A Man of Honor Read online

  He sat on the edge of the mattress. “Why? So you can tell me to take a flying leap?”

  She laughed, and the sound of it buzzed through him, reminding him of the time he’d gotten shocked, unscrewing an outlet cover.

  “I’d never say a thing like that. I like your idea, Dusty.”

  Then she told him where the boys would sleep, that since the family room was pretty much wasted space, she could turn it into a bedroom for him and Mitch. “Unless you guys don’t want to share the space, that is. . . .”

  He hadn’t planned on moving in, himself. Didn’t think Mitch planned to, either. But she was on a roll, and he didn’t have the heart to slow her momentum.

  “I’m happy to tutor the kids—if they want me to—evenings, after supper. And I think they’ll adjust faster if you and Mitch eat with us every night. What do you think?”

  He wanted to tell her that he thought she was amazing. Beautiful, inside and out. The best thing to happen to him, ever. But, “You’re right, of course,” is what he said.

  Grace went on to say that she’d never assign chores that were labor-intensive, and that on the days they manned the vegetable stand at the end of her road, she’d divvy the profits among them.

  It made him feel like a sap, having thought she’d spent all this time asking if God thought the arrangement would work out for her. From everything she’d said, it was clear that Grace had dedicated every moment to plotting out what would be best for the boys. Other than Mitch, Dusty couldn’t name a single person who’d ever put them first. Until Grace.

  “It’s the strangest thing,” she said, her voice all dreamy and soft, “but last night, I was sitting there with the Bible in my lap, worrying about how I’d afford it all when—”

  “When I promised it wouldn’t cost you a dime,” he interrupted, “I meant it.”

  “And I believe you. But there are bound to be expenses we can’t anticipate, that we can’t plan for. That’s what I was thinking when the phone rang . . . and my neighbor asked if he could rent a couple dozen acres, to grow wheat and soy. I knew even before I hung up that moving the kids in here is the right thing to do. For all of us.”

  He heard the rain, pecking at the windows; except for the dim blue glow of the clock, the room was dark. Had he dreamed the whole thing?

  “The only thing left to wonder about,” Grace said, “is what will come of our . . . of our friendship.”

  Friendship. It was a decent word, one that ought to have filled him with a sense of pride, because Grace was some kind of woman. Instead, it left him feeling hurt. And hollow. Because he wanted to be more than her friend. A whole lot more.

  But wait a minute, here. . . . Last time he’d checked, he was the one with the theology degree. So why had it been Grace whose talk had been thoughtful and spirit-filled? He slapped a hand to the back of his neck and prayed for a little divine intervention.

  “What was that noise?” she asked.

  Just me, he thought, trying to smack some sense into myself.

  “So when will you guys move in? Tomorrow? Over the weekend?”

  “Tell you what. How ’bout if I bring the kids over there tomorrow, and we’ll work on putting your plan into action, together.”

  “Rearranging beds and dressers, and emptying closets and dresser drawers, you mean . . . ?”

  “Yeah. Stuff like that. I’ve got a stack of plastic bins in the basement. We can—”

  “Those things are already done.”

  “What do you mean, they’re already done?”

  “I finished tonight, right before I called you.”

  Dusty didn’t know whether to admire her organizational skills and physical strength, or pity the fact that getting all that done—in less than twenty-four hours—meant she’d been lonely, living in that big, old house all by herself.

  “I haven’t told them any of this yet.”

  “Good grief. See . . . this is just the kind of thing that made the old ‘cart before the horse’ my grandmother’s favorite adage.”

  He heard her groan. And sigh. And unless he was mistaken, slapped herself on the back of the neck.

  “So it’s entirely possible, then, that the kids might decide they don’t want to live in the country, doing farm chores all day long. . . .”

  “Anything’s possible, but I’m fairly certain they’ll jump at the chance to move.”

  “Tell you what,” she said, quoting him, “how ’bout if you bring the kids over here tomorrow, and I’ll give them a tour of the place. And then we’ll sit them down and tell them, together, why this is the safest place for them. At least for the time being.” And then, she hung up. Just like that.

