by Loree Lough
“Police protection! Why do you need that, for heaven’s sake?”
Man, but she was gorgeous when she widened her eyes that way. “This used to be a great neighborhood,” he said, stacking his towel atop the others, “until about a year ago. No crime—unless you count jaywalking—quiet and peaceful. And then Los Toros de Lidia moved in. Nothing’s been the same since.”
He told her about the gang leader’s stealthy attempts to entice the boys into joining “The Fighting Bulls.” And how lately, his invitations had been downright blatant; as an example, he added the story of Hector Gonzalez’s late-night visit.
Her eyebrows rose slightly, and he could see that Grace was doing her best not to look at the door, at the windows. She had the most expressive, open face he’d ever seen, with the sole exception of his Aunt Anita’s; if she wasn’t wondering if Gonzo could get in here, right now, he’d eat his hat. And it made him feel like a heel, scaring her that way.
To her credit, she shook it off quickly, and eyes narrowed, she said, “Bullies are just . . . just horrible. I mean, as if those sweet kids haven’t already been through enough, now they have to live under a threat like that?” She punctuated the question with a little growl. “That’s just plain wrong.” She took the towel he’d been fumbling around with and folded it as she added, “I’m going to start praying like crazy that the mayor does give you the police protection you need, and that he does it soon. And if he doesn’t. . . .” She shuddered. “Well, I’ll just have to start a letter-writing campaign. Or make a few calls to Channel 13, and see if Mary Bubala will do a story on the . . . what did you call them? The Los Toros de Lidia?” Another growl, then, “Because I don’t even want to think about what could happen if that ruffian comes back!”
He’d called Gonzo a few things, but “ruffian” had not been one of them. He might have hugged her, because everything—from the glint in her dark eyes to the way she’d thrown back her shoulders—told him she felt protective of the kids. The reaction told him she was one of the few who actually got it, who understood that for these boys—victims of abuse, abandonment, and neglect—this really was their last chance. So much for your ‘separate business from pleasure’ rule.
But was it his fault that she had a knack for asking just the right questions in that sweet, non-threatening way of hers? Maybe she should have become an investigative reporter instead of a teacher, because once Dusty started talking, he couldn’t seem to shut himself up.
He told her how every boy had come to Last Chance, and how each arrival reminded him of the way his aunt and uncle had taken him in when his parents were killed.
“How old were you?”
“Ten.”
He could have hugged her at that moment, because big shiny tears filled her eyes as she sandwiched his hand between her own. “Something else we have in common,” she said.
He was puzzling over the “something else” when she said, “I was sixteen when I lost my folks. Moved from New York to Baltimore to live with my mom’s parents.”
How they went from that to his admission that he’d wasted way too many years, tap dancing on the thin line between what was legal and what was not before joining the Marines, Dusty couldn’t say. One minute, he was telling her his best memories were those Special Ops missions in the Persian Gulf. The next, he heard himself talking about the top-secret memo from the Secretary of Defense, delivered in June of 2001, warning U.S. troops and citizens abroad to be on alert, because an attack by bin Laden was more likely than not. “And you know what happened that following September,” he finished.
Grace nodded slowly. “Yes,” she whispered.
Dusty recognized the haunted look that crossed her face, because he’d seen it often enough in the mirror. It told him that Grace had a dark and direct link to 9/11, too. He might have asked what it was, if she hadn’t said, “Will you look at the time!”
How could it be after ten already?
“I’d better get home before the cat decides to punish me for hours of neglect.”
“What kind of cat?”
On her feet now, she said, “Tabby. Gray and white. With big green eyes.”
“What’s its name?”
Grace laughed quietly. “Llewellyn. But no one knows I call her that.” And when he laughed, too, she added, “She isn’t really mine.”
It was a small thing, really, but the sharp edge to her musical voice told him she wasn’t referring to the solitary and independent nature of the species. Rather, the cat had something to do with her 9/11 connection.
The screen door’s rusty spring squealed when she stepped outside. Should’ve taken care of that yesterday, while you had the oil can out. . . .
