A Man of Honor Page 10

  At the church earlier, a fit of giggles had threatened to disrupt the ceremony. Now, as he wiped it on his already-soiled shirt, she felt the same urge and did nothing to stifle it. Nervous laughter, induced by Honor’s speech? Or relief at being so near him?

  He gathered her close and collapsed onto a chair, bringing her with him, then pressed his palms to her cheeks and silenced her with those oh-so-blue eyes. Thankfully, everyone else had gone back to talking and laughing and eating, and weren’t paying any attention to them. At least, Grace hoped that was the case, because unless she was mistaken, Dusty was about to kiss her. She closed her eyes, partly because she didn’t want that biscuit crumb on his upper lip to start the giggling up again, and partly to spare herself some major disappointment . . . in case she was wrong.

  She was not.

  A moment later, when she opened her eyes, he was smiling at her.

  “Montel was right,” she said. “You do taste pretty good.”

  “Y’think?”

  Instead of answering, she kissed him again.

  11

  You’re lucky she didn’t slug you,” said Trevor.

  Jack, the youngest Last Chance kid, held his stomach. “I thought I was gonna puke.”

  Dom nodded. “Or go blind.”

  “Yeah. Like, dude, what were you thinking, layin’ one on her like that? At a funeral dinner. With a hundred people in the room!”

  Montel gave Nestor a playful shove. “Aw, man, you can say that again.”

  “It was a learning experience, I tell you,” Axel put in.

  “Learning experience,” Tony echoed. “What did you learn, pipsqueak?”

  Axel ran a hand over tight reddish-blond cornrows. “Well, for one thing, I learned that white girls turn red as Santa’s suit when they get caught kissin’.”

  “What else did you learn?” Jack wanted to know.

  Aiming a smirk at the rearview mirror, he said, “That white boys turn as red as Santa’s suit when they get caught kissin’, too.”

  The van’s interior pulsed with youthful laughter.

  Dusty took their ribbing in good-natured stride. He had no one but himself to blame, after all, because the honest answer to Nestor’s question was, he hadn’t been thinking. One minute, he’d been flat on his back under a blanket of food, and the next, she was in his lap, looking all cute and contrite, and before he knew it. . . .

  Groaning inwardly, he steered the van into the narrow driveway beside the house, and it came to a creaking, jerking halt. If he thought it would do a bit of good, he’d pop for a lube job, an alignment, new tires. But few things annoyed him more than throwing good money down a rat hole, and that’s exactly what he’d be doing if he invested another dime in the old clunker.

  He wondered if Mitch had made any headway at today’s meeting with Reverend Jackson and his budget committee. The Last Chance for Deliverance church parishioners had given the word generous a whole new meaning, and without their financial support, the Last Chance House for Homeless Boys would never have been possible. The elders had been pleased with what he’d accomplished with the kids, but thanks to Gonzo and his bunch, money was tight.

  Was it coincidence that the gang leader knew to keep the price of replacing windows and removing graffiti lower than the insurance deductible? Dusty didn’t believe in coincidence any more than he believed in luck.

  “Look at him,” Guillermo whispered into a cupped hand, “all lost in his thoughts. . . .” He elbowed Billy, who said, “What you daydreaming about, Dusty . . . your pretty little girlfriend?”

  Dusty blew a stream of air through his teeth, and grinned as he shook his head. “You have a doctor’s appointment first thing in the morning,” he said to Axel.

  “You think the cast will come off tomorrow?”

  “I sure hope so.” Jack pinched his nose. “Smells like toe cheese under there.”

  The kids headed straight for the kitchen, where they made sandwiches and poured lemonade to devour while watching The Cowboys for the umpteenth time. They’d memorized every line, trying their best to say “We’re burnin’ daylight!” or “Big mouth don’t make a big man” half a tick in time before John Wayne’s character said it. More often than not, it was Guillermo who won the contest . . . and paid for it with a hearty round of good-natured ribbing as they mocked his Spanish accent. When the movie ended, they were quick to carry their drink cups and paper plates into the kitchen, and in no time, the music of their youthful snores floated down the stairs.

