by Loree Lough
“My alma mater!”
“Mine, too. She could do way worse than the University of Maryland.”
“A whole lot worse.”
“Fear the turtle!” they said together, then laughed.
“You know what?” Gavin said, sliding his Rolodex closer. “I think I know just the guy to help her. He’s my cousin, but don’t hold that against him,” he said, grinning. “Mostly, he works with boys, but he’s good with people. Straightened out more juvies than you could shake a stick at.”
Grace pointed at Kylie’s folder. “You know as well as I do that Kylie has never been in any trouble.”
“I know, I know . . . never missed a day. Never late for class. Not one suspension. 3.8 GPA. College-bound. . . .” He plucked a card from behind the P tab and held it out to Grace. “Remind me again why we think a kid like that needs outside help.”
“Because we know that with a little guidance, she could be so much more than she is.” Grace took the card, then grabbed a pen from the tortoise-shaped pencil cup on his desk, and scribbled the name and number on the palm of her hand.
“Grace. Stop. What on earth—”
“It’d take half an hour to find my notepad in this thing,” she said, shouldering her backpack.
Arms akimbo, he said, “You’re surrounded by paper. Or haven’t you noticed?”
Laughing, Grace returned the pen and the card and got to her feet. “Oh, trust me. I’ve noticed. I’m just afraid if I slide one sheet from a stack, I’ll activate an avalanche. And it’s Friday. We could very well stay buried until Monday!”
Gavin glanced around his cluttered little office. “Well, I’ll say one thing for you,” he said, grinning, “when you’re right, you’re right.”
“Thanks, Gavin. I’ll let you know how things work out with. . . .” She read the name penned on her palm. “And now I’d better get out of here, so you can get back to your, ah, secretarial work.”
“You know,” he said, on his feet now, “back in college, I was lead guitarist in a band.” He slid an arm across her shoulders and walked with her toward the door. “Our percussionist handpainted some very wise words on his bass drum: ‘Nobody likes a smart aleck,’ it said.” A mischievous glint sparkled in his eyes. “You should know that I cleaned that comment up, what with you being so young and naïve and all.”
“And I appreciate it.” She started to leave, then asked if he planned to attend the graduation party she’d organized.
“Have you ever known me to pass up a chance at free food?”
“Good point,” she said, one hand on the doorknob.
“Can I bring anything?”
“Just your ornery self.”
“See you later, kiddo.”
“Not if I see you first,” she teased. And despite the closed door, she heard his gravelly laughter, halfway down the hall.
5
As she crossed the parking lot, Grace looked at the name and number scribbled on her hand. Would this guy be like Gavin—all bark, no bite, with a wild mop of hair and eyebrows that looked like steel wool? Or more like the reverend she’d grown up listening to every Sunday, whose tinny voice didn’t fit his big-as-a-grizzly stature? Should she call and make an appointment, or just drive over there, and trust that he’d have a few minutes to talk with her about Kylie?
Distracted, Grace caught the heel of her sandal on a glob of tar near the curb, and nearly landed face-first on the sidewalk. The heat of a blush crept into her cheeks, though a quick glance around told her no one had seen her misstep. “Lord,” she said, unlocking her tiny SUV, “remind me why I don’t believe in omens, please.”
But instead of the Bible verses she’d expected to come to mind, a third text message from Mrs. Logan popped onto her cell phone’s screen. There must have been a hundred names in the woman’s phone directory. “So why does she keep calling me?”
Maybe, she thought, typing the reverend’s address into her GPS, because the grieving mother had begged her to come along as she selected the coffin and “just the right words” for her daughter’s tombstone . . . helped her decipher the quickly mounting charges, and arrange the memorial service, and decide which hymns the organist should play.
At Mrs. Logan’s insistence, Grace chose Missy’s dress (though the condition she’d been in when they found her made an open casket impossible), and arranged transportation for the sorority sister, who’d stay with her until after the funeral. Finally, Grace had left a message for Agent Spencer, asking that he call Mrs. Logan as soon as possible to reassure her that the authorities still planned to release the body by the end of the week.