“I don’t mean to sound all vague and mysterious,” Grace continued, crossing the porch. “It’s just that I sort of inherited her, when my best friend . . . when she died.”
So she’d lost her parents and a best friend, probably the grandparents she’d talked about, too, from the sound of things. Either she made a great first impression, or she really didn’t feel sorry for herself. He liked that. Liked it a lot. Way too much, in fact, to be healthy for either of them.
Or was it?
Next thing Dusty knew, they were standing beside her car. The gentlemanly thing would be to open the door; would a gentleman consider asking her to go back inside for another glass of lemonade?
She answered by opening it herself, then slid behind the wheel and laughed. “I can’t believe I drove over here to see if you could help me with Kylie,” she said, flopping back against the headrest, “and I barely mentioned her name!” Groaning, she thumped her own forehead. “You must think I’m a total nitwit.”
“Hey, it isn’t your fault that I’m such a blabbermouth.”
A moth flew into the front seat and darted around the dome light, and to her credit, Grace didn’t even flinch. Maybe, staring up at him the way she was with those big doe eyes, she hadn’t noticed. Dusty’s ears grew hot and his palms went all clammy. He knew what he was supposed to do next: Close the door. Say goodbye. Tell her to drive safely, that he’d see her soon. Instead, he leaned in, thinking the least he could do after she’d cleaned the kitchen and folded the towels was grab the pesky thing, so it wouldn’t buzz her face as she drove home. It put him an inch from her face, more than enough to kiss her . . . if he had a mind to. She licked her lips. Blinked. Swallowed hard enough that he heard it, and he took it all to mean that if he did have a mind to, she wouldn’t stop him.
Just as his fist closed around the moth, he felt her warm breath on his cheek, and his resolve nearly fizzled. Better watch it, he thought, remembering his “never mix business with pleasure” rule. “Gotcha,” he said, backing out of the car. And turning the moth loose, he said, “Why don’t you and Kylie come join the boys and me on Flag Day? Fort McHenry does fireworks after dark, and if it isn’t raining, we can see them from the roof. We could maybe do a cookout or something. That would give me more than enough time to size the kid up, see whether or not you’re making mountains out of molehills.”
Her left eyebrow went up, and so did one side of her mouth. “You’re not the only one who’s been around the block a time or two, Reverend Parker.”
Now her mouth formed a perfect O . . . right before she hid it behind one hand. “Oh my goodness,” she said. “Yikes. That came out all wrong. I didn’t mean. . . .” On the heels of an exasperated sigh, Grace said, “What I meant to say was, Kylie has been my student for several years. I’ve already done an assessment of her. What I don’t know is how to get her to see that her future is worth fighting for. And after seeing what you’ve done with those boys . . . well, it’s a miracle, that’s what it is, and I’d love to make something like that happen for her.”
“They have as much to do with what’s working in their lives as I do. More, even.” He wouldn’t tell her about the eight kids he’d failed. And remembering what Mitch had said about that, he bristled. You really can’t win ’em all, but you sure ha
ve to try. “So what do you say?”
“About going with you guys on the fourteenth?” She nodded. “Sounds like fun. But. . . .”
Heart sinking, Dusty forced a grin. “Sorry. Can’t take ‘but’ for an answer.”
“No. Wait. I was just going to ask . . . would you mind if I asked Mrs. Logan to join us?”
Melissa’s mom, Dusty remembered, who’d lost her husband and daughter in the same calendar year.
“Might be good for her to get out of the house, spend some time with young people, take her mind off . . . you know . . . everything.”
It was the “young people” remark that sounded warning bells in Dusty’s head. What if she got all weepy and weak-kneed, being surrounded by kids her daughter’s age? The daughter who would never see fireworks—or anything else, for that matter—again?
If he sat the boys down, explained what the poor woman had been through, they’d be fine. Half of them had survived major losses in their lives, too, and he’d bet his Harley they’d treat her with kindness and understanding. “Sure, why not?” he said, closing her car door. “Buckle that seatbelt, you hear?”
