The Last House on the Street(74)

“Baby, I Need Your Loving” was playing when he pressed his lips close to my ear and said, “We need to get out of here.”

I nodded as I pulled away from him, and then I saw, clear as day across the room, Rosemary. Her gaze was on us. Her eyes locked with mine and I quickly looked away. “Let’s go,” I said, turning my back to her.

We left the building and I thought we would become like the couple we’d seen out front, necking beneath the awning. But Win held my hand as we ran through the rain across the small, jammed parking lot to the van. He pulled open the side door, helped me onto the rear bench seat, then followed me once he’d shut the door behind him.

I expected to be ravished. I wanted to be ravished. But I should have known that was not Win’s style. He was too cautious. For a moment, I worried the magic I’d felt inside the steamy little club would disappear. But no. He put his hand on my throat, his touch gentle yet assertive, and leaned over to kiss me, his other hand buried deep in my wet hair. He unbuttoned the top button on my blouse. Then the next. I felt the heat of his fingers against my skin. I wanted to lie back on the seat and have him undress me in a way Reed never had. Reed, always considerate. Always cautious. But Win abruptly drew away from me.

“We can’t do this,” he said. “Not here. Not now. It’s a mistake. A mistake in too many ways.”

“I love you,” I said.

He stared at me. Kissed me, lightly. “I love you, too, Ellie,” he said, “but it’s no good. I promised myself I’d never let this happen. It’s impossible. It’s too dangerous. You know that.”

“No,” I said stubbornly. “Please don’t let it be impossible.”

“Sit up,” he said, and I did.

He buttoned the top buttons of my blouse. “Don’t cry,” he said.

I touched my cheeks. I hadn’t realized I was crying.

“Win,” I said. “Rosemary was in there.”

He stared at me without speaking. The shadow of the raindrops on the van windows created streaks down his cheeks. I traced one of them with my fingertip.

“Did she see us?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Shit!” he said, and I thought he was reacting to Rosemary seeing us, but then the rain on the van windows bloomed red, and the whole world outside swirled with the color. I knew what caused the light before I turned to look: two police cars.

“Duck down!” Win said. “I don’t think they’re here for us. They can’t be.”

But they were. Not just for Win and me, but for all us freedom fighters. We watched as two officers, billy clubs at the ready, stormed through the front door.

“Go, Win!” I said. “Get out of here before they find you with me!”

He seemed frozen, but after a moment he opened one of the doors and ran through the parking lot into the road. I knew we were far from the house where he was staying and I had no idea how he would be able to get there—most likely, he didn’t even know what direction to head in—but at least he was safe.

In a moment the front door of the club banged open and I watched as my friends—Curry, Paul, Chip, and Jocelyn—were marched toward one of the police cars. Another officer walked toward the van and pulled open the door.

“Who you with in here?” he asked.

“No one,” I said. “I didn’t feel well. Just came in here to take a nap.”

“Yeah, right,” he said. He stepped into the van and checked any place someone might be hiding. Looked at me again. “Think you’re a smarty-pants, don’cha,” he said.

“No, sir. I’m just—”

“Shut up and follow me.”

I thought of going limp, but I didn’t have the heart for it. I didn’t feel militant in that moment. I felt frightened. For myself. For my friends. And especially for Win. I followed the officer to the cars.





Chapter 35



KAYLA


2010

Daddy agrees to keep Rainie a couple of hours longer on Wednesday so I can do Ellie a favor: drive her mother to the doctor. Ellie has to take Buddy to his doctor at the same time, and Brenda has a dental emergency. I’m so grateful for Ellie’s help in finding Rainie yesterday that I would do anything for her.

Mrs. Hockley is not the dementia-addled woman I’d thought her to be. Yes, I have to help her down the porch steps and the walkway and into my car, and I have to buckle her seat belt for her, but she proceeds to give me accurate directions to her doctor’s office. She seems to have her wits about her.

“And call me Miss Pat,” she says, after the third time I call her Mrs. Hockley. It’s not exactly a friendly invitation. More of a command. I think Miss Pat had been a force to be reckoned with in her youth.

“Your hair looks very nice today,” I say, remembering how it looked—wispy and tired—when I first met her in the living room of the Hockley house. Today it’s smoother and a bit fuller.

“It’s my going-out wig,” she says, startling me with how easily she admits to wearing faux hair.

“Seriously? I wouldn’t have known.” I’m being honest.

“Brenda got it for me. She got me another one but I look like a dandelion in it.”

“Well, this one is really nice.”