That Boy From Trash Town (9 page)

"Yeah, I saw."

His skepticism irritated her. "Look, I've been in here for three days and—"

"Why?"

She frowned. "I beg your pardon?"

"Why have you been in here for three days? Sitting at the bar, watching everyone that comes in, eavesdropping on our conversations. Why?"

She moistened her lips in a nervous gesture. "I don't know, I guess I was just looking for companionship. Sitting here, listening to the regulars having a good time, that was nice." She shook her head. "Anyway, after three days I knew what kind of people came here. I knew all I had to do was yell and your friends at the dart board would have helped me."

He listened but he made no comment, and as silence fell between them, she could feel her father slipping away from her again, retreating to a place she couldn't reach.

Panicking, she leaned toward him. "As a matter of fact, I guess you could say I'm running away from someone."

As she'd hoped, the confession caught his attention. He raised his gaze from his glass and looked at her. "I knew it," he said quietly.

"But not my parents. A man." The man, she corrected silently, and the thought of Dean brought a tight pain to her chest.

"I've loved him all my life," she continued, her voice soft and husky. "His name is Dean. Don't you think that's a good name. A perfect name." She took a sip of wine. "The bad part is, he doesn't love me back. I thought he cared— No, he did care. But caring's not enough, is it? After I thought about it, I realized he's been trying to tell me for a long time that he would never love me, at least not the way I need him to. I just wouldn't listen. I didn't want to listen. I didn't want to hear the truth. I kept telling myself that someday—"

She broke off and shook her head. "It's funny how Someday can be the most wonderful concept, and yet also be a crippling thing. If you get too busy focusing on someday, you neglect the here and now." Her lips twisted in a self-mocking smite. "Which is, of course, what I did. So when everything fell apart, I was left with nothing. I had bet the whole paycheck on Dean."

She leaned back in her seat, her head tilted back slightly as the memory of that day came back to her. "There was a... a confrontation, and he—"

She sat up-straighter and met Lloyd's eyes. "Dean's a kind man. Don't ever think he's not. It's just that suddenly he'd had enough. Of me, I guess. He'd had enough of the way I hung onto him." She shrugged. "I took him by surprise and he let his real feelings show. All this time, he's seen me as a burden."

She grimaced. "The truth isn't always fun, but it's certainly enlightening. I just couldn't take the thought of seeing him all the time, knowing how he felt about me.

She paused to draw in a deep, shaky breath. "So I guess you could say I'm running away from myself. From what I was on my way to becoming." She put her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her palms. "So what do you think? Am I a mess or what?"

Her companion threw back his head and laughed, which delighted her. It was the laugh that she had heard in her memories. Maybe not quite as strong as it had once been, but there was still a soaring quality to it.

"You're something, that's for sure," he said, still chuckling. "Are you sure you didn't simply talk him into a stupor?"

She grinned. "I probably did that, too."

He raised his arm and looked at her across the beer mug as he took a swallow. "Do you really want my opinion?" he asked as he lowered the mug.

"I do," she said earnestly. "I really do."

"I think you've saved yourself a lot of heartache," he said flatly. "I'm alone and most of the time I think it's the best way. No responsibilities, no one to disappoint. Because that's where the real pain comes from, Mary. Not from what's been done to you, but from what you've done to others. That's the part that will rip you apart."

What did you do? she wanted to ask. But she knew she couldn't. What she saw in his eyes wasn't pain from the past. It was from the present.

Did he feel, even after all these years, guilty for having walked out on his family? The thought made her throat constrict with suppressed emotion. She had suffered because of his desertion, but her grief was nothing compared to what this man had gone through.

Like Prometheus, this man's pain was endless. Day after day, it rose up fresh and new, to torment him.

He rose abruptly to his feet. "I'd better be going," he said, his voice gruff.

Whitney knew Lloyd never left Rick's until ten, but she made no move to stop him. She had reminded him of something that hurt, something he wanted to deal with in private. And in truth, she could use some time of her own to think.

"Thanks for the drink." Lloyd turned to leave, then he paused. "You looking for a job?"

The question took her by surprise. She stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Now that you mention it, I believe I am."

"There's an opening at the factory. I can put in a good word for you if you want."