As she blended with traffic on I-95, Grace had a horrible thought: Had he called back with bad news? And if he had, couldn’t the sorority sister take care of things for a change?
The image of Mrs. Logan’s wan, teary face flashed in Grace’s mind, and with it, the “Do Unto Others” proverb. Guilt would have made her turn around, put off the surprise visit to Reverend Parker . . . if traffic hadn’t slowed to a crawl, effectively trapping her in the middle lane. . . .
Grace thumped the steering wheel and loosed a low growl. Until the guy in the car to her right said, “Ditto!”—she’d forgotten the windows were down. “How spoiled and pampered are you,” Grace chided herself, “that a little gridlock can completely sour your mood!”
The cat had food and water enough to last a few hours. The traffic wouldn’t make her late for an appointment, or put her on the receiving end of a “Where have you been?” glare from a babysitter. With traffic at a dead stop now, she couldn’t get a ticket for talking on her cell phone while driving. Might as well find out what the poor woman wanted, she thought, dialing Mrs. Logan’s number.
“Hi, Mrs. Logan. It’s just me, Grace, returning your call. Feel free to call me at home when you get this message. . . .”
Nothing to do now but stick to her original plan, and see if the good reverend could suggest something that might help Kylie. A familiar tune wafted from the car’s speakers, and she turned up the volume to harmonize with Blake Shelton. The song had barely ended when the GPS-recorded voice said, “Arriving at address. On left.”
Sure enough, the house number she’d written on her palm mirrored the one on the big hand-painted sign hanging from the porch. Above it, a bigger sign that said LAST CHANCE. On the front lawn, a guy operating a circular saw seemed too engrossed in his project to notice that she’d parked beside the glossy black motorcycle in the driveway. Didn’t hear her slam her car door or holler “Hello!”
On one sweat-glistened bicep, a tattooed cross. On the other, a skull, and on the handles of the crossed swords beneath it, the words Semper Fi. A diamond stud earring winked from behind dark, gleaming curls that escaped his Yankees baseball cap. And tucked into the back pocket of his snug jeans, a Harley Davidson bandanna.
But gawking wasn’t getting Kylie the help she needed. Wasn’t getting the man’s attention, either. She’d call out, but what if that startled him? She’d never forgive herself if he lopped off a thumb or something.
Grace stepped off the sidewalk and waved both arms above her head.
The high-pitched whine of the saw stopped instantly.
Smiling, Grace made her way up the walk.
But he didn’t look up. Didn’t look in her direction, either. Instead, he jerked the plug free of the big gray metal outlet and began winding the cord around the tool’s handle. Maybe he hadn’t seen her, after all. She opened her mouth to say hello again when he looked up.
“Well, well, well,” he said, “as I live and breathe.”
Grace stifled a gasp. If this wasn’t a “small world” example, she didn’t know what was: There she stood, not two feet from the man who had found Missy’s body. He’d pulled up his sweatshirt hood on that dismal, rainy morning; that explained why she hadn’t noticed the tattoos or pierced ear. It didn’t explain why he was here.
“I was told I’d find Reverend Parker at this address?”
; “Really?” He thumbed the baseball cap to the back of his head. “Who told you that?”
She hadn’t noticed the ponytail, either. “Gavin Martin.”
“Gavin was right.”
Grace caught herself staring into those intense blue eyes and forced herself to blink. She swallowed, too. “You’re Reverend Parker?”
“ ’Fraid so.” He thrust out his right hand. “And you’re . . . ?”
“Grace,” she said, putting hers into it, “Grace Sinclair.”
“Nice meeting you,” he said, releasing her. “So how do you know that old rascal?”
“I’m a teacher . . . at the high school where he works as a guidance counselor.”
“Funny.”
If curiosity killed the cat, she didn’t want to find out what might happen if she asked what was funny.
“You don’t look like the type who could handle herself in a rough, inner-city school.”
