Honey Moon (43 page)

Doesn't it just
, she thought. So that was the reason he was running away. He had injured his eye in an accident, and he couldn't face up to it.

He wandered across the short-pile gray carpet to the back window and gazed through it. She began retrieving cups from the soapy dishwater.

"You don't have any TV here. That's good."

"Most of the time I don't even see a newspaper."

He nodded brusquely. And then, "What are you doing here?"

She'd been waiting for the question. Everyone was full of questions. The townspeople, the workmen, Liz. Everybody wanted to know why she had left L.A., and why she was spending a fortune trying to rebuild a roller coaster that sat in the middle of a dead amusement park. Since she could hardly tell people she was rebuilding it so she could find her husband, she generally explained that the country's great wooden coasters were endangered historical landmarks, and she was trying to save this one. But she didn't owe Eric any explanations, and so she said brusquely, "I needed to get out of L.A., so I'm restoring Black Thunder. The roller coaster."

She waited for him to prod her with more questions, but instead he turned to face her. "Look, it's obvious that you don't want company, but I'd like to hang around for a couple of days. I'll stay out of your way."

"You're right. I don't want company."

"That's fine. Neither do I. That's why this is a good place for me."

She pulled a mug out of the water and rinsed it. "There's nowhere for you to stay."

"I've been sleeping in my van."

She grabbed a dish towel and dried her hands. "I don't think so."

"Afraid?"

"Of you? Hardly."

"Rebuilding that coaster must be a lot of work. Maybe you could use another set of hands."

She gave a short laugh. "Constructiosn work isn't for movie stars. It plays hell with those hundred-dollar manicures."

He didn't rise to her taunt; he barely seemed to have heard her. "Just do me a favor. Don't tell anybody who I am."

"I didn't say you could stay."

"You won't even know I'm here. And one more thing. Every couple of days I'll be taking some time off. Since I won't be on the payroll, it shouldn't be a problem."

"Need to get your hair done?"

"Something like that."

She didn't want him around, but she could use another set of hands—especially since she didn't have to pay him wages.

"Fine," she snapped, "but if you get on my nerves, you have to go."

"I won't be around long enough to get on your nerves."

"You're already just about there, so don't push it."

He shoved one hand in the back pocket of his jeans and studied her openly, taking in her damp hair, the worn gray sweats, her feet stuck in a pair of Dash's old wool socks. The only jewelry she wore was her wedding band, but in the past few months tools had deeply notched the gold in several places. She couldn't remember the last time she'd used makeup. Her twenty-sixth birthday wasn't for another few weeks, but her face was lined and tired, her eyes haunted. She knew from her infrequent glances in the mirror that nothing of the girl she had been remained.

He stared at her without apology and she began to experience a strange sense of commonality. For some reason that she didn't understand, nothing mattered to him. She could tell him everything or withhold it all. He was encapsulated in his indifference, and no matter what she revealed, he wouldn't offer either sympathy or condemnation. He simply didn't care.

The irony wasn't lost on her. For years she had regarded Eric Dillon with antipathy. Now, he was the

first person she'd met since Dash's death whose presence she could tolerate.

* * *

The next morning Chantal came running to her as soon as she met Eric to launch a vehement protest against Honey hiring such a dangerous-looking stranger.

"That Dev is going to murder us in our beds, Honey! Just look at him."

Honey glanced over at Eric, who was stacking a pile of two-by-sixes in the frosty morning air. Dev? So that was the name he was using. Short for devil?

He was wearing a hard hat like everyone else, but he had snagged his hair into a ponytail that formed a blunt comma at the back of his neck. His flannel shirt was open at the throat, and she could see a T-shirt beneath. He had on a pair of scuffed work boots and jeans with a hole at the knee. His current outfit seemed just as much a part of him as the Armani suits. The curious thought flashed through her mind

that everything he wore was costume instead of clothing.

"He's all right, Chantal. Don't worry about it. He used to be a priest."

"He did?"

