by Loree Lough
Nestor strutted into the room, smirking, chest puffed out to show off his Cowboys baseball cap and T-shirt.
“What in the . . . ? Of all the. . . .” Dusty bit off the rest of his simmering insult. “You know better than that,” he growled. “Take ’em off.”
“Hey, dude,” he said, frowning, “I paid for these with my own money. You can’t make me—”
Dusty took a step closer. “I can, and I will . . . if I have to.”
By now, nine of the eleven boys were in the kitchen, some sitting, others milling around, all chattering happily as they sipped juice and munched buttered toast, waiting for Dusty to get breakfast on the table.
Nestor said, “So how come you get to wear Harley stuff?”
It was a good question. Just not one he chose to answer. At least, not right now. Nose to nose with the kid, he said, “You know as well as I do what message you’re sending Gonzo and his goons, walking around in stuff like that.”
The silence in the room was almost as startling as the boys’ stunned expressions. Clearly, they understood that this set-to could end badly. And Dusty couldn’t help but wonder which side they’d take if, God forbid, it came to that.
“Have some breakfast first,” Dusty told Nestor. “Then find something else to wear. Something that won’t get you killed.”
Trevor and Cody, the only true blood brothers in the house, stood closer together as Billy said, “I read an article online, about some kid who got himself shot because he was wearing some posse’s colors.” He shook his head. “And the big dummy didn’t even know it.”
The others chimed in with stories they’d heard, about how team jerseys and brand name running shoes had long been identifiers of various gangs across the country.
“Aw, that’s just crazy,” Nestor said. “Same as sneakers on phone lines and graffiti is some kinda secret territory marker.”
“That stuff is true,” Dom said. “My dad said so, last time I visited him at Jessup.”
But Nestor seemed adamant. “I ain’t scared of those Bulls. I’ll wear what I want, when I want, and nobody,” he ground out, glaring at Dusty, “better try and tell me I can’t.”
The dare was as blatant as the hat on his head. With the exception of Jack, the youngest, every kid here had, at some point, pulled a similar stunt. Dusty knew better than to force the issue. Knew better than to ignore the challenge, too. With kids like these, who’d cut their teeth on brutality and rage, he had two choices . . . show them who was in charge, or let anarchy rein.
He slid an arm across Nestor’s shoulders, and, grabbing the back of the boy’s neck, exerted enough pressure to send the subtle message: Even if I hadn’t fought in two wars, I outweigh you by fifty pounds. . . . Message received, as evidenced by the taut muscles under his hand. “Blue isn’t your color anyway, kiddo,” he said, turning the grip into a sideways hug. “Is it guys?”
A collective sigh of relief floated around the room. “Uh . . . no,” Cody said. One pinky in the air, his voice raised an octave to add, “You’d look so-o-o much prettier in pink.”
Now, laughter replaced the sighs as, one by one, the kids’ good-natured shoves and taunts tamed Nestor’s ire. Unfortunately, Dusty had one more thing to accomplish before he could breathe a sigh of relief. “Tell you what, Nestor. I’ll pack up all my Harley stuff and donate it to Vietnam Veterans . . . if you’ll do the same with this.” He tapped the blue star on the boy’s chest, then touched the one on his cap. Then, for good measure, he met each boy’s gaze, one by one. “Same goes for the rest of you.”
As before, the silence was palpable. Axel broke it with a hearty, “Deal!”
Mitch walked into the room just then, stretching. “What’s all the whooping and hollering about?” he asked around a yawn.
Nestor smirked. “Oh, nothin’ much,” he said. “ ’Cept we figured out a way to make Dusty get rid of all his Harley Davidson junk.” Laughing, he added, “You owe us five bucks, Mitch.”
“Each,” said Nick.
And Billy said, “Yeah. Each.”
Dusty could only stare, dumbfounded, as he tried to figure out if Mitch looked more smug than guilty, or the other way around.
“Hey. What can I say?” The younger man shrugged. “Guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do, y’know?”
“Fooled you, Dusty!” Montel sang as Guillermo fist-pumped the air, and Jack and Cody did a celebratory jig.