  This had to be a dream. What else explained the way things had gotten all twisted around . . . with her telling him why the move was a good idea?

  What kind of woman turned her whole life upside down for a Harley-riding preacher and a band of misfit kids that nobody else wanted?

  The kind for whom “grace” was far more than just a name.

  If this is a dream, he thought, smiling into the now-buzzing phone, I hope I never wake up.

  15

  The rain didn’t let up for a week straight, postponing—then canceling—the Flag Day celebrations. It was disappointing, but only for a day or so, because moving the boys into the house had totally distracted everyone.

  Those first few days had been the hardest—not for the boys, who’d changed addresses the way most folks change socks—but for Grace, whose experiences with “living together” were soft-spoken parents, everything-in-its-place grandparents, and the almost-tidy Leslie. Tripping over her college roommate’s tiny slippers hadn’t been anywhere near as traumatic as scaring the cat, who’d decided to take a nap in the toe of a size 13 sneaker.

  Remove wet towels from their rooms enough times, she’d told herself, and they’ll learn by example that wet towels don’t belong on the floor, or at the foot of their beds. But on the morning she found herself questioning the theory, Grace decided to put “honesty is the best policy” to the test, and called a family meeting where she let them know exactly where she expected them to put dirty linens, soiled sweatshirts . . . and damp towels.

  It hadn’t been easy, hiding her amusement when the boys called a family meeting, and called her to task for removing and applying toenail polish while they were trying to relax in front of the TV. “The stink is enough to gag a maggot,” Montel said, inspiring Grace’s promise to perform all pedicures in her room from then on, with the door closed.

  Grace never knew when one of them might wrap her in a big hug to tell her how much they appreciated the way she’d opened her home to them. They showered her with compliments about her cooking and housekeeping skills, and the way her laundry-sorting techniques put an end to drab grey undershirts. They appreciated the fact that she always knocked before entering a room, too, and never hogged the telephone.

  They’d given her plenty of reasons to dole out praise in equal measure. The house had never looked better, thanks in part to Dusty and Mitch, who’d showed them the proper way to sand and scrape the clapboard siding in preparation for a fresh coat of pale yellow paint. They’d figured out—mostly on their own—which of the tools in her grandfather’s shed would straighten lopsided shutters, and which silenced squeaky floorboards. Their fastidious care of the gardens must have terrified the weeds, because she hadn’t seen so much as a sprig in weeks.

  This morning, when a steady rain kept them indoors, Nick interrupted her bookkeeping to ask permission to explore the attic.

  “No one has been up there in years,” Grace admitted. “Only God knows what sort of mess you’ll find.”

  Billy stepped up behind Nick. “Then we’ll clean it up!”

  Now Dom joined them. “We’ll knock down the cobwebs and sweep. . . .”

  “. . . and when we’re done,” Jack added, “you can come up there, tell us what we can toss onto the burn pile, and what to save.”

  This might be
fun, going through things her grandparents had thought important enough to pack away. “Well, okay, but before you get started, see if you can open the windows, because it’s bound to be like an oven up there.”

  Tony joined the group, a coil of heavy-duty extension cord slung over one shoulder. “Cody’s always showing off his muscles,” he teased. “Maybe he can drag a couple of your box fans up there.”

  Hours later, as Grace stamped the envelope of the last bill she’d paid, their exuberant laughter filtered through the ceiling. “Why should they have all the fun?” she joked, shoving back from her desk. And after putting a dozen bottles of cold water into a bag, she made her way up the narrow staircase.

  “Goodness gracious,” she said when she reached the top, “I’m ashamed of myself!”

  Eleven sweaty, smudged faces turned in her direction. “Why?” Cody asked, helping himself to a bottle.

  “Because I thought you guys were up here, goofing off this whole time. But just look at this place!”

  They’d swept every cobweb from the rafters, and the wood-planked floor was still damp from the scrubbing they’d given it. Round-topped trunks that had been covered with dust the last time she’d seen them now shone like quality furniture pieces. The mirror that had hung above her grandparents’ mantel reflected the old metal headboards, castoff chairs, and a box marked “Christmas, 1972.”