"That's what he said." Honey swallowed the last of her coffee and tossed aside her paper cup. She smiled cynically as she mounted the frame and began to climb the lift hill. The idea of Eric Dillon as a priest was the first thing that had struck her funny in a long time.

When she arrived at the top, she attached her safety line and gazed back down to the ground. Eric was reaching up to fasten a two-by-six to the rope that hauled up the lumber. Ponytails weren't normally a hairstyle she liked on men, but with his thin nose, sharp-bladed cheekbones, and dramatic eye patch, he definitely pulled it off. She could just imagine what Dash would have said about it, and she smiled to herself as she created a little dialogue between them, something she liked to do to give herself a sort of bittersweet comfort.

"Now why would anybody who calls himself a man want to wear something like
that?" he would say.

She'd look dreamy-eyed in a way that would be guaranteed to aggravate him.

"Because it's incredibly attractive."

"Makes him look like a pansy."

"You're wrong, cowboy. He looks all man to me."

"Well, then, if you think he's so damn good-looking, why don't you use him to
satisfy that itch that's starting to wake you up at nights."

She nearly hit her thumb with her hammer, something she hadn't done in a month. Where had that thought come from? There wasn't any itch. None at all.

She took a vicious swing, but her imagination refused to be stifled, and she could hear Dash say,
"I don't see what's so wrong with having an itch. It's long
past time. I didn 't raise you to be a nun, little girl."

"Stop talking to me like a father, dammit!"

"Part of me is your father, Honey. You know that."

She began frantically running numbers from her dwindling bank account in her head to block out any more imaginary conversations.

25

True to his word, Eric stayed out of her way, and she had little conversation with him after that first day. His van was parked between two of the old storage buildings not far from the delivery entrance. In the evening, while she was eating dinner with Chantal and Gordon, he used her shower.

From the beginning he managed to blend in with the workmen, and what he lacked in skill he made up

for in muscle and tenacity. After two weeks she had to remind herself that he truly was Eric Dillon and not the man he had created; a long-haired, one-eyed foreigner who had introduced himself to everyone

as Dev.

Several times each week he disappeared for part of the afternoon. Despite herself, she began to wonder where he went for those four- or five-hour stretches. The third time he disappeared it finally occurred to her that he must have a woman somewhere. A man like Eric Dillon was hardly going to give up sex just because he'd lost an eye.

She slammed her hammer down on a nail she was driving into the catwalk.

Lately, when she should have been thinking about coming up with the money she needed to finish the coaster, she had been thinking about sex, and last night she'd had another disturbing dream, one in which a faceless man approached her, obviously with the intention of making love. She wanted that part of her buried with Dash, but her body seemed to have other ideas.

She shoved the hammer back into her tool belt, determined not to think about it.

Even thinking about sex was a betrayal of what she and Dash had meant to each other.

That evening during dinner, Chantal and Gordon were abnormally quiet.

Chantal picked at the too-salty tuna casserole she had prepared, then finally pushed it away and went to the refrigerator for a Pyrex casserole full of red Jello.

Gordon cleared his throat. "Honey, I've got something to tell you."

Chantal fumbled the casserole as she set it on the table. "No, Gordon. Don't say anything. Please . . ."

"I'm just about broke, so if you're after money, forget it." Honey pushed aside the soggy potato-chip

crust with the vague hope of finding a small chunk of tuna.

Gordon banged down his fork. "It's not money, dammit! I'm going away.

Tomorrow. They're hiring construction workers up near Winston-Salem, and I'm going to get a job."

"Sure you are," Honey scoffed.

"I mean it. I'm not going to work for you anymore. I'm tired of taking your money."

"Why do I find that hard to believe?" She shoved back her plate and said sarcastically, "What about your great career as an artist? I thought you weren't ever going to compromise yourself."

"I guess I've been doing that since you picked me up on that Oklahoma highway," he said quietly.

Honey felt the first prickle of uneasiness as she realized that he was serious.

"What brought about this sudden change of heart?"

"These past few months have reminded me that I like hard work."

