by Loree Lough
She’d spent considerable time applying false eyelashes and drawn-on eyebrows. But at least the pink scarf she’d draped around her neck put a bit of color into her cheeks.
“I’m going for the gaunt look. Did I hit the mark?”
Grace winced.
“Aw, sweetie. I’m sorry. My sense of humor tends to be maudlin these days. Didn’t mean to rain on your parade. No pun intended.” Then, “Come here. Give your bony old pal a hug. It’s the last time I can do this while you’re a single woman.”
Grace obliged her, taking care not to squeeze too hard.
“Roll me outside, why don’t you, so I can enjoy some of that sweet breeze before the ceremony starts.”
Grace looked out the window, saw Dusty standing under the arbor, facing Pastor Nolt. On his left, Austin. And on his right, Ethan. “I can’t,” she said. “He’s out there already.”
“Well, there’s one groom who doesn’t have cold feet,” Randi said, laughing.
“Too hot out there for cold feet,” Mercy said, joining them. “Oh my goodness, Grace, you’re a vision. If the heat doesn’t bowl Dusty over, you in that dress is sure to do it.”
She’d never been a vain woman, so the thoughts running through her head made her frown. “You really think I look all right?”
“Honey, you put those roses in your garden to shame.”
Mercy glanced at the clock. “Tell you what, I’ll take Randi outside, then cue the boys to start the music.” She giggled. “Have you seen them out there, all dolled up in their suits?”
“I doubt any of them has ever worn a tie before,” Grace said. “If it’s as hot out there as you say, they’ll hate me before the day is over.”
“Not a chance,” Randi said over her shoulder. “Don’t forget your flowers . . . they’re in the fridge.”
Minutes later, Grace found herself under the arbor, standing side by side with the man of her dreams. Only the quaking of roses in her bouquet made her certain this was anything but a dream. That, and the pastor’s droning voice, reciting Bible verses, spouting a brief sermon. And then. . . .
“Dusty Parker, do you take this woman, Grace Sinclair, to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
Ethan tugged his sleeve. “Say yes, Dad!”
Chuckling, Dusty winked at the boy, then took her hands in his and said, “I do.”
“And do you, Grace Sinclair, take this man, Dusty Parker, to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
She glanced at Ethan, nodding excitedly. Smiling, she said, “I do.”
“Then I now pronounce you man and wife.”
Ethan did a little dance while Dusty lifted the filmy fabric that veiled her face and gently arranged it around her head. Then gently, he cupped her face in his hands and tilted her face up, to receive his kiss. A line from the age-old hymn, Amazing Grace, sang in her head as he pressed his lips to hers. “I once was lost, but now I’m found. . . .”
She hadn’t realized how long they’d stood there, locked in one another’s arms, until Gavin’s gruff voice rang out with “Atta boy, Dusty!”
Laughter floated around the yard as Ethan clapped a hand over his face. “Shoo-eee,” he said, “is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life . . . mush?”
“ ’Fraid so, son.”
And it did Grace’s heart good to know that Dusty and Randi had said the words, together.
Hours later, as the stereo thumped with the soft guitar strains of Piazolla’s Estancia, Dusty and Grace stood mesmerized by the harbor view from their suite at the Inn at Henderson’s Wharf. “Can’t believe I lucked into this room,” Dusty said, drawing her into a hug. “It’s usually just for people who pay the big bucks to get married here at the hotel.”
“It’s stunning,” she admitted, gesturing to the brick walls and floor-to-ceiling windows. “Who wouldn’t love being surrounded by the luxurious, nautical décor of this historic building?”
“You sound like a talking travel brochure.”
Grace pointed at the antique desk, where a full-color pamphlet lay open on the blotter. “Caught me,” she said, laughing. “But honestly, you didn’t have to go to all this bother and expense. I would have been just as happy, staying home.”
“I know you would, Miss Plain and Simple.” He kissed her gold band. “Make that Mrs. Plain and Simple.” Then he kissed the tip of her nose. “But I would not have been just as happy, staying home. Not tonight.”
She read the flicker of desire in his eyes, felt his big loving heart, pounding under the palm of her hand.
