Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(128)

She glanced down at the sleeveless blue chambray dress that hung from her bony shoulders. The dress was faded, much too big, and she’d had to replace one of its six red buttons with a brown button after the original cracked. She’d told Edward she was making a fashion statement.

The Impala’s door squealed in protest as she opened it, and when she stepped out onto the blacktop, she felt the heat radiating through the paper-thin soles of her worn white sandals. One of the straps had broken. She’d done her best to sew it back together, but the result had left a rough place that had rubbed the side of her big toe raw. It was a small pain compared with the larger one of trying to survive.

A pickup truck whizzed by but didn’t stop. Her wild hair slapped her cheeks, and she used her forearm to push away the tangled strands, as well as to shield her eyes from the billow of dust the truck kicked up. She glanced over at Edward. He was standing beside the bushes with Horse tucked under his armpit and his head bent at a sharp angle so he could stare up at the yellow and purple star-burst-shaped sign that soared above him like an exploding galaxy. Outlined in lightbulbs, it contained the words Pride of Carolina.

With a feeling of inevitability, she lifted the hood, then stepped back from the gust of black smoke billowing from the engine. The mechanic in Norfolk had warned her the engine was going to blow, and she knew this wasn’t anything that could be fixed with duct tape or a junkyard part. Her head dipped. Not only had she lost a car, but she had also lost her home, since she and Edward had been living in the Impala for nearly a week. She’d told Edward they were lucky to be able to take their house with them, just like turtles.

She sat back on her heels and tried to accept the newest in a long string of calamities that had brought her back to this town she’d sworn she’d never return to.

“Get out of there, kid.”

The threatening sound of a deep male voice cut through her misery. She stood so fast it made her woozy, and she had to grab the hood of the car for support. When her head cleared, she saw her son standing frozen before a menacing-looking stranger in jeans, an old blue work shirt, and mirrored sunglasses.

Her sandals slipped in the gravel as she flew around the rear of the car. Edward was too frightened to move. The man reached for him.

Once she’d been sweet-tongued and gentle, a dreamy country girl with a poet’s soul, but life had toughened her, and her temper flared. “Don’t you touch him, you son of a bitch!”

His arm dropped slowly to his side. “This your kid?”

“Yes. And get away from him.”

“He was peein’ in my bushes.” The man’s rough, flat voice held a distinct Carolina drawl, but not the smallest trace of emotion. “Get him out of here.”

She noticed for the first time that Edward’s jeans were unfastened, making her already vulnerable little boy look even more defenseless. He stood frozen in fear, the rabbit tucked under his arm, as he stared up at the man who towered over him.

The stranger was tall and lean, with straight dark hair and a bitter mouth. His face was long and narrow—handsome, she supposed, but too cruelly formed with its sharp cheekbones and hard planes to appeal to her. She felt a momentary gratitude for his mirrored sunglasses. Something told her she didn’t want to look into his eyes.

She grabbed Edward and hugged him to her body. Painful experience had taught her not to let anyone push her around, and she sneered at him. “Are those your personal peeing bushes? Is that the problem? You wanted to use them yourself?”


His lips barely moved. “This is my property. Get off it.”

“I’d love to, but my car has other ideas.”

The drive-in’s owner glanced without interest at the corpse of her Impala. “There’s a phone in the ticket booth, and the number for Dealy’s Garage. While you’re waiting for a tow, stay off my land.”

He turned on his heel and walked away. Only when he had disappeared behind the trees that grew around the base of the giant movie screen did she let go of her child.

“It’s all right, sweetie. Don’t pay any attention to him. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Edward’s face was pale; his bottom lip trembled. “The m-man scared me.”

She combed her fingers through his light-brown hair, smoothed down a cowlick, brushed his bangs off his forehead. “I know he did, but he’s just an old butthead, and I was here to protect you.”

“You told me not to say butthead.”

“These are extenuating circumstances.”

“What are tenuating circustands?”

“It means he really is a butthead.”

“Oh.”

She glanced toward the small wooden ticket booth that held the phone. The booth had been freshly painted in mustard and purple, the same garish colors as the sign, but she made no move toward it. She didn’t have the money for either a tow or repairs, and her credit cards had been revoked long ago. Unwilling to subject Edward to another confrontation with the drive-in’s unpleasant owner, she drew him toward the road. “My legs are stiff from being in the car so long, and I could use a little walk. How about you?”

“Okay.”

He dragged his sneakers in the dirt, and she knew he was still frightened. Her resentment against Butthead grew. What kind of jerk acted like that in front of a child?

She reached through the open window of the car and withdrew a blue plastic water jug, along with the last of the withered oranges she’d found on a produce mark-down table. As she directed her child across the highway toward a small grove of trees, she once again cursed herself for not giving in to Clyde Rorsch, who’d been her boss until six days go. Instead, she’d struck him in the side of the head to keep him from raping her, then she’d grabbed Edward and fled Richmond forever.