Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(18)

“Do you give up?” He ground out the words, and only after they were spoken did he realize he’d made it sound as if this were some child’s game they were playing.

He felt the faint tremor that passed through her body. “I’m not going to fight you. I don’t care that much.”

He still hadn’t broken her. Instead, it was as if he’d done nothing more than give her another job. Pick up the trash. Clean the johns. Spread your legs so I can f*ck you. Her acceptance made him furious, and he shoved her dress up to her waist.

“Damn it! Are you so stupid you don’t know what I’m going to do to you?”

Her eyes bore into his without flinching. “Are you so stupid you haven’t figured out yet that it doesn’t matter?”

She robbed him of speech. His face contorted, and his breath grew ragged. At that moment, he looked the devil in the eye and saw his own reflection.

With a harsh exclamation, he pushed himself away from her. He caught a glimpse of pink nylon, then the soft whish of fabric as her skirt dropped back into place. All the fire in his body was gone.

He moved as far away from her as he could, over to the counter, and when he spoke, he couldn’t summon more than a whisper. “Wait outside.”

Other women would have run after they’d faced down the devil, but she didn’t. She walked to the door, her head high, her posture erect.

“Take the money,” he managed.

Even then he underestimated her. He expected her to tell him to go to hell and stalk out. But Rachel Snopes was stronger than false pride. Only after she had picked up every last bill did she walk away.

When the door shut behind her, he slouched against the counter and sat on the floor, his arms propped on his knees. He stared blindly ahead as the past two years unraveled in his head like an old black-and-white newsreel. Everything, he saw now, had led to today. The pills, the booze, the isolation.

Two years ago death had stolen his family, and today it had robbed him of his humanity. Now he wondered if it was too late to get it back.





In Ethan Bonner’s job, he was supposed to love everyone, yet he despised the woman who sat in the passenger seat of his Camry. As he turned out onto the highway from the drive-in entrance, he observed her scarecrow-thin body and hollow cheeks scrubbed free of the makeup that had once coated them. The wild auburn jumble of curls and tangles had nothing in common with the teased and tortured hair he recalled from three years earlier when the television cameras had shown her sitting beneath the Temple’s famous floating pulpit.


Her appearance had once reminded him of a cross between Priscilla Presley during the Elvis years and an old-time country western singer. But instead of sequined clothing, she now wore a faded dress with one mismatched button. She looked both years younger and decades older than the woman he remembered. Only her small, regular features and the clean line of her profile remained the same.

He wondered exactly what had happened between her and Gabe. His resentment toward her deepened. Gabe had endured enough without being saddled with her problems, too.

A glance in the rearview mirror showed her little boy huddled amidst the meager pile of their possessions that were stacked on the backseat: an old suitcase, two blue plastic laundry baskets with broken handles, and a cardboard box held together with some tape.

The sight swamped him with both anger and guilt. Once again, he had fallen short. You knew from the beginning I wasn’t fit to be a minister, but would You listen? Not You. Not the Great Know-It-All. Well, I hope You’re satisfied.

A voice that sounded very much as if it belonged to Clint Eastwood echoed inside Ethan’s head. Quit your bellyaching, chump. You’re the one who acted like a jerk two days ago and refused to help her. Don’t put the blame on Me.

Great! Just when Ethan had been hoping for a little compassion from Marion Cunningham, he got Eastwood. With a certain amount of resignation, he wondered why he was even surprised.

Ethan seldom got the God he wanted to hear. Right now, he’d wanted Mrs. Cunningham, the great “Happy Days” Mother God. It figured he’d get Eastwood instead. The Eastwood God was strict Old Testament. You screwed up, punk, and now you’re going to pay.

God had been talking to Ethan for years. When he was a kid, the voice had come from Charlton Heston, which had been a major drag, since it was hard for a youngster to bare his soul to all that mighty Republican wrath. But as Ethan’s understanding of the many facets of the power and wisdom of God had matured, Charlton had been stored away, along with the other artifacts of his childhood, and replaced by images of three celebrities, all of them woefully inadequate to be divine representations.

If he had to hear voices, why couldn’t they have come from more dignified people? Albert Schweitzer, for example? Or Mother Teresa? Why couldn’t he get his inspiration from Martin Luther King or Mahatma Ghandi? Unfortunately, Ethan was a product of his culture, and he’d always liked movies and TV. Thus, he seemed to be stuck with pop icons.

“Is it too cold in here?” he asked, trying to overcome his animosity. “I can turn the air-conditioning down.”

“Just fine, Rev.”

Her cheeky manner set his teeth on edge, and he silently berated Gabe for getting him into this situation. But his brother had sounded so desperate on the phone when he’d called less than an hour ago that Ethan hadn’t been able to refuse him.