Dream a Little Dream

by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  DREAM A LITTLE DREAM

  By

  Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  AVON BOOKS, INC.

  1350 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, New York 10019

  Copyright © 1998 by Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  Published by arrangement with the author

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 97-94071

  ISBN: 0-380-79447-0

  www.avonbooks.com/romance

  First Avon Books Printing: February 1998

  First Avon Books Special Printing: September 1997

  AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IN OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA REGISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  To Tillie and her sons.

  And in memory of Dad and Bob.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My heartfelt appreciation to the following people for their help with this book: Dr. Margaret Watson, veterinarian and romance author, who let me repeatedly interrupt her writing time to ask questions; Jimmie Morel (a.k.a. Lindsay Longford) and Jill Barnett for their thoughtful critiques; and John Roscich, who once again helped out my characters with legal advice. (Bill them, please. Not me.) A big thank-you to everyone at Avon Books, especially Carrie Feron, for the support. I'm proud to be part of the Avon family.

  Susan Elizabeth Phillips

  c/o Avon Books

  1350 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, New York 10019

  Chapter One

  ^ »

  The last of Rachel Stone's luck ran out in front of the Pride of Carolina Drive-In. There on a mountainous two-lane blacktop road shimmering from the heat of the June afternoon, her old Chevy Impala gave its final death rattle.

  She barely managed to pull off onto the shoulder before a plume of dark smoke rose from beneath the hood and obscured her vision. The car died right beneath the drive-in theater's yellow and purple starburst-shaped sign.

  This final disaster was overwhelming. She folded her hands on top of the steering wheel, dropped her forehead on them, and gave in to the despair that had been nipping at her heels for three long years. Here on this two-lane highway, just outside the ironically named Salvation, North Carolina, she'd finally reached the end of her personal road to hell.

  "Mommy?"

  She wiped her eyes on her knuckles and lifted her head. "I thought you were asleep, honey."

  "I was. But that bad sound waked me up."

  She turned and gazed at her son, who had recently celebrated his fifth birthday, sitting in the backseat amidst the shabby bundles and boxes that held all their worldly possessions. The Impala's trunk was empty simply because it had been smashed in years ago and couldn't be opened.

  Edward's cheek was creased where he'd been lying on it, and his light-brown hair stuck up at his cowlick. He was small for his age, too thin, and still pale from the recent bout with pneumonia that had threatened his life. She loved him with all her heart.

  Now his solemn brown eyes regarded her over the head of Horse, the bedraggled stuffed lop-eared rabbit that had been his constant companion since he was a toddler. "Did something bad happen again?"

  Her lips felt stiff as she formed them into a reassuring smile. "A little car trouble, that's all."

  "Are we gonna die?"

  "No, honey. Of course we're not. Now why don't you get out and stretch your legs a little bit while I take a look. Just stay back from the road."

  He clamped Horse's threadbare rabbit's ear between his teeth and climbed over a laundry basket filled with secondhand play clothes and a few old towels. His legs were thin, pale little sticks hinged with bony knees, and he had a small port-wine mark at the nape of his neck. It was one of her favorite places to kiss. She leaned over the back of the seat and helped him with the door, which functioned only a little better than the broken trunk.

  Are we gonna die? How many times had he asked her that question recently? Never an outgoing child, these last few months had made him even more fearful, guarded, and old beyond his years.

  She suspected he was hungry. The last filling meal she'd given him had been four hours ago: a withered orange, a carton of milk, and a jelly sandwich eaten at a roadside picnic table near Winston-Salem. What kind of mother couldn't feed her child better than that?

  One who only had nine dollars and change left in her wallet. Nine dollars and change separating her from the end of the world.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror and remembered that she'd once been considered pretty. Now lines of strain bracketed her mouth and fanned out from the corners of green eyes that seemed to eat up her face. The freckled skin over her cheekbones was so pale and tightly stretched it looked as if it might split. She had no money for beauty salons, and her wild mane of curly auburn hair swirled like a tattered autumn leaf around her too-thin face. The only cosmetic she had left was the stub of a mocha-colored lipstick that lay at the bottom of her purse, and she hadn't bothered to use it in weeks. What was the point? Though she was twenty-seven, she felt like an old woman.

  She glanced down at the sleeveless blue chambray dress that hung from her bony shoulders. The dress was faded, much too big, and she'd had to replace one of its six red buttons with a brown button after the original cracked. She'd told Edward she was making a fashion statement.

  The Impala's door squealed in protest as she opened it, and when she stepped out onto the blacktop, she felt the heat radiating through the paper-thin soles of her worn white sandals. One of the straps had broken. She'd done her best to sew it back together, but the result had left a rough place that had rubbed the side of her big toe raw. It was a small pain compared with the larger one of trying to survive.

