A Man of Honor Page 16

  John answered in their stead. “All this talking and waiting has given me a powerful appetite. What-say you fellas keep an old man company while he gets something to eat?”

  Within seconds, they’d formed a line behind him, reminding Dusty of ducklings, following behind their mama. Dusty pressed the big round button that opened the double doors, and caught up with his cousins. “Two at a time,” a nurse whispered as they gathered outside Anita’s cubicle in the recovery room.

  Flynn and Connor went in first, and Blake headed for the men’s room, leaving Dusty alone in the hall. With head down and thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets, he leaned against the wall. You should be praying, he told himself, to thank God for letting things go so well in the OR. Instead, the only thing he wanted to do was find a quiet place, where he could flip open his cell phone . . . and share the good news with Grace.

  18

  Don’t make no sense to me, either, Gonz.”

  “Shut up, Lenny. And quit callin’ me Gonz.” He scooted lower in the old barber chair turned tattoo-recliner, as the younger boy skulked off to a neutral corner and helped himself to a beer, then flopped onto a ratty, brown couch and flicked on the widescreen.

  “I don’t remember you askin’ permission to look at my television.”

  Without looking up, Lenny said, “Okay if I watch me some tee-vee, boss?”

  “You got half an hour. Then you get your butt out there and do your job.”

  “But boss, you know what happened last time I—”

  “Save it,” Gonzo barked, levering himself up on an elbow. “You make ’em understand, you hear? They want protection, they gotta pay for it. Come back here without my money again, and I’ll demonstrate how to make ’em listen . . . on your bony body.”

  Lenny turned off the TV and drained the beer bottle. It hit the trash can with a clatter as he stomped out the door.

  Gonzo shook his fist. “That boy—he don’t know how close he is to becoming a new statistic for the mayor’s anti-gang campaign.” Then he glared up at Rasheed. “And what you waitin’ for, fool? Get that needle buzzin’!”

  “Don’t rush me, dude. Tattoos, they’s art, man. Wouldn’t want me to mess up your purty li’l teardrop, would ya?”

  “Just get it done. You think I like sittin’ here, inhaling your bad breath all this while?”

  “Maybe if you paid me for inkin’ up your greasy self, I could buy me some toof-paste.”

  Gonzo grabbed the bigger boy’s wrist. “You don’t get this done by the time Yesenia gets off work, I’ll knock alla your teeth down your throat. What you gonna need a toothbrush for then, huh, smart guy?”

  Rasheed clamped his teeth together so tightly that muscles bulged in his cheeks and lower jaw. But Gonzo pretended he hadn’t noticed. Tomorrow, when everybody saw the second teardrop beside his right eye, he’d get a little more respect.

  “You want I should color this one in, boss? You know, for bal-lance.”

  “You been sniffin’ again, dude? Why would I want you to do that? Leave it open.”

  One teardrop, time served; closed up, no big deal. Open? Proof he’d earned his rank in Los Toros de Lidia. “Takes machismo to slit the throat of an enemy, and don’t you forget it.”

  Rasheed muttered something that sounded an awful lot like “As if you’d ever let me forget it.” But Gonzo let it pass. He wasn’t in the mood for fighting today. At least, not with his fists. Soon, he’d see his precious Yesenia, and what would she think if he showed up, puffing and pawing like a real bull? A good leader, he told himself, must choose his battles well. He laughed to himself. And they said you didn’t learn anything in school. . . .

  Tomorrow. He’d save his rage for the full-of-himself preacher who’d put himself in charge of those losers who lived in the big, ugly house on the corner. But not to worry—to quote his sainted abuela. In time, they’d realize that he was doing them a favor, because when he got through with them, they’d be good soldiers . . . or dead . . . but at least they wouldn’t be losers any more.

  He’d begun to think maybe it would take another visit to get his message across, that he hadn’t put the fear of God into the good pastor last time. But the house sat empty, day after day, no light glowing from every window after the sun went down. Either they were hiding in the basement, like rats in a hole, or they’d moved away.