"Thank you, Just Lloyd. I would appreciate that." She grinned. "I can use all the good words I can get."

With a soft chuckle, he walked away.

Whitney watched as the door swung shut behind him, then closed her eyes. She had almost told him. Right there at the end, when she realized how much he was hurting, she had almost told him that she was his daughter.

The words had been on the tip of her tongue when she realized that she didn't know a thing about this man. The pain she saw in him might not have anything to do with the family he had left behind. She had no way of knowing if he even remembered he had a daughter. After all, people left their families behind all the time, cheerfully and without regret.

So in the end, it was fear that kept her mouth shut. She was afraid that if she told him who she was, he would walk away and never look back.

She would wait until she knew him better. She would let him get to know her as an individual, let him see that she was no threat to him or the new life he had made for himself.

Whitney was pushing back the chair to stand up when it finally hit her.

She had found her father.

* * *

Beginning a new life was hard work, and the next few days were busy ones for Whitney. She was more or less helpless when it came to looking for an apartment, choosing furniture and buying groceries, and she made sure Lloyd knew it. Every time he tried to back away from her—and he tried quite often at first—Whitney, without a twinge of conscience, begged for his help.

"In China," she told him, "when you save a person's life, you have to assume responsibility for that person. It's a law, Lloyd. Check it out"

"All I did was yell for Tink to throw out some troublemakers," he said, laughing at her outrageous exaggerating. "I didn't save your life."

"You did," she argued. "You saved my life. Because if that fool had touched me one more time, I would have cold-cocked him with a seltzer bottle. And if he had gotten a concussion and died, I'd have been arrested for using unreasonable force and any jury in the world would have found me guilty, because it's obvious that I did it. What's more, I don't see how I could possibly show any remorse, and you know how judges feel about penitence." Her voice dropped ominously. "They give lethal injections in Texas, Lloyd."

"Okay...okay, I give up. I'll help you pick out your stupid pots and pans."

Lloyd not only helped her pick out pots and pans, he took her to the places that sold good used furniture, then he rounded up enough volunteers with pickup trucks to move the furniture into the small apartment she had rented in his building.

Occasionally Whitney worried about getting cash from her credit cards, knowing the bills were going to her uncle, but she was keeping an account of every dollar she spent. She would be able to support herself soon, then she would begin paying her uncle back. It was suddenly important that she make her own way in the world. She wanted her father to be proud of her. She wanted to be proud of herself.

The one area in which she couldn't ask for Lloyd's help was her new job. At the factory, Whitney was on her own.

The first obstacle was a simple little detail that threatened to ruin the whole scheme—Whitney's name and social security number.

She had watched the people at Rick's long enough to know the toy factory was like a small town. There were no secrets. If Whitney gave her true name, it would be all over the factory within hours. But if she used her new name and a fictitious social security number, she was pretty sure the federal government wouldn't like it

The dilemma had kept her pacing outside the personnel office for hours on the day she was supposed to apply for a job. Just as Whitney had decided she would have to forget the whole thing, the woman who ran the office came back from lunch.

With her blue hair and faded housedress, Mrs. Dennison looked like everyone's grandmother. But looks were deceiving. Lloyd had told Whitney about Mrs. Dennison. She was the owner's mother, and nothing happened in the factory without her permission. But what gave Whitney hope wasn't the sweet grandmotherly face or the power the woman wielded. What made Whitney follow Mrs. Dennison into the personnel office was the paperback book the older woman carried under her arm. Midland Mafia Murders. Mrs. Dennison was a true crime fan.

An hour later Whitney not only had a new job, but a promise from her new friend that no one would ever know her real name.

Whitney hadn't actually lied to,Mrs. Dennison. She'd simply told her about her wish to start a new life, throwing in a few hints that if certain people knew where Whitney was hiding, "things" might happen. Things that simply couldn't be talked about So it would be better, safer for everyone concerned, if no one at the factory knew Whitney's real name.

Mrs. Dennison had eaten up every word.

The second obstacle wasn't so easily resolved. The fact that Lloyd Grant, a much admired supervisor, had recommended Whitney for the job helped her make friends quickly, but not even a recommendation from the president would have helped her on the assembly line.