  A pickup truck whizzed by but didn't stop. Her wild hair slapped her cheeks, and she used her forearm to push away the tangled strands, as well as to shield her eyes from the billow of dust the track kicked up. She glanced over at Edward. He was standing beside the bushes with Horse tucked under his armpit and his head bent at a sharp angle so he could stare up at the yellow and purple star-burst-shaped sign that soared above him like an exploding galaxy. Outlined in lightbulbs, it contained the words Pride of Carolina.

  With a feeling of inevitability, she lifted the hood, then stepped back from the gust of black smoke billowing from the engine. The mechanic in Norfolk had warned her the engine was going to blow, and she knew this wasn't anything that could be fixed with duct tape or a junkyard part.

  Her head dipped. Not only had she lost a car, but she had also lost her home, since she and Edward had been living in the
Impala for nearly a week. She'd told Edward they were lucky to be able to take their house with them, just like turtles.

  She sat back on her heels and tried to accept the newest in a long string of calamities that had brought her back to this town she'd sworn she'd never return to.

  "Get out of there, kid."

  The threatening sound of a deep male voice cut through her misery. She stood so fast it made her woozy, and she had to grab the hood of the car for support. When her head cleared, she saw her son standing frozen before a menacing-looking stranger in jeans, an old blue work shirt, and mirrored sunglasses.

  Her sandals slipped in the gravel as she flew around the rear of the car. Edward was too frightened to move. The man reached for him.

  Once she'd been sweet-tongued and gentle, a dreamy country girl with a poet's soul, but life had toughened her, and her temper flared. "Don't you touch him, you son of a bitch!"

  His arm dropped slowly to his side. "This your kid?"

  "Yes. And get away from him."

  "He was peein' in my bushes." The man's rough, flat voice held a distinct Carolina drawl, but not the smallest trace of emotion. "Get him out of here."

  She noticed for the first time that Edward's jeans were unfastened, making her already vulnerable little boy look even more defenseless. He stood frozen in fear, the rabbit tucked under his arm, as he stared up at the man who towered over him.

  The stranger was tall and lean, with straight dark hair and a bitter mouth. His face was long and narrow—handsome, she supposed, but too cruelly formed with its sharp cheekbones and hard planes to appeal to her. She felt a momentary gratitude for his mirrored sunglasses. Something told her she didn't want to look into his eyes.

  She grabbed Edward and hugged him to her body. Painful experience had taught her not to let anyone push her around, and she sneered at him. "Are those your personal peeing bushes? Is that the problem? You wanted to use them yourself?"

  His lips barely moved. "This is my property. Get off it."

  "I'd love to, but my car has other ideas."

  The drive-in's owner glanced without interest at the corpse of her Impala. "There's a phone in the ticket booth, and the number for Dealy's Garage. While you're waiting for a tow, stay off my land."

  He turned on his heel and walked away. Only when he had disappeared behind the trees that grew around the base of the giant movie screen did she let go of her child.

  "It's all right, sweetie. Don't pay any attention to him. You didn't do anything wrong."

  Edward's face was pale; his bottom lip trembled. "The m-man scared me."

  She combed her fingers through his light-brown hair, smoothed down a cowlick, brushed his bangs off his forehead. "I know he did, but he's just an old butthead, and I was here to protect you."

  "You told me not to say butthead."

  "These are extenuating circumstances."

  "What are tenuating circustands?"

  "It means he really is a butthead."

  "Oh."

  She glanced toward the small wooden ticket booth that held the phone. The booth had been freshly painted in mustard and purple, the same garish colors as the sign, but she made no move toward it. She didn't have the money for either a tow or repairs, and her credit cards had been revoked long ago. Unwilling to subject Edward to another confrontation with the drive-in's unpleasant owner, she drew him toward the road. "My legs are stiff from being in the car so long, and I could use a little walk. How about you?"

  "Okay."

  He dragged his sneakers in the dirt, and she knew he was still frightened. Her resentment against Butthead grew. What kind of jerk acted like that in front of a child?

  She reached through the open window of the car and withdrew a blue plastic water jug, along with the last of the withered oranges she'd found on a produce mark-down table. As she directed her child across the highway toward a small grove of trees, she once again cursed herself for not giving in to Clyde Rorsch, who'd been her boss until six days go. Instead, she'd struck him in the side of the head to keep him from raping her, then she'd grabbed Edward and fled Richmond forever.

  Now she wished she'd given in. If she'd agreed to have sex with him, she and Edward would be living in a rent-free room in Rorsch's motel where she'd been working as a maid. Why hadn't she shut her eyes and let him do what he wanted? What was the point of being fastidious when her child was hungry and homeless?