  So what if they had? They couldn’t stay away forever. Tomorrow, he’d find out, one way or the other.

  “All finished,” Rasheed said, handing Gonzo a mirror.

  He sat up, turned his face right and left. “Good job,” he said, giving back the mirror. “You really are an artist.”

  “Remember the alcohol,” the artist said, “so it won’t get infected.”

  Gonzo got to his feet. “I think you’re forgetting,” he said, sneering, “that this isn’t my first rodeo.”

  Then he threw a twenty-dollar bill at Rasheed’s feet and headed into the storeroom. “Soon,” he said to himself, nodding approvingly at his inventory of pipes and nails, gasoline and rags, “Last Chance will have a whole new meaning for Reverend Dusty Parker and his tribe . . . if they survive.”

  19

  If Dusty’s “attention to detail” skills were a pie, he’d slice it three ways, with the two biggest wedges going to the Marines and the police department, and a sliver to plain old nosiness. The talent is what made him notice and remember things, like how much sugar one person spooned into their coffee, or how close to E another might let the fuel needle get before driving to the gas station.

  Grace, he’d observed, usually picked up the phone on the third ring.

  Usually.

  He’d called her twice since leaving the hospital this evening—ten rings the first time, fifteen the second—but not even the machine had picked up. With snoring boys in sleeping bags scattered all over the living room and his aunt still in intensive care, Dusty couldn’t sleep, anyway, so he tried again. Three’s the charm he told himself as he punched in the digits; if she read him the riot act for calling after midnight, well, at least he’d have her ire to prove she was all right. And if she didn’t answer this time? He’d call Mitch, ask him to drive over to Angel Acres and check things out.

  Most people set their answering machines to kick in on the fourth ring. Or the seventh. What number had she chosen, he wondered as the fourth ring jangled in his ear. “Pick up, Grace,” he said through clenched teeth. “Pick up.”

  “Hello?”

  “Well, it’s about time,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “I was about to call out the cavalry.”

  A nanosecond of silence ticked by, and then she said, “Dusty. . . .”

  Man, it was good to hear her voice. “One and the same.”

  “Is your aunt all right?”

  “She’s doing great. Still in CICU, but unless she spikes a fever, her doctor says they’ll move her to the sixth floor tomorrow.”

  “So what did they do, exactly? Double bypass?”

  “Triple,” he said, “using veins from her leg. Guy in the waiting room told me he’d had the same thing done a couple years back, and the incision on his calf gave him a whole lot more trouble than the one on his chest . . . even though they cracked him open like a walnut.”

  “Then we’ll just have to pray that she doesn’t have any trouble, won’t we?”

  Which reminded him: he still hadn’t hit his knees to thank God for saving Anita. . . .

  “How are the boys?”

  “Good, good. Sleeping now, thank God.”

  “Are they enjoying the big city?”

  “Well, they haven’t seen much of it yet. I promised to do the whole tourist thing with them tomorrow.”

  “Ah, Central Park and the Statue of Liberty.”

  “Ellis Island.”

  “The Empire State Building.” He couldn’t put his finger on it, but she sounded . . . off. Was she annoyed that he’d called so late? Lonely for the boys? Missing him? “Hey, Gracie. You okay?”
<
br />   “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “No reason.” Except maybe Gonzo. “You sound . . . I don’t know . . . different.”

  “I don’t usually admit things like this, but I guess I’m a little pooped. It’s been a long, strange day.”

  He was about to ask what she meant by that when she added, “Nothing to worry about. Really.”

  But he was worried, because he’d heard her version of tired, and this wasn’t it.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Good, good,” he said again. And then he remembered the check in his pocket. Dusty told her that he’d run into John, and how he’d worked for him, as a bodyguard of sorts, to pay his tuition. He told her about Kim’s surgery, too, and that John had just come back from Japan, where he’d donated a ton of money to help rebuild.

  “Because of the tsunami.”

  He told her Kim had been born in Japan, still had relatives over there. He’d never been a great conversationalist, especially on the phone. But once he started talking, Dusty couldn’t stop himself. He knew why: if he stopped, she’d hang up, and he didn’t want that.