Trevor shook his head. “Oh, I dunno . . . he’s pretty sly, himself.” He thrust out his chin. “Admit it,” he said with one eye narrowed. “You were in on it, right from the get-go, weren’t you?”
It would have been dishonest to say that he was. But he couldn’t very well admit that he’d been clueless, either. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” They’d sat up half the night, shortly after Gonzo’s little visit, puzzling out how they’d protect the kids from the gang leader and his self-appointed posse, only to turn in frazzled and frustrated by their lack of ideas. Later, when they were alone, he’d find out how long Mitch had been working out the bugs on this little plot. Then he’d insist that the next time he cooked up some harebrained scheme, he’d let Dusty in on the planning. Especially if it involved his participation.
He’d save the thank-yous and pats on the back for last. Wouldn’t want his head to get too big, he thought, grinning as the boys passed pancakes and syrup, eggs and toast up and down the table. Like a real family, he thought, smiling like a proud papa.
Dusty’s smile faded, though, as he wondered if what they’d built here was enough to protect them from Gonzo’s promises of gang solidarity. A cold chill snaked down his spine, because he’d learned the hard way how dangerous it could be, dwelling on thoughts like that.
Hopefully, he hadn’t already jinxed the lot of them by entertaining doubt, even for a moment.
13
After spending half of her paycheck to rent the American Legion hall, it wasn’t easy hiding her disappointment at the low turnout. Grace had bought enough food to feed a small army, too. What would she do with it all?
And then she remembered the way Dusty’s boys hadn’t left a crumb on their plates. On their serving bowls, either. True . . . it was last minute, but if they didn’t already have plans, an invitation might solve her problem and give them something different to do, to boot.
Besides, she thought, dialing his number, I’d never come up with a better—or more legitimate—excuse to shrink the gap between the last time I’d seen him and the Flag Day events at Fort McHenry.
In the middle of the fourth ring, she told herself she’d give it one more before hanging up.
“Parker,” he all but barked.
He sounded out of breath. Or agitated. Both, maybe. “Hi, Dusty?” she said, and could have kicked herself for the timidity in her voice. “It’s me. Grace. Grace Sinclair?”
She heard muffled voices, paper rattling, a thump. “Hey,” he said at last. “Good to hear from you.”
Everybody said things like that, so why had hearing him say it made her heart skip a beat?
“What have you been up to?”
“Same ol’, same ol’,” he answered. “You?”
Instead of reciting everything she’d been up to since the funeral, she told him where she was right now, and admitted that of the long list of people she’d invited to the fundraiser, only a handful had shown up. “I hate to see all this good food go to waste. Or the DJ, for that matter. So I was wondering. . . . I just . . . I know how rude it seems, calling at the last minute this way, but I thought if you and the kids don’t have other plans tonight, maybe—”
“Must pose a real challenge,” he interrupted, “hiding your wings and a halo when you get dressed every morning.”
Wings and halo? Grace might have said, “Who? Me?” if he hadn’t added “I was just sitting here, trying to figure out how in the world I was going to feed this motley crew when the cupboard is as bare as Mother Hubbard’s. Said to God, ‘Pizza delivery angel would b
e nice, right about now.’ And then the phone rang. And it was you. Offering a meal.” He cut loose with a quiet, two-note whistle. “Now, either I’m fuzzy-headed from hunger, or you said something about your grandparents, naming their farm ‘Angel Acres.’ Right?”
“Right. They did. Because Angel is their last name. Was their last name, that is. . . .”
He laughed, and her heart did that crazy flip. Again. Idiot, she told herself, don’t read more into this than there is. . . .
“If that isn’t a prime example of irony, I don’t know what is.”
He asked for the address, and once she’d provided it, said, “It’ll take half an hour or so to round ’em all up, check behind their ears, and load ’em into the van.”
“It’s only 8:30,” she said, “and I have the hall until midnight. So don’t rush them. It isn’t like the food or the DJ is going anywhere.” And neither am I, she thought, now that I know I’ll see you again. . . .