  Alone for the first time in days, Dusty’s thoughts turned to Grace. He replayed that scene in Tate’s living room half a dozen times, mostly because in the middle of thinking about that kiss, he didn’t have to think about where he’d get the money for a new van, or how he’d protect the kids from Gonzo. A man could go far with a woman like that in his corner. . . .

  But it was selfish and self-centered to even consider taking their friendship to the next level, because she deserved better than the likes of a has-been Marine whose only experience with commitment came by way of a broken-down old house filled with a passel of troubled teens.

  Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Back in his cop days, he’d had one longer-than-a-weekend relationship, but he and Randi had been way too messed up to define what they’d shared as a committed relationship.

  If he had any decency left, he’d figure out how to put some distance between himself and Grace, instead of trying to find a good excuse to see her again.

  And so it went, all through the night. When the alarm woke him at 5:30, he resisted the temptation to throw it across the room. He dragged himself to the kitchen, where he rummaged in the fridge. No eggs. No milk. No bread. “Looks like the kids will have to make do with instant oatmeal,” he muttered, spreading bowls, napkins, and spoons onto the table with the dexterity of a Vegas dealer.

  The boys grumped and groaned when they saw the assortment of brown envelopes on the table. “What, gruel? Again?” Tony complained. “I feel like Oliver Twist.”

  But he ate the stuff, and so did the other boys. Dusty had a feeling their compliance was born of bad memories, of too many mornings when swallowing wads of paper was the only way to quiet their growling bellies.

  He started a list and left it on the table, along with a note asking Mitch to make the grocery store run. The assistant was the only other person who knew where he’d stored the jar of cash donations, delivered weekly from what little was gathered during the second collection of Sunday services. God willing, it would be enough to cover everything on the list.

  He made another list, this one citing household and yard chores, and left Montel, the oldest Last Chance resident, in charge. “Ready?” he said to Axel.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be, I reckon.”

  No one knew much about young Axel, except that after his ironworker dad was sentenced to two life terms at West Virginia’s Mount Olive Correctional Center for killing his wife and her lover, the boy didn’t figure he had much of a future in Gauley Bridge. So he squeezed himself between the rolls of sod stacked six-high on a Baltimore-bound flatbed truck and never looked back. When the authorities found the scrawny, freckle-faced and red-haired boy, he and a mangy dog were wrestling over a half-eaten chicken thigh . . . and Axel still wore the scars of victory across the left side of his mostly freckled face.

  He buckled his seatbelt, then abruptly slapped the seat. “Meant to grab me a sack, and I clean forgot.”

  Dusty turned the key in the ignition, wincing in anticipation of the backfire. “A sack,” he echoed. “For what?”

  “So’s I can save this here hunk of plaster. Be a shame to chuck it, what with all my friends’ names scribbled all over it.”

  Dusty reached over and tousled his hair. “I’m sure somebody at Dr. Milton’s office has a bag of some kind.”

  Nodding, Axel stared through the windshield. “Sorry about yesterday, Dusty.”

  “Uh-oh. What sort of mischief have you gotten into this time?”

/>   A lopsided grin exposed wide-spaced teeth. “I gave my word when I fell off the garage roof and busted my arm that I wouldn’t be no more trouble to you, and I meant it. Why, I doubt there’s a boy at Last Chance who’s kept his nose as clean as I have.”

  “Then what’s the apology all about?”

  “All that teasing, about you kissin’ the schoolteacher. Didn’t feel right, getting involved in all that, but. . . .” He shrugged. “. . . reckon I was more troubled about what the guys would think if I didn’t.”

  Not knowing how to respond to that, Dusty only nodded.

  “She’s right pretty, and to put it plain, I can’t say I blame you for kissin’ on her. Besides,” he said, nose crinkling as he poked a finger under the cast, “you’d better do something about your marital status before you’re too old to get down on one knee.”

  Laughing, Dusty said, “I don’t remember seeing ‘Cupid’ written on your file.”

  “I guess I had that comin’ for being part of that nonsense yesterday, but still and all. . . .”