“We need to make the most of this night, because for the rest of our lives, it’ll be boys and noise.”
Grace nodded. “As long as I’m with you, I don’t care where we are.”
Now, Rossini’s Sinfonia floated from the speakers as Dusty scooped her up and gently deposited her on the bed. “Guess that’s one more example,” he whispered, “of the differences between men and women.”
Then he kissed her, and the low notes of ships in the harbor and the enthralling guitar serenade faded away.
38
When Grace and Dusty returned from their one-night honeymoon, their joy turned to immediate sorrow when they saw Randi. “Hardly seems possible,” Mitch said, “that she could go downhill that far, that fast.”
Gavin agreed. “It’s like she was just holding on, until you guys were married.”
“She’s been asking for you, Dad.”
He took one look at the boy’s worried, heartbroken face and nearly wept, himself. Because he’d been slightly older than Ethan when his parents were killed, Dusty knew that nothing he said now would comfort the boy. So he swept Ethan up and held him close, walking and rocking, rocking and walking until the sobs subsided.
“You okay for a few minutes, kiddo, so I can go to her?”
Ethan knuckled his eyes and nodded. “How come you never married her?”
It hurt like a hard right to the gut, coming from out of the blue that way. “Because it wasn’t in God’s design,” Dusty said. It was a stupid thing to say to a kid his age, and he regretted it instantly.
“That’s what she said, too.” Ethan heaved a shaking breath. “Better get in there,” he said. “I’ll be okay.” He looked up at Grace. “She wants to see you, too.”
Blinking, Grace led the way to Randi’s room. “Oh, good,” she said once inside. “She’s sleeping.”
“Just resting my eyes.” Her voice, muffled by the breathing mask, sounded far, far away. She lifted both hands, patted the mattress. “Sit down. I have something to say to the two of you.”
Grace balanced on Randi’s right, Dusty on her left.
“I should never have let you go without your oxygen yesterday,” Grace said, adjusting the clear-plastic tubing. “It was too much, especially in all that humidity.”
“Tell her, Dusty, that nobody tells Randi Fletcher what to do.”
Dusty only shook his head. “She’s right, and you know it. You should be in a hospital.”
“Why? So they can load me up with drugs? I never needed to be wide awake and alert more than right now.”
“Shh, Randi. You should rest. All this talking is wearing you out.”
“Gimme a break, Grace. I’ll be resting for all eternity.”
The strength of her voice belied her condition. Randi looked so tiny, so frail lying there in the hospital bed that it looked king-sized, and it was hard to tell where the linens ended and she began. But she found the strength to grab his hand. “You have a birthday coming up. Sorry I’m gonna miss it.”
“I’m too old to celebrate birthdays,” he said, forcing a grin.
“That’s crazy. I think having Ethan around will be good for you. Keep you from talking like an old man.”
She took Grace’s hand, too. “Is Ethan asleep yet?”
“No. Not yet.”
An almost indiscernible sigh escaped her ravaged lungs. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“What is?” Grace wanted to know.
“The way God brings people together, exactly when and where they need each other most.” Her green eyes bored hotly into Grace’s, into Dusty’s. “You’ll be good for each other. And good for Ethan. I can’t tell you what peace it gives me, knowing he’ll grow up in a house that’s filled with love. And laughter.”
Dusty didn’t think there would be much laughing around here for a long, long time. Randi hadn’t been with them long, but her presence had had a huge impact on everyone at Angel Acres.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the hiss of Randi’s oxygen machine, puffing a steady supply of air into her mask.
“You think maybe you could bring Ethan in here?”
He hated the thought of the poor kid, seeing his mom this way. But he remembered how powerless he’d felt when they told him his own mom and dad were gone, and how fuming mad he’d been that they’d died without a last “I love you” or a final goodbye.
Ethan went quietly to her, climbed into the bed and snuggled close. “I know you’re sleepy, sweet boy. So when we’re through here, I want you to go straight to bed, okay?”
The boy nodded as one silvery tear tracked down his cheek.
“Remember what we talked about. . . .”
Another nod, another tear.
