Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(94)

He began tugging up clumps of grass. “You could pretend.”

“Pretend? I don’t know what you mean.”

More grass came up. “You could pretend you like me. Then my mommy would marry you, and we wouldn’t have to go away.”

“I—I don’t think that would work.”

His brown eyes filled with hurt. “Couldn’t you even pretend to like me? It wouldn’t have to be real.”

Gabe forced himself to meet the boy’s gaze and utter his lie with complete conviction. “I do like you.”

“No.” Edward shook his head. “But you could pretend. And I could pretend about you, too. If we pretended real good, my mommy would never know.”

The boy’s deadly earnestness was tearing Gabe apart. He looked down at the scuffed toes of his boots. “It’s a little more complicated than that. There are other things—”

But Chip jumped to his feet, no longer listening. He’d said what he had to, and now he wanted to share the news. He dashed toward the path in the woods, calling out as he ran. “Mommy! Hey, Mommy!”


“I’m over here.”

Gabe heard Rachel’s voice, faint but still audible. He sat on the step and listened.

“Mommy, I got something to tell you!”

“What is it, Edward?”

“It’s me and Gabe. We like each other now!”



Rachel dropped Edward off at child care on Monday morning, then sat in the parking lot gathering her courage. She knew what she had to do, but there was a big difference between knowing and doing. So many loose ends to tie up before she left.

She leaned her head against the Escort’s window and made herself accept the fact that she and Edward would be getting on the bus and heading for Clearwater in a week. Misery settled over her, and her heart felt like a bleeding wound inside her chest. Watching Edward act as if he and Gabe had magically become friends was wrenching. All evening Edward had smiled at Gabe, this small, insincere crescent stretched across his teeth. At bedtime, she’d watched him gather his courage.

“Night, Gabe. I really like you a lot.”

Gabe had flinched, then tried to cover it up. “Thank you, Chip.”

She blamed Gabe, even as she knew he was doing his best not to hurt Edward. That made Gabe’s helplessness all the more painful, and her decision to leave even more necessary.

When she’d tucked Edward in, she’d tried to talk to him about what was happening, but he’d only shaken his head.

“Me and Gabe like each other lots, so we don’t have to go to Flor’da now.”

One of the mothers came into the parking lot and glanced in Rachel’s direction. She fumbled with the key in the ignition. One more week . . .

Oh, Gabe . . . Why can’t you love my child for who he is? And why can’t you come to peace with Cherry’s ghost so you can love me, too?

She wanted to prop her head against the steering wheel and cry until she had no tears left, but if she gave in, she’d crumble into so many pieces she’d never be able to put herself back together again. And self-pity wouldn’t change the facts. Her son wasn’t going to grow up with a man who couldn’t tolerate him. And she wouldn’t live the rest of her life in another woman’s shadow. Before she left, however, there was something she had to do.

The Escort shuddered as she pulled from the parking lot. She took a deep breath and set off down Wynn Road toward the small web of streets that made up the poorest part of Salvation. She turned onto Orchard, a narrow, potholed lane that curved sharply up the side of a hill. Tiny one-story homes with crumbling front steps perched on barren, untended yards. An old Chevy sat on blocks at the side of one house, a rusted boat trailer near another.

The small, mint-green house at the end of Orchard was tidier than most of the others. The porch was swept and the yard neat. A basket of ivy geraniums hung from a hook near the front door.

Rachel parked on the street and climbed the uneven front walk. As she stepped onto the porch, she heard the sound of a game show coming from the television inside. The cracked door buzzer didn’t look operable, so she knocked instead.

A faded, but pretty, young woman appeared. Her short blond hair had a slightly brassy home-done look. She was small and thin, dressed in a cropped white sleeveless top and worn denim shorts that rode low on her narrow hips and showed her navel. She looked to be in her early thirties, but Rachel suspected she was younger. Something tired and wary in her expression made Rachel recognize a fellow traveler on life’s bumpier highway. “Are you Emily’s mother?”

When the woman nodded, Rachel introduced herself. “I’m Rachel Stone.”

“Oh.” She looked surprised. “My mother said you might stop by sometime, but I didn’t believe her.”

Rachel had dreaded this part of it. “It’s not about that. Your mother . . . She’s a lovely person, but . . .”

The woman smiled. “It’s all right. She has a lot more faith in miracles than I do. I’m sorry if she’s been bothering you, but her intentions are good.”

“I know they are. I wish I could help that way, but I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Come in anyway. I could use some company.” She pushed open the screen. “I’m Lisa.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Rachel stepped into a small living room overcrowded with a nubby beige sectional sofa, an old recliner, some end tables, and a television. The furniture was of good quality, but mismatched and worn in a way that made Rachel suspect the pieces came from Lisa’s mother.