  He paused. Pointed at the sign at the entrance to the orthopedist’s office. And Dusty would have sworn he was about to say they’d made good time. But he picked up right where he’d left off. “. . . but still and all, what I said is the truth. And if you had the sense God gave a turkey, you’d put a ring on her finger.”

  It surprised him a bit that a boy who’d witnessed infidelity at its worst still believed in marriage. What surprised him more was that he believed in it, too, enough that he came this close to saying “Gobble, gobble.”

  Inside, Axel and Dusty went straight to the counter. “The doctor had a cancellation this morning,” the pretty, young receptionist said. “So you can go right back.”

  He heard the ding of the elevator, just down the hall, and it reminded him of the tolling of the bells. “You want me to go with you?” he asked, tensing slightly when the bell above the waiting room door rang.

  “No. Thanks.” Axel’s reply was pleasant enough, but that “are you trying to humiliate me?” expression could have curdled milk.

  When the girl opened the door leading to the exam rooms, Axel was right on her heels. Then he turned, walking backwards and grinning like the Cheshire cat. He pointed at himself, then wiggled the fingers of his good hand. “Five years . . .” he mouthed, aiming a thumb over his shoulder, “. . . she’s mine.”

  Chuckling, Dusty studied the selection of magazines in the rack beside the counter, as the door to the waiting room closed.

  “That boy has good taste,” said a voice from behind him.

  “Gavin, hey. What’re you doing here?” And nodding at the cast and crutches, he said, “Kind of soon to be getting out of that thing, isn’t it?”

  “The leg started aching yesterday at the cemetery.” He tried—and failed—to wiggle his exposed toes. He knocked on the cast. “So Milton ordered X-rays, just as a precaution.”

  “How’d you get here?” He hoped Gavin would say Grace.

  “Taxicab. Not even the gas tax excuses what those guys charge. Highway robbery, literally.” He smirked. “The driver was none too happy when I hobbled up the steps without giving him a tip.”

  “Then I guess you’d let me drive you home.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “Because with your luck, the same guy will pick you up, and as payback for not getting a tip, he’ll hit every pothole and bump between here and your place, that’s why.”

  “Aren’t you the voice of optimism today?” He patted the seat of the chair beside his. “How long did it take you to wash the gravy out of your ponytail?”

  “About twice as long as it took you to change the subject just now.”

  Gavin leaned forward to get a better look at Dusty’s face. “Maybe it’s these harsh fluorescent lights, but you look a little peaked today, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  He did mind, mostly because Gavin’s remark inspired a yawn. “Didn’t sleep very well last night,” he said.

  “Hmpf. Up all night, thinking about Gracie, I’ll bet.”

  Dusty only shrugged. Gavin always could read him like a book, so what was the point of denying it?

  “I feel sorry for her. Between work and trying to keep Angel Acres afloat, it’s a wonder she can keep a civil tongue in her head.”

  “She doesn’t seem the type to go in for pity, self or otherwise.”

  “True enough. But after the life she’s lived?” Gavin whistled. “It’s hard not to feel sorry for her.”

  “Doesn’t seem the type who’s all bogged down with baggage, either.”

  “If you asked her, she’d say the same thing.”

  In other words, she was all bogged down with baggage? Dusty didn’t want to believe it. He’d rather go on thinking she was perfect in every way. That way, when he finally did the right thing, and put some time and space between them, he wouldn’t miss her quite so much. Which was ridiculous, when he admitted that he’d only spent, what, a dozen hours—if that—with her?

  The fax machine spewed pages into the paper tray as the beep of a call-on-hold kept annoyingly perfect rhythm with the click-clack of the secretary’s fingers, flying across her computer’s keyboard.

  “Grace will never trust me again if she ever finds out that I told you this, so—”

  Now Dusty was sure he didn’t want to hear more. “What, you took a confidentiality oath or something?”

  “No,” he said, chuckling, “nothing as dramatic as that. It’s just. . . . Well, when you get to know her better, you’ll understand how much she hates talking about her past. So it isn’t a big leap to assume she doesn’t share many details about it.”

  Then how’d you get the information? he wanted to ask. “Then maybe you’d better keep your secret.”

