “Did that man at the donut cart slip you an extra one this morning?”
Allie laughs as her makeup artist gets to work. “Had a long FaceTime with Wyatt.”
“Oh yes, Wyatt “Topper” Westin,” Marcus says, taking a seat in an empty chair. “I have loved hearing about him from Leo. How did he get his nickname?”
“Duke said it Topper was the kind of soldier who never asked his men to do anything he wouldn’t do first,” Allie says. “Always led from the front, always on top of every situation. Guys started calling him Topper because he topped everyone else’s performance. Whatever it took to win, he was crazy enough to do it, and he would still come out on top.”
“He’s the best,” I add. “Are you two going to try long distance?”
The corner of her mouth tugs up, and she shrugs. “I think so … I don’t know. He’s going to come out in a couple weeks.”
“I’m happy for you,” I say.
The hair and makeup team finishes their final sprays and touch-ups, and the staff at HQ waves us out with a chorus of “you’ve got this!” as we head to the car. By the time we’re weaving through traffic toward Midtown, my pulse is a trapped animal. I latch onto Leo’s hand like it’s a lifeline, and he gently pries his fingers free with a soft laugh.
When one of my favorite places in New York comes into view, I feel some relief from the anxiety stomping around in the pit of my stomach. My silk dress clings in the August heat as we step into Lincoln Center. The marble glitters, the crowd hums, and my stomach twists.
The air conditioning is soothing, and I guzzle my champagne as I sit through the start of the other presentations. My heart sinks as the next presenter takes the stage with her ambassador—a coal miner’s widow whose quiet dignity fills theentire hall. Every other team has an ambassador. Everyone but me. Shit. Have I screwed this up before I’ve started?
The stage lights seem too bright, the applause too loud. When Allie nudges me because it’s our time to line up backstage, it takes her a few tries to move me from the cement that has pooled at my feet.
Allie puts her hands on my shoulders and swings me around to face her. “You got this, okay? We’ll be right beside you. Just tell the story of the summer, and it’s ours.”
I swallow hard and nod as a backstage assistant ushers us onstage after we’ve been introduced. My hands quake as I reach the podium and flip through the binder that contains my speech. My ears feel hot. Two hundred people wait for me to speak, and all I can do is stare into the lights.
“Roxanne,” Leo whispers. “You can do this.”
I nod and smile, nod and smile, and then …
“On July 24th, 2023, I was struck by lightning in the mountains of Colorado and almost died.” I glance up when faint gasps and whispers sound through the audience. “Before the accident, I traveled the world as a writer and journalist forWorld Explorermagazine … after … I barely left my apartment. I went from the woman who wanted to conquer the world to the woman who was afraid of everything.
“When my editor told my team and I our assignment was to embed ourselves at Firebird Ranch nestled in Marble Valley, Colorado, I thought my heart almost stopped beating. I did not want to return to the place that caused me so much pain. But I went anyway, although I was not prepared for the trip.
“When I first arrived, I was skeptical of their practices. You see, Firebird doesn’t believe in numbing the pain with pills or masking trauma with distractions. Their mission is simple and revolutionary: feel in order to heal.”
I draw in a long breath, drink some water, and continue.
“That sounds great, right? I, however, was not convinced. How could nature walks and equine therapy heal someone? Well, I saw the proof myself that they can. I saw the proof in me. At Firebird, I met veterans who had lost everything—hope, purpose, sometimes even limbs, but they were learning to live again with the help of nature and, of course, the staff of Firebird, who all have been on their own healing journeys.”
I pause again, not sure I can get the next part out.
“Standing at the center of every breakthrough was the man who refused to let anyone give up on themselves … Duke Faraday.”
I cough into my hand because my throat feels like a sheet of sandpaper. “Duke … um … Duke Faraday doesn’t just run Firebird Ranch, heisthe heart that beats through every program, every conversation, every moment when someone chooses hope over surrender. He’s the kind of man who sees broken people and doesn’t turn away. He’s the man who builds … something beautiful from ashes. I …”
Oh no, are you kidding me? Tears? Now?
Oh, yes. The ugly tears are coming, pushing at the backs of my eyes.