She hitched her backpack higher on her shoulder, then crossed both arms over her chest, trying to figure out what to respond to first—his insinuation that she wasn’t equipped to teach, or his crack about the quality of city schools. True, she’d encountered her share of unruly kids over the years, but even her friends who taught at private schools complained about the occasional bad apple mixed in with good students. “Exactly what would that type look like?”
“Bigger. Older. And way tougher looking than the likes of you. For starters.”
“Gavin says you’re the go-to guy when it comes to troubled teens,” she said, ignoring his comment. He hadn’t been the first guy to say a “you don’t look your age” line, but he’d been the first to deliver the line in a silky baritone. She caught herself staring. Again. And reminded herself that she hadn’t endured forty minutes of rush hour traffic to swap Hepburn-Tracy banter with Easy Rider, even if she had been hearing that rich DJ voice in her dreams, ever since that day in the park. “I’m hoping he’s right.”
“Sometimes,” he said, brushing sawdust from the sheet of plywood he’d just cut, “Gavin talks too much.”
Grace pictured Kylie, with her unkempt mottled hair and big sad eyes, struggling through life because no one had taken the time to show her that she had choices, that with a little effort on her part, the world was her oyster. She had no one but herself to blame for her wasted hour. Two, if she counted the trip back home. What did she expect, coming here, unannounced?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, she told herself. Surely in that giant Rolodex wheel on Gavin’s desk, there was at least one other name, someone who could—
“I, ah, I guess I owe you an apology.”
“An apology?” she echoed. “For what?”
“For jumping to conclusions. From what you just said about this Kylie girl, well, I’d have to say you’re handling yourself just fine.”
She couldn’t have said all that out loud.
Could she? She must have.
“What time is it?”
“Time?” Grace wavered between confusion and embarrassment.
Chuckling softly, he took hold of her wrist. “You know, ti—” One glance at the dial silenced him. He let go and whipped off his cap, slapping it against his thigh, “I was supposed to have supper on the table five minutes ago.”
At first, she felt guilty that her impromptu visit had sidetracked him. But if she hadn’t driven up when she did, he’d still be sawing away at that sheet of plywood.
Right?
“You any good in the kitchen?”
My, but he had an eye-catching smile. . . . “I can hold my own, I suppose.” Guilty, flustered, confused, captivated, exasperated—how many things would end up on her “what I’m feeling” list before normal popped up?
“Tell you what. How ’bout if you help me get some food into my boys, and afterward, you can tell me all about your Kylie.”
His boys? Funny. She didn’t remember Gavin mentioning a wife and kids. But then, why would he, when her Kylie was the only reason she’d come here? Grace added stupid to her list, because what kind of ninny got all weak-kneed over a guy she’d just met, even if he was good looking enough to make the cover of a romance novel!
“Spaghetti’s fast and easy,” he said, “but last time I checked, there were fish sticks and chicken nuggets in the freezer. The boys would eat rocks if I let ’em.”
Meaning, if she stayed, he expected her to choose?
Just say no, she thought. Tell him the truth: You have to get home, feed Leslie’s cat, throw some towels in the washer. . . .
“Anybody you need to call first? Husband? Parents? Kids?”
“Just call me footloose and fancy-free, Reverend Parker.”
Wrong answer, she thought, groaning inwardly, because it implied that she was staying. And single. And happy about it. Where was the proverbial hole in the floor that swallowed people up when they said dimwitted, embarrassing, absurd things?
He laughed. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll call you Grace.” He stepped up onto the porch. “And I hope you’ll call me Dusty.”
Was it her imagination, or had he just sent an unspoken “remember that, for next time” message? But why would a married man—a father and pastor—do such a thing! “Dusty,” she repeated. “Is that short for Dustin?”
“Nope.” He held open the door. “It says Dusty Parker on my driver’s license.”
Like an obedient pup, she went inside, doing her best to ignore the question pinging in her head: If there was a little woman, why was the good reverend Dusty Parker in charge of supper? She’d started a new list—of occupations that required shift work—when he said, “Come on in the kitchen and meet my boys.”