  She'd made it as far as Norfolk where she'd used up too much of her small reserve of cash to have the Impala's water pump fixed. She knew other women in her position would have applied for public aid, but welfare wasn't an option for her. She'd been forced to apply two years ago, when she and Edward were living in Baltimore. At the time, a social worker had stunned Rachel by questioning her ability to care for Edward. The woman had mentioned the possibility of putting him in foster care until Rachel could get on her feet. Her words might have been well-intentioned, but they had terrified Rachel. Until that moment, she had never considered that someone might try to take Edward away from her. She'd fled Baltimore that same day and vowed never again to approach a government office for help.

  Since then she'd been supporting the two of them by working several minimum-wage jobs at a time, earning just enough to keep a roof over their heads, but not enough to be able to set anything aside so she could go back to school and improve her job skills. The battle for decent child care devoured her meager paychecks and made her sick with worry—one of the sitters kept Edward propped in front of a television all day, another disappeared and left him with a boyfriend. Then Edward had gotten sick with pneumonia.

  By the time he was released from the hospital, she'd been fired from her fast-food job for absenteeism. Edward's expenses had eaten up everything she had, including her pitifully small savings, and left her with a staggering bill she had no way of paying. She also had a sick child who needed to be carefully watched while he recuperated and an eviction notice for nonpayment of rent on her shabby apartment.

  She'd begged Clyde Rorsch to let her have one of the smaller motel rooms rent-free, promising to double her hours in exchange. But he'd wanted something more—sex on demand. When she'd refused, he'd gotten mean, and she'd struck him in the head with the office telephone.

  She remembered the blood trickling down the side of his face and the venom in his eyes as he'd vowed to have her arrested for assault. "Let's see how you take care of that precious kid of yours when you're in jail!"

  If only she'd stopped resisting and simply let him do what he wanted. What had been unthinkable only a week before didn't seem so inconceivable now. She was tough. She could have survived it. Since the beginning of time, desperate women had used sex for barter, and it was hard to believe she might once have condemned them for it.

  She settled Edward next to her beneath a buckeye tree, unscrewed the lid of the water bottle, and handed it to him. As she peeled the orange, she could no longer ignore the compulsion to lift her eyes toward the mountains.

  Sun shimmered on a wall of glass, testifying that the Temple of Salvation still stood, although she'd heard it had been taken over by a corrugated-box factory. Five years ago it had been the headquarters and broadcasting studio for G. Dwayne Snopes, one of the wealthiest and most famous televangelists in the country. Rachel pushed away the unpleasant memories and began handing Edward the orange segments. He savored each one as if it were a piece of candy instead of a tough, dried-out segment of fruit that belonged in the garbage.

  As he polished off the last one, her gaze moved idly to the drive-in's marquee.

  GRAND REOPENING SOON

  HELP WANTED NOW

  She grew instantly alert. Why hadn't she noticed that earlier? A job! Maybe her luck was finally going to turn.

  She refused to think about the drive-in's surly owner. Selectivity was a luxury she hadn't been able to afford in years. With her eyes still fixed on the sign, she patted Edward's knee. It was warm from the sun.

  "Sweetheart, I need t
o go talk to that man again."

  "Don't want you to."

  She gazed down into his small, worried face. "He's nothing but a big bully. Don't be afraid. I can beat him up with one hand tied behind my back."

  "Stay here."

  "I can't, pug. I need a job."

  He didn't argue further, and she considered what to do with him while she sought out Butthead. Edward wasn't the kind of child who roamed, and she momentarily contemplated leaving him in the car, but it was parked too close to the road. She would have to take him with her.

  Giving him a reassuring smile, she tugged him to his feet. As she led him back across the highway, she didn't bother sending up a prayer for divine intervention. Rachel no longer prayed. Her store of faith had been eaten up long ago by G. Dwayne Snopes, and now, not even a mustard seed remained.

  The patched strap of her sandal dug into her big toe as she led Edward down the rutted lane past the ticket booth. The drive-in must have been built in these mountains decades earlier and, most likely, abandoned for another decade. Now the freshly painted ticket booth and new chain-link fence that enclosed the property testified to its renovation, but it looked as if there was still a lot of work to be done.

  The projection screen had been repaired, but the lot, with its concentric rows of empty metal speaker polls, was overgrown with weeds. In the middle, she spotted a two-story concrete block building, the drive-in's original snack bar and projection booth. Its exterior had once been white, but was now streaked with dirt and mildew. The wide-open doors on the side emitted a blare of acid rock.

  She spotted a shabby play area under the screen. It held an empty sandbox, along with half a dozen fiberglass dolphins mounted on heavy springs. She guessed the dolphins had originally been bright blue, but the passing years had faded their color to powder. A rusty jungle gym, the frame of a swing set, a broken merry-go-round, and a concrete turtle completed the pathetic cluster of equipment.