Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(137)

“You don’t know shit.”

Edward looked up at Rachel, his eyes startled. “Is she that boy’s mom?”

Rachel nodded and hurried him to the end of the aisle.

“Don’t they love each other?”

“I’m sure they do. But they’ve got problems, pup.”

As she finished her shopping, she was conscious of the attention she was attracting, which ranged from puzzled glances to condemning murmurs. Even though she’d expected animosity, the extent of it upset her. Three years might have passed, but the people of Salvation, North Carolina, hadn’t forgiven a thing.

As she and Edward walked along the highway carrying their small supply of food, she tried to understand Bobby Dennis’s reaction to her. He and his mother were clearly at odds, so she doubted that he was simply reflecting Carol’s feelings. Besides, his antipathy had seemed more personal.

She stopped thinking about Bobby as she spotted a large grandpa car with Florida plates, the only kind she dared stick her thumb out for. A widow from Clearwater driving a maroon Crown Victoria stopped and took them back to the drive-in. As Rachel stepped out of the car, she turned her foot and the frail straps on the right sandal snapped. The sandals were beyond repair, and now she had only one pair of shoes left. Another loss.


Edward fell asleep just before nine o’clock. She sat barefoot on the trunk of the Impala with an old beach towel wrapped around her shoulders and gazed down at the crumpled magazine photo that had brought her back. She carefully unfolded it and, flicking on the flashlight she carried with her, looked down into the face of Gabe’s older brother, Cal.

Although they bore a strong resemblance, Cal’s rugged features had been softened by an almost goofy look of happiness, and she wondered if his wife, the attractive, rather scholarly-looking blond pictured smiling at his side, was responsible. They’d been photographed in Rachel’s old house, a vast, overly ornate mansion on the other side of Salvation. It had been confiscated by the federal government to help cover Dwayne’s unpaid taxes, and it had stood vacant until Cal had bought it and its contents when he was married.

The picture had been taken in Dwayne’s former study, but it wasn’t sentimentality that had made her rip it from the magazine. Instead, it was the object she’d spotted in the background of the photograph. Sitting on the bookcases directly behind Cal Bonner’s head was a small, brass-bound leather chest, barely the size of half a loaf of bread.

Dwayne had bought the chest about three and a half years ago from a dealer who kept her husband’s expensive purchases anonymous. Dwayne had coveted it because it had once belonged to John F. Kennedy—not that Dwayne had been a Kennedy fan, but he loved everything associated with the rich and famous. In the weeks before his death, as the legal net had tightened around him, she’d frequently seen Dwayne gazing at the chest.

One afternoon he’d called her from a landing strip north of town and, in a panicked voice, told her he was about to be arrested. “I—I thought I’d have more time,” he’d said, “but they’re coming to the house tonight, and I have to get out of the country. Rachel, I’m not ready! Bring Edward to me so I can say good-bye before I leave. I have to say good-bye to my son. You have to do this for me!”

She’d heard the desperation in his voice and knew he was afraid she wouldn’t comply because of her bitterness over the way he’d ignored their child. Except for Edward’s televised baptism, which had been the most watched program in the history of the Temple ministry, Dwayne had shown little interest in being a father.

Her disillusionment with her husband had started soon after they were married, but it wasn’t until her pregnancy that she’d discovered the extent of his corruption. He’d justified his avarice by telling her he needed to let the world see the riches God bestowed on the faithful. Still, she wouldn’t deny him what might be his last contact with his son.

“All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“And I want—I want to take something from home with me, as a reminder. Bring the Kennedy chest, too. And my Bible.”

She understood about the Bible, which was a keepsake from his mother. But Rachel was no longer the naive Indiana country girl he’d married, and his request for the Kennedy chest made her instantly suspicious. At least five million dollars from the Temple ministry were unaccounted for, and it wasn’t until she’d broken the small brass lock and assured herself the chest was empty that she did as he’d asked.

She’d sped along the mountain roads toward the landing strip with two-year-old Edward strapped into his car seat sucking on Horse’s ear. Dwayne’s mother’s Bible lay on the seat next to her, and the small leather chest sat on the floor. By the time she’d arrived, however, it was too late to reach her husband.

Law enforcement had decided not to wait until nightfall to arrest him, and, acting on a tip, the local police and county sheriff had headed for the airfield. But Dwayne had spotted them approaching and taken off. Two deputies forced her out of the Mercedes and confiscated everything, even Edward’s car seat. Afterward, one of them drove her home in a squad car.

It wasn’t until the next morning that she received word that a plane crash had killed her husband. Not long after, she was evicted from the house with little more than the clothes on her back. It was her first lesson in exactly how unkind the world could be to the widow of a crooked televangelist.