In the moment it took to be introduced them, Grace understood why Gavin hadn’t mentioned a wife. None of the boys bore even the slightest resemblance to Dusty, and their ages—anywhere from twelve to sixteen—was as varied as their ethnicity. The sign out front made sense now, too, and so did Gavin’s obvious respect for the man who’d “straightened out more juvies than you could shake a stick at.” And, in that moment, Grace decided Dusty could be the poster boy, proving the folly of judging a book by its cover.
Perhaps later, she’d ask him how they’d come to share this big old house. And share it, they did, as evidenced by the warmth that connected them all. It was something to admire—and something to envy—since she didn’t believe a family was in God’s plan for her.
Then Dusty aimed that amazing, heart-stopping smile at her, and she thought maybe, just maybe there could be . . . in a place called Last Chance.
6
That day in the park, she’d worn a bouncy ponytail, and today, shimmering curls spilled down her back and over her shoulders like a dark, silky cape. Something told Dusty he was in trouble, because he already knew that he’d hear her lyrical voice and see those big Bambi eyes in his dreams tonight.
Again.
The only other woman he’d invited to supper—a self-professed teen expert—had shocked him by cowering near the door, as if expecting one of the kids might gouge her eyes out with a fork. She hadn’t pitched in to chop lettuce and tomatoes for the salad, didn’t offer to help set the table, barely ate a bite of the rib-sticking meal Mitch had prepared. “I’m surprised the plates didn’t fly out the door behind her, like in a Tom and Jerry cartoon,” Axel had joked when she made her hasty getaway.
By contrast, Grace elbowed her way up to the stove, swapping one-liners with the boys as she shared her secret to lumpless gravy and smooth mashed potatoes. Supper had never been boring at Last Chance, but her presence turned an ordinary meal into a fun family feast.
It ended all too soon, though, as Tony reminded them that “just because there are only a few days left of school doesn’t mean you can skip your homework.”
Nick gave him a brotherly shove. “Who do you think you are, the homework sheriff?”
“Yeah,” Jack agreed. “We’ve got dishes to do first, Tony Balonie.”
“Towels to fold,” Dom put in.
>
“And-and-and f-floors to m-mop, t-t-too,” Guillermo added.
“Tell you what,” Grace injected. “I’ll clean up the kitchen, if Dusty keeps me company.”
She looked at him, waiting for confirmation. “Sounds good to me.”
The exchange was met with whoops and whistles and good-natured cackles. “Ooh-la-la,” Montel singsonged, “the pretty lady wants you to keep her company, Du-ust-y-y.”
Laughing, Grace finished with, “And as long as he’ll just be sitting here, he might as well fold the towels.” She locked those big brown eyes on him to add, “Those floors can wait until tomorrow, can’t they?”
Between the boys’ stunned expressions and her flirty grin, what could he say, except, “Why not?”
Snickering, the boys wasted no time thundering from the room. “Make tracks, dudes,” Trevor teased, “before he changes his mind!”
Grace wasted no time, either, clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. She had the job mostly done by the time he returned from the basement with the basket of towels, and before he knew it, she was sitting across from him, helping with that chore, too. “You don’t have to do this, you know.”
“I know. But I’m here. So I might as well make myself useful.” Her tiny hands blurred before his eyes as she snapped a hand towel, and folded it into a tidy square. “So who’s this Mitch the kids were talking about all through supper?”
“Assistant pastor. Assistant administrator.” Dusty picked up a towel, too, wondering why it hadn’t made that efficient popping sound when he flapped it. “Though neither title seems fair,” he admitted, “since just about anything that needs doing around here gets done by Mitch.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting him.”
Could he take it to mean she’d be back? A guy can hope. . . .
“He has the night off?”
“Not exactly.” Bad idea, he cautioned, mixing business with pleasure. . . . He grabbed another towel. “He’s representing us at a dinner with the mayor. If all goes well, we’ll get the extra police protection the city has been promising us for months.”