  “No, I’ve given this a lot of thought. On a personal and professional level, I think it’s best that you hear it, considering. . . .”

  His heart beat once, twice before Gavin added, “I’ve seen the way you look at her. The way she looks at you.” He held up a silencing hand. “No point denying it. If you could see yourself, you’d say the same thing.”

  Gavin had a point. A good one. Because if he looked at Grace with anywhere near the affection she looked at him. . . .

  Gavin’s raspy voice overrode the mechanical and human sounds of the busy medical office as he told Dusty about Grace’s mini-breakdown on the way to Tucker’s house. He told the whole sad Leslie story, too, right down to the red scarf that floated away just before the girl jumped to her death from the North Tower . . . while Grace watched it all on TV. Then he leaped back in time, to the night her parents were run off the road by a drunk driver, and how, at sixteen, she was sent to live with her grandparents. Skipped forward to her more recent hassles with her cousin and uncle, who—more from details Grace left out than from those she’d provided—were pressuring her to hand over some free acreage.

  Dusty was still mulling it all over hours later, while the boys inspected the pink, shriveled skin of Axel’s arm, and held their noses as he passed around the smelly, now-hollow cast. Long after they were sound asleep, he flicked on the TV. But how was he supposed to concentrate on the rapid-fire one-liners of his favorite sitcom when all he wanted to do was call Grace and make sure she was okay?

  When the clock said midnight, he was still wide awake and prowling the semi-darkened house. He tried his aunt Anita’s “tried and true” remedy for sleeplessness, but warm milk and honey didn’t do the trick.

  Then he did what he should have done in the first place, and grabbed his beat-up, old Bible. He cranked up the footrest on his La-Z-Boy and tilted the shade of the lamp beside the recliner. “Come to me all ye who are weary,” he read, “and I will give you rest.”

  12

  Half an hour later, his thumb bookmarking the page, Dusty dozed as images of the things Gavin had told him—Leslie, plummeting to her death; innocent young Grace, plucked from the only home she’d ever known and transplanted to a farm; lumi
nous brown eyes boring into his as strips of lettuce and crusty bread crumbs sprinkled through her curls—and the memory of that warm and wonderful kiss swirled in his brain.

  Shattering glass.

  A wooden thud.

  High-pitched howls and whoops of raucous laughter, drifting in from outside.

  Then utter, complete stillness, followed by the sounds of bare feet, pounding down the stairs.

  “What’s going on down here?” Trevor demanded, knuckling one eye.

  Dom, close on his heels, pointed at the narrow area rug that ran the length of the front hall. “What’s that?” he grated, bending at the waist.

  “No! Don’t touch it!” Billy hollered.

  Dom’s outstretched fingers closed into a tight fist as he straightened. “Why not?”

  “You’ll get your fingerprints all over it, and—”

  Dusty turned off all the lights and told the boys to be quiet, to stand still. Then he lifted a slat in the blinds and stared into the moonlit yard. The shadow of a bat darted under the streetlight, where moths floated like dust motes in a sunbeam. To the right, a yapping dog was silenced by a distant threat: “Shut up, you mangy mutt, or I’ll feed you to the Los Toros de Lidia!” To the left, a wide-eyed cat disappeared into the hedgerow. And across the way, the silhouettes of young men—who were really just boys in do-rags trying hard to look like men—hunkered down behind a parked car.

  “Hand me the phone,” he whispered, one hand extended as he kept his eyes on the street.

  Crouching, Axel slunk across the room, grabbed it, and slapped it into Dusty’s palm.

  He leaned slightly left, widening his view. Mitch wasn’t scheduled to report in until morning, but thanks to his chronic case of insomnia, he could show up at midnight or any time after. What if he got it into his head to check in early tonight? Dusty couldn’t let him walk unprepared into . . . only the good Lord knew what.

  He’d call Mitch, and then 9-1-1, and hope he could catch him before he hit the road. Dusty thumbed the talk button and waited for the familiar buzz of the dial tone. Instead, he got nothing. Had the kids left it off the hook again, and drained the battery? He hoped that was the case, because only one other thing explained the dead, empty silence.