It was Whitney's job to attach little rubber tires to little toy trucks, and when Lloyd had described the task, it had sounded like a snap. After all, how difficult could it be?

She learned the answer to that question on her first day at the toy factory. Attaching little rubber tires to tittle toy trucks could be pure, unadulterated hell. Everyone had neglected to tell her the job had to be done at top speed.

The first day felt a little like she had been dropped into an old I Love Lucy episode. The trucks seemed to come at her faster and faster. She would barely have time to get one tire on—forget the other three—before another truck descended on her.

That night Whitney had nightmares about all those tittle red and blue and yellow trucks chasing her, demanding not only tires, but a lube job, as well.

By her third day at the factory, Whitney had begun to adjust. She still wasn't as fast as she should be, but she was beginning to believe that someday, if she worked hard at it, she might eventually be adequate.

She tried to talk Lloyd into car-pooling. It made no sense to take both cars, she told him. They would have each other's company on the ride to and from work, and save gas, as well. It was practically their civic duty.

But in tins one matter, Lloyd held out. Sharing a car somehow represented a closeness he wasn't ready to acknowledge.

It didn't take Whitney long to understand why everyone went to Rick's after work. The pressure at the factory was intense. They needed to relax and let off steam before going home to normal life.

On Friday night, after her first week at the factory, everyone was at Rick's for the weekly dart tournament. Whitney had played every once in a while with Lloyd and a few of her new friends, and it was at their urging that she decided to enter the tournament.

She took her first two opponents easily, and her last match was with Frankie Halloran, self-acknowledged Lothario. Frankie—tanned and muscular, with dark, curly hair—thought a lot of himself, but he was too likable for people to take any real offense at his conceit.

"It's my turn, little Miss Dart Shark. I think I can take you, and I'm willing to back that up with a little side bet."

Frankie's challenge brought on a chorus of derisive hoots.

"Okay, here's the deal," he continued. "If I win, you go with me to the tractor pull tomorrow night... and parking afterward," he added with an overdone leer.

"And if I win?" she asked.

"Make him polish that ratty old Buick of yours!" someone called out.

"No, make him scrub your kitchen floor," one of the women suggested. "And take pictures. You could make a fortune selling pictures of Frankie on his knees."

When everyone laughed, Frankie held up a hand to quiet them. "If you win," he said, "I'll buy a round of drinks for everybody in the place."

"Go for it, Mary."

"Make him pay."

"Didn't Rick get in a shipment of imported beer yesterday?"

"You can take him," Lloyd said as he stepped closer and raised his voice to be heard over the enthusiastic crowd. "Just keep your distance. He has a habit of brushing against you just when you're ready to throw."

Although everyone wanted a free drink, when the game started, the group divided into two groups. The young, single men and a few of the single women—the ones who were hoping to date Frankie—were rooting for Whitney's opponent. The others were cheering for her.

Whitney knew immediately that Frankie was good, better than any of the others she had played against, but she kept her cool.

"Come on, Mary, you can do it. Show him your stuff. Make him eat your dust."

Whitney picked up another dart and turned to wave at the bouncer, who was cheering her on from his barstool. She'd learned that Tink was short for Tinkerbell, and considered the fact that he didn't mind the nickname a sign of the big man's self-confidence.

"Stop distracting her," Lloyd called to link before turning back to Whitney. He stood at the forefront of the crowd gathered around the dart board. "Take your time, Mary. This shot has to be good."

In a show of total self-assurance, she dusted a bit of lint from her sleeve, then casually tossed the dart in the air and watched it hit dead center.

Whitney was immediately surrounded by the group. They were all pounding her on the back, shouting their approval, taunting her opponent.

When Whitney saw Frankie taking the teasing with a good-natured grin, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "Your consolation prize," she said.

Laughing, he grabbed her around the waist and leaned her over backward. The kiss was long and noisy, and even though it was more playful than sexual, it brought cheers and enthusiastic encouragement from the rest of the crowd.

When Frankie finally turned her loose, Whitney made a big play of wiping her face before turning to signal Roxie for a drink. Her hand was in the air and her mouth was open to speak when her eyes widened in shock.

Dean was standing not three feet away from her. And judging by the look on his face, there was going to be hell to pay.