She met them at the door, doling out hugs as each of the Last Chance boys passed her on their way into the banquet hall. Through it all, Kylie stood close beside her, doing her best not to participate in the welcome. The last one in had been the soft-spoken Axel, whose quiet West Virginia drawl broke through the girl’s self-protective wall. Soon, she was clear across the room, laughing at the boys’ antics while she stuffed her face with chocolate cake.
“I see what you mean about her,” Dusty said, sliding onto the bench beside Grace. “If a couple hours with those mischiefmakers doesn’t make a difference, I’ll eat my hat.”
“You aren’t wearing a hat.” Grace smiled. “If you hadn’t driven the van, I could suggest you eat your helmet, instead.”
Chin touching his chest, he said, “O ye of little faith.”
“You’re right, of course,” she admitted. “There’s no reason to believe Kylie will crawl back into her lonely little cubby after the boys go home.” Grace hadn’t even realized that she’d rested her hand on his knee . . . until he gave it a gentle squeeze.
Then he picked it up, inspected the palm and every fingertip.
She answered his unasked question by saying, “I’ll have you know I earned every cut and callus and blister.”
“As a lumberjack?”
She explained the myriad chores that needed doing, every single day, over at Angel Acres. “Can’t afford a foreman.”
“So what . . . you mend fences and stretch barbed wire, all by yourself?”
“It’s a farm,” she said, laughing, “not a ranch. But there’s plenty of shoveling and baling to do, not to mention the gardens and—”
“All by yourself?”
“All by myself.”
“How many acres?”
“Only thirty.”
“Only. . . .” He whistled. “All by yourself.” Then he held up a hand. “I know, I know . . . it’s a tough job, but somebody’s gotta do it. . . .”
“It’s cliché, but true.”
“And you maintain the house all by yourself, too?”
“Yup.”
“How many rooms?
She did a mental count, using the fingers of her free hand: Living room, dining room, kitchen, family room, sun porch, five bedrooms, two bathrooms and a powder room. . . . “Do bathrooms count?”
He smiled. “No. I don’t think so.”
“Ten, then.”
“That’s a lot of house for one tiny woman to take care of, all by herself.” He eased a fingertip across the blisters. “Nobody should have to work that hard. Especially not a woman with a heart as big as yours.”
She would have told him to stop, because it tickled . . . if he hadn’t kissed the palm of her hand, then closed her fingers, as if to trap the kiss inside her fist.
Gently, he put her hand into her lap, and nodding at the kids, he said, “Think they’ll get out there and dance?” he asked.
“Maybe.” Her heart was beating so hard that Grace wondered why she didn’t feel dizzy, what with all the blood it sent to her brain. “If the DJ plays something they know, they might.” That inspired a little giggle. “You’d think somebody who spends hours and hours in the presence of teenagers would be more ‘up’ on the kind of music they like, wouldn’t you? But you know what? I don’t have a clue.”
“That makes two of us.” He waved to Mitch, who’d just dropped a golden drumstick onto his paper plate. “If he can’t tell us, I guess we’re doomed to a life of musical illiteracy.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said as the younger man sat on her right. “Bet we could give them a run for their money . . . if the subject was hits of the 60s. Or the 70s or 80s, even.”
“What’s goin’ down, dude,” Mitch asked around a mouthful of chicken.
“That, for starters,” Dusty said, pointing at the coleslaw dressing trail that marked Mitch’s trip across the dance floor.
“Oh. Wow. Did I do that?” He put his plate on the bench beside him. “Better clean it up, before somebody slips and lands on their keister.”
On his hands and knees, he used his napkin to sop up the mess as Molly Logan joined them. “What in the world . . . ?”
Grace leaped up and hugged her. “I’m so glad you decided to come!”
“I almost didn’t,” the woman admitted. “But after all you did for me, I just didn’t have the heart to let you down.” She pointed at the food table. “You weren’t exaggerating, were you, when you said you’d ordered too much food!”
It seemed she’d only just noticed Dusty. If she recognized him, it didn’t show on her face or in her voice. “Molly Logan,” she said, extending a hand.