  “Lord, but I miss you,” he wanted to say. “I’d drive to Angel Acres right now, if the kids weren’t asleep. And my aunt wasn’t intensive care. And getting from here to there didn’t take four hours.”

  “More like five. Unless you’re some kind of speed demon.”

  Dusty felt like a blithering idiot, because until she’d said that, he hadn’t realized he’d blurted out his thoughts, aloud. Now that the words were out there, swirling someplace between his heart and her head, he couldn’t take them back. But maybe he could hide them, under more words. And maybe, if he actually put some thought into it before he opened his big mouth, she wouldn’t agree that he was a blithering idiot.

  So he told her about the check John had insisted on giving him. More than enough to cross every item off the Last Chance “to do” list. “He wants to meet you,” Dusty said, “so as soon as his wife can travel, he’ll fly down there. Did I mention he has a private jet?”

  “Well, despite that, he sounds like a very nice man. I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

  Then she yawned, and he took the hint. “Guess I’d better let you get to bed.”

  “You need a good night’s sleep, too, if you’re serious about doing the whole tourist thing tomorrow.”

  He told her goodnight and wished her sweet dreams, and stretched out on Anita’s family room sofa and started making plans.

  First thing in the morning, he’d pay a visit to the hospital, and if his aunt was holding her own, he’d chuck the boys and their sleeping bags into the van and aim for Baltimore. They hadn’t seemed all that enthused about the tourist thing, anyway. And when he told them he was worried about Grace, they’d be in as big a hurry to get home as he was.

  Almost.

  Just as he’d expected, Grace was surprised when they arrived at suppertime, carrying a stack of pizza boxes. Not exactly the throw-herself-into-his-arms welcome Dusty had looked forward to, but at least now he could see with his own eyes that she was fine. Physically, anyway. It wasn’t until the kids went to bed and Mitch headed to his apartment across town that he found out what had been bugging her, mentally.

  It seemed that in addition to pulling a few strings to get Mrs. Logan into Taylor Manor, Agent Spencer had pulled a file on Dusty, as well. So now Grace knew about the going-crazy-after-9/11 routine that forced him to resign from the Marines. And the out-of-control behavior that preceded his resignation from the police department. His bout with alcoholism. Even the bankruptcy. “I’m surprised he didn’t tell you that in third grade, I put worms in Mrs. Webster’s desk.”

  At least that admission made her smile. A little. “Well, it’s good to see that you have the decency to feel bad about it.”

  “Pains me to admit it, but I didn’t at the time. Feel bad, I mean.”

  “How old were you?”

  “Seven? Eight?”

  “A little young to have developed a conscience,” she said, and poured him more iced tea, then sat across from him again.

  “This is my third glass. I’ll be up all night.”

  “Good. You can use the time to read your Bible, as atonement for the worm incident.”

  Chuckling, he reached across the table and took her hands in his. “You’re something else, Grace Sinclair. And I meant what I said on the phone last night. I missed you like crazy.”

  Dusty waited, to give her a chance to say she’d missed him, too. Instead, she patted his hand and told him that Honor had called around lunchtime. “It’s a big secret, for now, but Matt asked her to marry him, and she said yes.”

  “High time, if you ask me.” He told her the story of the stormy romance that stalled when Matt had to put all his SAR skills to use to find Honor when she got trapped in the mountains during a blizzard. “She’d been lugging around some serious baggage, so—”

  “Well, no wonder she got stuck.”

  A joke? And a smile? It gave him a glimmer of hope that his past didn’t matter to her. “Took a few years of counseling,” he continued, “but from the sound of things, Honor got all that baggage unpacked.”

  “They’ll make it public at T-Bonz next weekend.”

  “Must be something in the water over there. That makes twice that friends of mine have announced their engagement at T-Bonz.” Maybe you should take Grace there for a couple of meals, he thought. Maybe all it would take to inspire a little “Missed you, too, Dusty” was a rack of baby back ribs. “Are you going to the party?”

