Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(132)

“Did you get a job?”

“Let’s just say I’m going to audition.” She led him to the highway.

“What’s that mean?”

“It’s sort of like showing off what I can do. And while I work, you can finish your lunch on that playground, you lucky dog.”


“You eat with me.”

“I’m not hungry right now.” It was almost true. It had been so long since she’d eaten a full meal that she’d passed the point of feeling hunger.

While she settled Edward by the concrete turtle, she studied her surroundings and tried to see what chore wouldn’t require any special tools but would still make an impression. Clearing the lot of some of its weeds seemed like the best option. She decided to start in the middle, where her efforts would be most conspicuous.

As she began to work, the sun beat down on her, and the skirt of her blue chambray dress snagged her legs, while dirt sifted through the straps of her battered sandals and turned her feet brown. Her toe began to bleed beneath the makeshift patch.

She wished she were wearing her jeans. She only had one pair left, and they were old and frayed with a gaping hole in the knee and a smaller one in the threadbare seat.

The bodice of her dress was soon soaked with sweat. Her damp hair lay in wet ribbons against her cheeks and neck. She pricked her finger on the spine of a thistle, but her hands were too grubby to suck the wound.

When she had a large pile, she threw everything into an empty garbage can, then dragged it to the dumpster behind the snack bar. She returned to her weeding with grim determination. The Pride of Carolina represented her last chance, and she had to show Bonner that she could work harder than a dozen men.

As the afternoon grew hotter, she became increasingly light-headed, but she didn’t let dizziness slow her down. She hauled another load to the dumpster, then bent back to her task. Silvery dots swirled before her eyes as she pulled up ragweed and goldenrod. Her hands and arms bled from deep scratches made by blackberry brambles. Rivulets of sweat ran between her breasts.

She realized that Edward had begun pulling up weeds at her side, and once again, she cursed herself for not giving in to Clyde Rorsch. Her head felt as if it were on fire, and the silver dots raced faster. She needed to sit down and rest, but there was no time.

The silvery dots turned into an explosion of fireworks, and the ground began to shift beneath her. She tried to keep her balance, but it was too much. Her head spun, and her knees gave way. The fireworks passed into inky blackness.

Ten minutes later when Gabe Bonner returned to the drive-in, he found the boy huddled on the ground, guarding the motionless body of his mother.





“Wake up.”

Something wet splashed on Rachel’s face. Her eyes flickered open, and she saw bars of blue-white light shining above her. She tried to blink them away, then panicked. “Edward?”

“Mommy?”

Everything came back to her. The car. The drive-in. She forced her eyes to focus. The bars of light were coming from the fluorescent fixture in the snack bar. She was lying on the concrete floor.

Gabe Bonner crouched on one knee at her side, and Edward stood just behind him, his little boy’s face old with worry. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry . . .” She tried to struggle into a sitting position. Her stomach heaved, and she knew she was going to throw up.

Bonner pushed a plastic cup against her lips, and water trickled over her tongue. Fighting the nausea, she tried to turn away from it, but he wouldn’t let her. The water splashed over her chin and ran down her neck. She swallowed some of it, and her stomach steadied. She swallowed more and noticed a faint aftertaste of stale coffee.

She barely managed to sit up the rest of the way, and her hands shook as she tried to take the thermos cup from his hand. He let go the moment their fingers touched.

“How long since you’ve had anything to eat?” He uttered the question without much show of interest and rose to his feet.

Several more swallows of water and a few deep breaths let her recuperate enough to manage a smart-ass response. “Prime rib just last night.”

Without comment, he thrust some kind of snack cake into her hand, chocolate with a creamy-white center. She took a bite, then automatically held it out toward Edward. “You eat the rest, honey. I’m not hungry.”

“Eat it.” An order. Curt, flat, impossible to disobey.

She wanted to shove the snack cake in his face, but she didn’t have the strength. Instead, she forced it down between sips of water and found that she felt better. “This’ll teach me not to stay out dancing all night,” she managed. “That last tango must have done me in.”

He wasn’t buying her act for a minute.“Why are you still here?”

She hated having him loom over her and forced herself to her feet, only to realize her legs weren’t working all that well. She settled into a paint-splattered metal folding chair. “Did you happen to notice . . . how much work I got done before my . . . unfortunate lapse of consciousness?”


“I noticed. And I told you I wouldn’t hire you.”

“But I want to work here.”

“Too bad.” With no particular haste, he ripped open a snack-sized bag of tortilla chips and handed it to her.

“I have to work here.”

“I doubt that.”