“I will. . . .” She grinned up at him. “. . . Dad.”
With that, she drove away, leaving him alone on the sidewalk, staring into the dark until her tail lights were nothing more than two tiny red dots, winking into the night.
How could he miss her already? And why was his brain trying to count down the hours until June 14th?
Head down and hands in his pockets, Dusty chuckled as he made his way back inside.
“Yeah, brother,” he mumbled, taking care to lock and bolt the door, “you’re in trouble, all right.”
If he’d seen the shadowy figure watching him from beyond the hedgerow surrounding the front yard, Dusty would have had a whole lot more reason to believe he was in trouble.
Big trouble.
7
Hey,” Mitch said. “Ran into an old friend of yours last night.”
“That’s never good news,” Dusty said. “This friend got a name?”
“Derek something-or-other.”
“Whitman?” He pictured the tall freckle-faced guy he’d practically carried through boot camp.
“Yeah, that’s him.”
“You sure? Last I heard, he was KIA.” Besides, if memory served, wasn’t he from Rhode Island?
“Give me a minute to translate. KIA is ‘Marine’ for killed in action, right?”
Dusty nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. Old habits die hard.”
“Here,” Mitch said, flipping open his cell phone. “I figured you’d like a trip down memory lane, so I snapped his picture.”
It was Derek, all right, and except for a receding hairline, he hadn’t changed a bit. “Where’d you run into him?”
“Couple of us stopped at the Double T Diner for a bite to eat after the mayor’s speech. And the waiter was wearing one of those crazy pins. You know. Like your skull and crossbones thing.”
“Crossed swords,” Dusty corrected, “not bones.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. So anyway, I told him my boss had one just like it. And he goes, ‘No kidding? What’s his name?’ And when I told him, I thought he’d keel over. All six-foot-ten of him.” Mitch fished a small square napkin from his shirt pocket. “Says while he was doing his stint at Bethesda, his dad died of a stroke and his mom grieved herself to death. And since he liked the East coast weather, he didn’t see any point in going back where he came from.”
“Makes sense.” Except for the part about Derek working at the Double T. He’d graduated from Yale with a law degree, and bored them all silly with talk of joining his dad’s law firm, once the Marines released him.
“Spent some time in rehab, and swears he’s been clean for going on seven years.”
He’d been a major pothead back in the day. Who are you to talk? Dusty thought; the only difference between them was that his drug of choice had been scotch. It was only by the grace of God that he wasn’t waiting tables, too.
“Said if you need a volunteer, or somebody to scare the boys with some straight talk, you should give him a call.”
Not a chance. But rather than explain why, he decided to change the subject. “Still seeing that little redhead?”
Mitch frowned and blushed, ran a hand through his white-blond hair. “Nah. What’s that term the lawyers use? ‘Irreconcilable differences’? Yeah, that’s it. Only thing we had in common is that we both thought she was gorgeous.”
If he hoped his laugh masked his heartache, Mitch was sadly mistaken. And with his own dismal record in the romance department, Dusty had no idea how to comfort his friend. “There’s some pie left from supper,” he said. “Apple.”
Mitch grabbed a plate and a fork, then slid the pie out of the microwave. “Aw, man, that hurts.”
“I could say the same thing.” Dusty feigned shock. “How long have you known about my hiding place?”
“ ’Bout as long as you’ve been stashing stuff in there,” he said around a mouthful of crust. “But don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. And Montel, and Axel, and Guillermo, and—”
“Please. You’re depressing me.”
“Here,” Mitch said, sliding the pie tin closer. “Dig in. Took the edge right off my self-pity.” He speared an apple. “I’ve been meaning to ask . . . what did you do . . . go on a rampage last night?”
“No. Why?”
“Because last time I saw the kitchen this clean. . . .” He swallowed, then washed the pie down with a gulp of lemonade. “Y’know, I don’t think it’s ever been this clean.” He used the fork as a pointer. “Okay, cough it up, dude. Who did what? And how’d you use it to make this happen?”