  “I don’t know that it’ll be a party. . . .”

  “So . . . no cake, then. . . .”

  She grinned. “Probably not.”

  “But you’re going.”

  “Probably.”

  He’d pay a lot of money—every cent of the fat check John had written him—to know what was going on in that gorgeous head of hers. “Then maybe we could go together.”

  Grace focused on some unknown spot on the wall behind him. Then she cleared her throat and shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “Why not?”

  Had he been wrong to think his past hadn’t changed her opinion of him? The possibility that it had stung like a hard slap to the face, but he shook it off. She was still holding his hand. Still looking into his eyes. That had to mean something good, right? So if he didn’t do anything stupid. . . .

  Dusty lifted her hand to his lips and kissed every chafed knuckle, every ragged cuticle, put there by the hours of hard work that went into keeping this place running, by all the loving things she did for the boys. For him, too, like turning a seldom used room into a place where he and Mitch could bunk down if they didn’t feel like driving home at the end of a long day. Oh boy, what he’d give to show his appreciation by pulling her into a hug and kissing her cheeks. Her chin. The tip of her nose. Her lips. Crazy thoughts . . . for a guy who’d just warned himself not to do anything stupid.

  So he shoved back from the table and got to his feet. Then he carried his empty iced tea glass to the sink and headed for the door. He was about to tell her goodnight when she said, “I made up the bed in the spare room. You’re more than welcome to stay. I mean, in your shoes, I sure wouldn’t want to go anywhere at this hour. Especially after that long drive back from New York.”

  The way she stood there, looking all sweet and concerned and protective, he couldn’t help himself. Stupid or not, he gathered her close and held on tight. So tight that he could feel her big, beautiful heart, thumping against his chest. He cupped her face in his hands, thinking to memorize every freckle, the arch of her brows, the curve of jaw, just in case the unthinkable happened, and—

  She stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his. If his past did matter to her, it sure didn’t show in that kiss!

  He thought about it long into the night. By morning, he still hadn’t figured out what he’d ever done in his whole miserable life to deserve a woman like Grace, but he knew this: If she’
d have him, he’d spend the rest of his life earning her love.

  20

  What’s with the red-rimmed eyes?”

  Startled, Grace missed the mouth of the pitcher and slopped tea onto the counter. “Gavin Martin, you scared me out of the last ten years of my life.”

  “You owe me one, then.” Laughing through the back screen, he said, “I hear those are the worst ten, anyway.”

  She clucked her tongue. “Let me sop up this mess and I’ll pour you some iced tea.”

  As he thumped into the kitchen, she said, “When did you trade the crutches for a cane?”

  “Last week.” He modeled the newer, shorter cast. “The old one got soaked at the parade.” He hung the cane over the back of a chair and sat down. “Never would’ve been caught in that thunderstorm if I’d listened to my gut and stayed home.”

  “But then you’d have one less funny story to tell!” She handed him a glass of tea. “So how much longer before you’re cast-less?”

  “Four weeks. Five, max.”

  “Good grief, Gavin. Isn’t the usual healing time eight weeks?”

  “What can I say? Guess that’s just one more way in which I’m unique.” He took a sip of the tea. “M-m-m. Beats that instant stuff all to pieces.” Then he put the glass down and folded his hands on the table. “But you never answered my question.”

  The red-rimmed eyes question, Grace knew. Hopefully, she could distract him with more small talk. Because she wasn’t in a ‘fess up’ mood. “So who drove you to the parade?”

  “Johnny Depp.” He smirked. “Jealous?”

  “Only if he was wearing his Jack Sparrow costume.” Knowing Gavin, he’d hitched a ride with the divorcée who lived next door. He wasn’t sensitive about much, but when it came to Lucille, he closed up tighter than Fort Knox. If he persisted with his “red eyes” line, she might just have to see about opening that subject.

  “You’re good,” Gavin said, “but I’m better.”

  Grace sighed. She’d wave a white flag . . . if she had one. “Would you believe allergies?”