“It’s going to be all right. I promise. And you know I’ve never ever broken a promise to you.”
“I know you’ll be in heaven,” he croaked out, “where you won’t hurt any more. I’m glad about that, but Mom . . . I’m really, really gonna miss you.”
Dusty could see Grace over there, struggling not to burst into tears. He held his breath, to keep from blubbering like a boy, himself. But Randi, remarkably, continued stroking Ethan’s hair. “But you know I won’t be all the way gone, right?”
“You’ll live in my heart and in my dreams,” he whispered softly.
And Dusty wondered how many times she’d made him rehearse that.
“Okay, time for bed, sweet boy. Give your ugly ol’ mama a goodnight kiss.”
“You aren’t old, and you aren’t ugly. You’re the most beautiful mom a boy ever had.”
She mussed his hair. “Aw, you’re good for a gal’s ego.” Randi held out her arms, and he nestled closer. “Now, off to bed. See you in your dreams.”
Ethan knew as well as Dusty and Grace what she was saying: by the time you wake up, I’ll be gone. Nodding solemnly, he kissed her cheek and walked silently from the room.
“I’ll be right up to tuck you in and hear your prayers,” Dusty called after him.
But he only nodded as he rounded the corner.
“Give me your hands,” she said squeezing her eyes shut.
Grace and Dusty obliged her. “I know you’ll take good care of him. But I want you to promise me . . . you’ll always take good care of each other, too.”
They nodded, but that didn’t satisfy her. “Say it,” she demanded.
“We’ll take care of each other,” they said together.
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
When the furrows on her brow smoothed and she sighed, Grace hugged her. “Aw, Randi, I love you like a sister. I’m going to miss you so much!”
“Ditto,” Dusty said.
And Randi chuckled. “The man of many words.” Then, “I love you, too, you big idiot.” Then she looked at each of them in turn, and smiled serenely . . . one pinky in the air.
Dusty looked at Grace. “What’s that all about?”
“She told me once that nobody could call her a sissy pinkie-in-the-air woman.” Grace squeezed Randi’s hand. “You’re a nut, you know that?”
“Anything but a sissy. . . .”
Then she fell silent and closed her eyes.
“ ‘And lo, I will tell you a mystery . . . ,’ ” Dusty recited.
“ ‘. . . in the twinkling of an eye,’ ” Grace picked up, “ ‘the trumpet will sound. . . .’ ”
“ ‘. . . and the dead will be raised, imperishable,’ ” Randi finished. Nodding slowly, tears trickled from the corners of her eyes. “It’s been . . . swell,” she said. “A real pleasure.”
And then her grip on their hands relaxed, and they knew she had left them.
“The pleasure was all ours,” Grace said, reaching for Dusty’s hand.
Taking it, he nodded. “All ours.”
39
Two weeks before Thanksgiving . . .
Dusty was mucking out stalls, pretending not to notice the fog from his breath floating on the crisp, cold air. Next spring, he’d figure out some way to heat the barn. His cell phone chirped, “Grab that for me, will you, Montel?”
“Sure thing.” He flipped it open and struck a ‘Dusty’ pose: One hand on the back of his neck, feet planted shoulder width apart. “Y’ello,” he said into the mouthpiece.
Chuckling, Dusty shook his head. It was good to see the kids goofing around again. They’d all been pretty subdued since Randi’s funeral back in August. All but Ethan, that is. At eight, he still believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny; when Randi told him she’d live forever in his heart and dreams, he’d swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker. Oh, to be eight again, he thought.
“It’s Mr. Miller,” Montel said, handing Dusty the phone. “Something about graffiti and trash at Last Chance.”
“Aw, man,” he complained, “you’d think those thugs would have better things to do than vandalize property, big and tough as they claim to be.”
“You think it’s the Bulls?”
“Who else?” If it wasn’t Los Toros de Lidia, Dusty would eat his work-grimy gloves. He took the phone and listened as Miller lectured him about how the neighborhood was going to hell in a hand basket, how it didn’t help when homeowners let their houses stand empty, and how between the economy and people like Dusty, property values had plummeted.