Chantal was staring down at the table. She sniffed. Gordon regarded her miserably. "Chantal doesn't

want to go. She—uh—she may not be coming with me."

"I haven't made up my mind yet."

"He's bluffing," Honey said sharply. "He won't leave you behind."

Gordon gazed at Chantal, and his eyes were tender. "I'm not bluffing, Chantal.

Tomorrow morning I'm driving out of this place with or without you. You have to make up your mind whether you're going to stand by me or not."

Chantal started to cry.

Gordon rose from the table and turned his back on them. His shoulders heaved, and Honey realized he was near tears, too. She hid her own growing panic beneath anger.

"Why are the two of you doing this? Just go! Both of you." She sprang to her feet and spun on her cousin. "I can't support you any longer. I've been trying to find a way to tell you, and it looks like this is it. I want you out of here tomorrow morning."

Chantal jumped up from her chair and confronted her husband. "See what I mean, Gordon? How can

I leave her like this? What's going to happen to her?"

Honey stared at her. "Me? You're worried about leaving me? Well, don't be. I'm tough. I've always

been tough."

"You need me." Chantal sniffed. "For the first time in as long as I can remember, you need me. And I don't have any idea how to help you."

"Help me? That's a laugh. You can't even help yourself. You're pitiful, Chantal Delaweese. If you wanted to help me, why didn't you take some of the responsibility off my shoulders when I was busting my rear on the Coogan show? Why didn't you do something to help out then instead of lying around on the couch all day? If you wanted to help me, why didn't you act like you cared about somebody other than Gordon? If you wanted to help me, why didn't you bake me a birthday cake that didn't blow up?"

To Honey's dismay, her eyes stung with tears. There was a long silence broken only by the harsh sound of her breathing as she struggled for control.

Finally, Chantal spoke. "I didn't do any of that because I sort of hated you then, Honey. All of us did."

"How could you hate me?" Honey cried. "I gave you everything you wanted!"

"Remember when you made me enter the Miss Paxawatchie County contest because you were trying so hard to keep us off welfare? Well, it's like me and Gordon have been on welfare all these years. Not because we needed help like somebody with lots of kids and no way to feed them. But because it was easier to take a free handout than work. We lost our dignity, Honey, and that's why we hated you."

"It wasn't my fault!"

"No. It was ours. But you made it so easy."

Gordon turned back to Chantal, his expression miserable. "I need you, too, Chantal. You're my wife. I love you."

"Oh, Gordon." Chantal's lips trembled. "I love you, too. But you can take care of yourself. Right now, I don't think Honey can."

Honey's throat closed tight with a nearly uncontrollable rush of emotion. She fought against it, struggling to keep her dignity. "That's the stupidest thing I ever heard you say, Chantal Booker Delaweese. A woman belongs with her husband, and I don't want to hear another word about you staying here with me.

As a matter of fact, I'll be glad to have you gone."

"Honey . . ."

"Not one more word," she said fiercely. "I'm saying my good-byes right now, and both of you had better be out of here first thing tomorrow." She grabbed her cousin and drew her into her arms for a crushing hug.

"Oh, Honey . .."

She pulled away and extended her hand toward Gordon. "Good luck, Gordon."

"Thanks, Honey." He took her hand, and then he hugged her, too. "You take care, you hear?"

"Sure." Moving away, she headed toward the back door, where she forced a smile that made her jaw muscles ache, then rushed outside.

She ran across the park. Her hair came free and flew about her head, lashing her cheeks. Her feet thudded on the hard ground. As the trailer came into sight, she gasped for air, but she didn't stop running.

She stumbled on the step and caught herself just before she fell. When she got inside, she pushed the door shut and leaned back against it, using her body to stave off the monsters. Her chest heaved, and she tried to calm herself, but she had passed the point of reason, and her fear consumed her.

For months she had been telling herself she wanted to be left alone, but now that it had happened, she felt as if she had been cast loose in space, aimlessly whirling, disconnected from all human life. She was no longer part of anyone.