  Nestor grabbed a water, too. “Who’s that guy?” he asked, pointing to the oval frame, hanging beside the dormer window.

  She eased it from the wall and blew the dust from its domed glass. “This is my great-grandfather, Thaddeus Angel,” she told them, tracing the strong, square jaw, “in his doughboy uniform.”

  “Doughboy,” Jack echoed, laughing. “Like in Pillsbury?”

  Grace laughed, too. “No . . . that’s what they called World War I soldiers. I’m embarrassed to admit this, being a teacher and all, but I have no idea why.”

  “Not your fault,” Guillermo said. “You teach English, not history.”

  “And Art,” Nestor added.

  “When we’re done here,” Dom said, “I’ll hop on the Internet and find out.”

  “By jove,” she said, “I think you’ve just provided the topic for our evening lesson!”

  At the conclusion of their good-natured groans, she looked at each boy in turn. “I’m going downstairs to fix lunch—something special, to show my appreciation for all you’ve done up here.” She started down the stairs, and took the picture with her, knowing even before her feet hit the bottom step where she’d hang it.

  Half an hour later, the portrait had a new home above the mantle. On its right, a photo of her parents; to the left, her grandparents. In both, the men stood straight and tall, one sleeve of their drab Army uniforms hidden behind their blushing brides. It seemed fitting that Grandpa Thaddeus, who’d bought the land that became Angel Acres, filled the space between.

  Grace stood back to admire her handiwork, and the space she’d fill with a photo of her great-grandmother, just as soon as she found one. Pride and love . . . and a tinge of longing filled her heart. But she wasn’t lonely, thanks to the boys who’d turned this house into a home again.

  Knuckling at her traitorous tears, Grace took the stairs two at a time, and standing in the doorway that led to the attic, she called, “Lunch is ready; wash up, boys!”

  Montel squeaked into the kitchen wearing brown-rubber hip waders, and Trevor strutted into the room in her grandfather’s World War II uniform.

  Axel drew her attention to the off-white gown he’d carefully draped over one forearm. “Whose was it, your mama’s?”

  “She wore it,” Grace said, taking it from him, “but my grandmother wore it first.”

  “Well,” he said as she held it against her, “looks like a perfect fit to me.”

  She’d prepared their favorite meal—burgers and fries—and all but Axel had filled their plates.

  Jack squirted catsup over his fries. “You gonna wear it when you and Dusty get married?”

  Grace swallowed. Were her feelings for Dusty so obvious that even the boys could see them? “We should say the blessing,” she announced, more to change the subject than for spiritual reasons, “before everything gets cold.”

  “Maybe you oughta say it,” Trevor suggested.

  Grace wanted to put the dress away, so that later, when she was alone, she could inspect it for tears or moth holes before storing it in a safe place . . . just in case. . . . But she bowed her head and closed her eyes, and said, “Lord, we thank You for this food, and for every member of this family gathered here to share it. Protect us from all harm, Father, and keep us close to You, in everything we say, in everything we do.”

  She was about to say “Amen” when Axel said, “And God? We also ask that You give Dusty the courage to tell Miss Grace that he loves her.”

  Montel spoke next. “And to do it before they’re both old and gray. Amen.”

  Quiet snickers and whispered “Amens” preceded, “Pass the mustard” and “Who’s hoggin’ the onions?”

  “Don’t wipe your hands on that jacket,” Grace said, giving Trevor’s shoulder a gentle squeeze.

  He blanketed her hand with his own. “I won’t. Promise.”

  Then the doorbell rang, and Grace left the room to see who’d come calling on this dark, drizzly day.

  “Mrs. Logan,” she said, opening the door wide. “Come in out of the rain.”

  She shook rain from her umbrella and stood it beside the front door. “What will it take to get you to call me Molly?” she said, wiping her feet on the foyer rug. “Makes me feel old and decrepit when you say that!”