Dusty only sighed, remembering how cute Grace had looked with that dish towel tucked into her belt as she stuffed the dishwasher. “You staying the night?”
“Might as well.” He crossed both arms over his chest. “So . . . you wanna talk about it?”
Dusty didn’t know what ‘it’ was, and didn’t much care to find out. “Thanks for dragging the trash cans to the road.”
“Change the subject if you want,” Mitch said, raising an eyebrow, “but those tricks you taught yourself during your party-all-night years ain’t workin’, bud.”
“Everybody has a restless night now and then. No big deal.”
“It is when you start looking like somebody who’s on his way to a costume party . . . dressed up like a ghoul. . . .”
“You’re like a puppy with a bone, you know that?”
“Yeah. So why not just spit it out, save yourself all the back and forth?”
He didn’t know whether to blame his mood on the visit from Gonzo or his irrational reaction to Grace. Didn’t know if he wanted to delve into all the memories Derek had roused, either. But before he knew it, Dusty heard himself yammering on and on about those last weeks in Iraq.
“Every soldier in the unit,” he began, “knew exactly what to do if the enemy launched a rocket into camp or lobbed grenades over the barbed wire.” Keeping the insurgents at bay—while protecting innocent Iraqi civilians—often came at enormous cost, but it was a price worth paying if it meant America remained untouched by battle. “Yet there we were, thousands of miles from home when the reports started trickling in: The United States. Under attack. New York. DC. A random field in Pennsylvania. . . .” For hours after the memos started arriving, Dusty remembered, his men sat glassy eyed and silent, because Uncle Sam hadn’t included a section in the training manual to prepare them for that.
“We paced and cussed, and cussed and prayed, waiting for a turn at the phones and computers.” Every soldier, he said, needed to hear their spouses, fiancés, parents, and siblings, to make sure they were safe. After two days of raw worry, Dusty connected with his aunt, but instead of the relief he’d expected to hear, he got the second worst news of his life: His uncle Brock, retired Marine-turned-investor had been in his office on the 95th floor of the World Trade Center when Flight 11 plowed int
o the building . . .
“. . . and I couldn’t get home.”
It had taken weeks, Dusty explained, to arrange transport, “. . . and I spent every minute of it breaking just about every rule in the books.” One gloomy afternoon, as he listened to chatter on the radio, he lost all control: territorial soldiers had gotten their hands on a bunch of AK-47s, and after burning a few of the locals alive, started firing into the school and hospital. “It was the last straw, I tell you,” he ground out, pounding a fist onto the table. “I signed out a deuce-and-a-half and drove full tilt into them. I figured if I got shot up or blown up, well so be it. At least I was in control of something for a change.”
His commander was waiting when he rolled that big sandy vehicle back into camp, looking more like Mr. Clean in uniform than a Marine officer. And he’d launched into an earsplitting harangue about the rules of engagement, the reasons for the military’s pecking order, what could have happened if Dusty had injured a civilian during his tirade. “Three’s the charm,” he told the somber-faced Mitch. “I’d been warned twice. That time, instead of a warning, I got an ultimatum: sign the paperwork that put my discharge into action, or spend a couple of years in the brig.”
“Well,” Mitch said, “at least they weren’t dishonorable discharge papers.”
“No kidding.” Ashamed as he was now, he knew it would have been a hundred times worse if he’d been forced to tell his newly widowed aunt she could write to him, in care of Leavenworth.
Suddenly, Dusty had had enough. On his feet, he said, “Much as I appreciate this, Father Confessor, I’m beat.”
Mitch’s pale eyes were sad, but he managed a grin. “You are forgiven, my son,” he said, making a backwards sign of the Cross. “For your penance, you will say the Twenty-third Psalm. The Lord’s Prayer. The Gettysburg Address, and the Preamble to the Constitution. And you will repeat these until you fall asleep.”
“Beats counting sheep,” Dusty said, grinning back. “Reminds me too much of the days when Mrs. Wilhelm used to make me fill her chalkboards with a thousand lines of ‘I will not talk in class.’ ”