Even if she hadn’t smelled alcohol on Molly’s breath, Grace wouldn’t have reminded her that it had been Dusty who’d found Missy, or that he’d waited in the hall at FBI headquarters, in case she might need him.
It seemed Dusty felt the same way, because when he got to his feet, all he said as he took her hand was “Name’s Dusty. It’s good to meet you.”
Mitch joined them and introduced himself, then picked up his plate. “Name’s Mitch,” he said, touching a clear-plastic spoon to an imaginary hat brim, “but my friends call me Piglet.” And as if to prove it, he filled his mouth with potato salad.
Laughing, Molly asked, “Is that as delicious as it looks?”
Nodding, something akin to “Yes, it is” passed Mitch’s lips, eliciting a whole new round of laughter. “I haven’t had a bite since breakfast,” Molly admitted, “and watching you reminds me just how famished I am!”
“Let’s fix you a plate,” Grace said, taking her elbow. “What can I bring you when I come back?” she asked Dusty.
“I’ll grab something in a minute,” he said, winking, “after I have a word or two with Piglet, here.”
“Hey,” Mitch put in. “I said my friends could call me that. . . .”
“Aren’t they a pair!” Molly said.
It was good to see her smile, and Grace hoped the booze hadn’t been entirely responsible for her cheerfulness.
“Who’s that?” Molly wanted to know.
Grace followed her line of vision to where Kylie still sat, giggling and talking with Axel and Toby. “That’s Kylie. Kylie Houghton.” Grace explained how the girl came by the surname, adding only a few peripheral details about her background.
“Oh, the poor little thing. No wonder she wears that strange hairdo and those ridiculous clothes; she’s crying out for attention and affection. And I’m sure what you told me is only the tip of the iceberg. Why, it would probably reduce me to tears if I knew everything she’s been through . . . things she probably hasn’t told anyone. . . .”
It was quite an insightful observation, and Grace wondered if that, too, could be credited to liquor. The thought inspired concern, because what if Molly was using it to wash down the tranquilizers her doctor had prescribed? Even more worrisome, she’d driven all the way across town. Grace’s own parents would likely still be here, if not for a drunk driver. She decided that minute to drive her home,
even if it meant tackling her to get the car keys. Molly might make it all the way back to Ellicott City without incident, just as she’d managed to get here in one piece. But Grace wouldn’t take the chance that Molly might lose control of her vehicle and cause that kind of heartache for another family.
She filled a plate, mostly to assure that Molly would, too, then introduced her to the DJ, who’d taken a break. “Mrs. Logan is quite the musician,” Grace told him. “A little birdie told me that she used to play piano with the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra.”
“Do tell,” the bearded man said. “Name’s Sean Thomas,” he said. “I did a stint with the BSO, too. String section. . . .”
“Is that so? What years were you with the orchestra?”
“I’ll be around, if you need anything,” Grace interrupted. But if they heard her, they showed no sign of it. She knew little to nothing about Sean, but he looked like a man who could take care of himself. As for Molly, Grace had never seen her look more animated.
She headed back to where Dusty and Mitch had been sitting, but the bench was empty now, save an empty plastic cup and a paper napkin. She gathered both up and deposited them in the trash can, gaze scanning the room in search of them. Well, not them. Mitch seemed like a nice enough guy, but it wasn’t him that she wanted to see. . . .
And then she spotted them, standing in the entrance hall, Dusty talking as Mitch nodded. What on earth could they be talking about, she wondered, to paint those serious expressions on their faces? Dusty looked up just then, and caught her staring. One side of his mouth lifted in a grin, while Mitch raised a hand in silent greeting. An invitation to join them? Grace couldn’t be sure, so she looked for more trash to collect.
“You missed this,” Dusty said, holding up a fork.
She met his smile with one of her own. “What would I do without you?” she said, reaching for it. But he didn’t let go. Instead, he wrapped his fingers around hers, so that they were both holding the plastic utensil.
“If you have a minute,” he whispered into her ear, “there’s something I’d like to tell you. And ask you.”