  “We’re having lunch,” Grace said. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, but thanks.” Frowning, she looked over Grace’s shoulder. “So all of them are living here now, are they?”

  “It’s been quite an adventure for all of us, let me tell you!” she said, leading Molly into the living room. “Have a seat. Can I get you some lemonade? Iced tea?”

  “No, no . . . ,” she said, sitting on the sofa. “I know you must be busy, with all of them to take care of, but. . . .” She inhaled a shaky breath. “. . . but I was hoping you could help me with something.”

  “I’m happy to do anything I can,” she said, meaning it.

  She grabbed Grace’s hands. “Am I imagining things, or did I hear Agent Spencer telling you that he had an ‘in’ of some sort with Taylor Manor?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, he did.” Though they hadn’t said it in so many words, the agents knew Molly hadn’t exactly been coherent that day, and who could blame her, having lost her daughter in such a violent way?

  “You’re a lovely young woman,” Molly continued, “far too kind to admit what a mess you think I am. But I am a mess, and I need help, before I do something. . . .” She bit her lower lip, then gave Grace’s hands a shake. “Will you call him for me? Get the name of his friend?”

  “Of course.” She said it without thinking. If she’d taken a moment before answering, Grace would have admitted she didn’t know how to get ahold of Agent Spencer, because she couldn’t remember where she’d put his card.

  Molly reached into her pocket, withdrew a business card. “I’ve tried half a dozen times to dial that number,” she said, pressing it into Grace’s hand. “What stops me, every time, is that I have no idea what I’d say, knowing he’d seen me at my worst.” Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. “But I remember how well you handled that greedy funeral director. Agent Spencer will listen to you, Grace.”

  She looked at the card. Ran her thumb over the raised FBI emblem. Nodding, Grace got to her feet. “Give me a minute to get the boys busy with . . . I don’t know, a movie or something, so they won’t hear anything when I call him.”

  Molly stood, too. “No. Please don’t call him now. Give me time to get home, pack a bag, and get my head straight so that when he comes for me, I’ll be ready.”

  “All right,” s
he said, but her heart wasn’t in it. Grace was afraid that if she told Molly the only thing the agent could do for her was provide the name of his friend, she’d change her mind. Getting to Taylor Manor, signing herself into the facility . . . that was up to Molly, and Molly alone.

  They walked side by side to the door. “Will you call me,” Molly asked, stepping onto the porch, “so I’ll know what will happen next?”

  “Will do,” Grace said as the woman popped up her umbrella.

  By the time she went back into the kitchen, the boys had finished lunch and had started clearing the table. “Who was that?” Jack wanted to know.

  “Mrs. Logan.”

  “Fixed you a plate,” he added, nodding toward the microwave.

  Billy harrumphed. “She’s not drunk again, is she?”

  “No. She sounded sober.”

  “For a change,” Nestor snorted. “Reminds me of my mom. Using drugs and booze because she’s weak. And stupid.” He tossed a handful of paper napkins into the trash can. “What did she want, anyway?”

  Grace glanced at Agent Spencer’s business card. “She asked me to help her get into Taylor Manor.”

  “She can’t do that herself? Booze pickled her brain?”

  “Aw, go a little easy on her,” Cody said. “She just buried her daughter. Now she’s got nobody.”

  The simple truth in his words rocked them, as evidenced by their sudden silence and distant expressions. It broke her heart to admit it, but they were probably thinking about circumstances that had made each of them Molly Logan’s equals. “I rented that movie you guys wanted to see,” she said. “It’s in the living room. On top of the DVD player.”

  “Did it come with 3-D glasses?” Billy asked.

  “It did.”

  “Eleven pairs?”

  “Two were complimentary,” she admitted, grinning. “It took a little finesse, but I talked the manager into throwing in the other nine.”

  The atmosphere had brightened, but only slightly. Hopefully, by the time the movie ended, they’d be back to their usual happy-go-lucky selves. If not, maybe homemade pizza would do the trick; she’d bought all the ingredients yesterday, thinking it would be fun to let them put on the toppings.