He couldn’t very well disagree, so Dusty apologized and promised to clean up the Bulls’ mess. “Guess I’d better get over there,” he grumbled.
“Not by yourself, you ain’t.”
“Well, I suppose the cleanup will go faster if you and a couple of the guys come along. See what Nestor and Trevor are up to,” Dusty said, “while I grab some cleaning supplies and trash bags.”
Half an hour later, Dusty and the oldest Last Chance boys piled into the van. “Wish you had more faith in guns,” Montel said.
“It’s because I have too much faith in them that I won’t have one in the house.”
Nestor said, “But you were a soldier. And a cop. I don’t get it.”
He didn’t know how to explain the philosophy of war to boys this age. Maybe in a year or so, or when he had enough time to do the job right. For now, he said, “When I was a cop, I saw way too many instances when some regular joe thought he’d be safer, brandishing a firearm. Trouble is, regular joes don’t realize how tough it is, standing eye to eye with somebody who’s willing to kill him. In the fraction of a second it takes him to decide whether to shoot or be shot, the bad guy has already pulled the trigger. And doesn’t give a fig that he just ended a human life.”
“You ever shoot anybody, Dusty?”
“Once,” he told Trevor.
“Did you kill the man?”
“Wasn’t a man,” he growled. “Just a big, stupid boy who didn’t know he was stupid.” Jaw clenched, Dusty shook his head and harrumphed.
“Why’d you shoot him?”
“ ’Cause he decided to pay for his 7-Eleven Twinkies with the shells from his sawed-off shotgun.”
“So . . . so he shot the cashier? For Twinkies?”
“Yep.” Dusty didn’t tell them that by the time he and Randi rolled up in their squad car, the man behind the counter had bled out, thanks to a point-blank blast to his chest. Didn’t tell them it had been Randi’s first armed robbery, or that the sight made her upchuck the cheeseburger and fries she’d had for supper.
“What about the robber? How’d you find him?”
Frowning, Dusty told that part exactl
y as it happened: “He was sitting on the counter, shotgun across his lap and washing down the Twinkies with a Mountain Dew when we got there.”
“That’s cold,” Trevor said. “So I guess he aimed the gun at you?”
“At my partner, actually,” Dusty said. “A green recruit named Randi Fletcher.”
“Our Randi?”
“Yep.”
They’d grown to think of her as an older sister, and she’d come to like them, too, in the little time they shared before she died.
“So you had to shoot him,” Nestor said, “to save her.”
Dusty nodded, remembering how Randi’s eyes had grown big and round as she stood stock-still and stared into the hollow end of the weapon.
“Man. That’s wicked.”
He heard the crack in Montel’s voice. As the oldest—and the kid who’d lived at Last Chance longest—it must have shocked him to find out his hero had feet of clay . . . clear up to his hips.
The sun loved to beat on the front of the Last Chance house from dawn until noon. Then it slipped around the side. And that’s precisely where the Bulls had decided to paint the weird gangland scribbles that told other gangland scribblers, “Hands off. This place is ours.”
He’d seen landfills that didn’t look as junky. Empty beer cans and half-full bottles of rotgut whiskey and gin littered the grass; and newspapers blown against Miller’s chain-link fence fluttered like those first unfortunate ducks shot down on opening day. A discarded cardboard box that had once transported a dozen four-packs of Charmin pressed up against the porch, and a grimy, holey sneaker, big enough to have belonged to Sasquatch, sat in the middle of the walk. And the plywood Dusty had used to repair the broken front window was missing, and the rectangular opening taunted them, like a dark, unblinking eye.
Trevor slapped his thigh. “How we gonna get paint off the siding? Looks like enamel!”
Unfortunately, the kid was right. Fortunately, Dusty had thought to slide a knee-high stack of old towels, a box of rubber gloves, and a gallon jug of mineral spirits into the back of the van. “Nothing a little elbow grease won’t take care of.”
The kids and Dusty hadn’t been at it more than ten minutes before Miller hung over the side rail of his front porch. “ ’Bout time you got over here and took some responsibility for that pig sty,” he hollered. “ ’Fore you know it, we’ll have rats nesting in that mess you call a yard.”