Home At Last. Deborah Raney
the apartment and parked along the curb, praying he didn’t have to scrape the windshields before he went in to work tonight. Flipping on the lights inside his studio, he tried to view the place with objective eyes.
No way around it: he’d be embarrassed for any woman to see where he lived. Not to mention, walking in the front door was essentially walking into his bedroom. Despite his sisters’ attempts to convince him to fix the place up, he hadn’t done more than move in some of Mom and Dad’s castoff furniture and buy some matching dishes off Craigslist.
He’d been able to pick up some extra shifts this fall, hoping to save enough to afford a better place after the first of the year. But in the back of his mind, he knew what he really needed was to find another job. Not just because of the money. But because he was afraid if he didn’t get out of Carson Tech now, he’d be retiring from here. And he wanted more than that out of life. A lot more.
He shrugged out of his jacket, flipped on the TV, and navigated to the sports channel. He could save a hundred bucks a month if he canceled cable. He rarely watched it now that he was working overtime anyway. An involuntary sigh escaped him, and he went to the fridge for an almost empty carton of orange juice. Drinking from the carton, he kicked off his shoes and settled on the futon.
Settled. That was his problem. He’d settled for a life that was comfortable and easy, but he didn’t like being settled at twenty-nine. And it got worse every year. His friends from high school and college were all either married with kids, or off living in some exotic spot in the world. There were a few slackers like him, but fewer every year. And in truth, it might not have bothered him that much if it didn’t bother his family.
Of course his little brother—God rest his soul—had set the bar high. He had beat Link to the altar when he got married at twenty-one. To Bree Cordel, who set the bar even higher. Tim had been a Marine by the time he was twenty-two. Then dead—a hero—two years later. Tough act to follow. It seemed strange that his brother, who’d been only a year younger than Link their whole lives, was now almost five years younger—forever twenty-four in Link’s mind and memories.
The TV droned on. Scores of games he didn’t really care about. And even though he was only working the seven-to-eleven shift tonight, he needed to catch some shut-eye before heading in. He put his feet up and closed his eyes.
The truck started sliding. He slammed on the brakes but nothing happened. He slammed harder. Nothing! The little girl stood there in the middle of the road just looking at him. Staring. Like she wasn’t even afraid.
“Porsche!” It was Shayla’s voice. He was sure of it.
He pushed the brakes harder, but it was like stepping on a dry sponge.
“Porsche!”
Why was she yelling that? He wouldn’t mind having a Porsche, but he drove a Dodge Ram. With a hundred seventy thousand miles on it. And if he couldn’t get the beast to stop, he was going to hit that little girl!
Stop!
Link bolted upright on the futon. He broke into a cold sweat, his heart racing. He’d almost hit her! Another split second and . . .
No. It was only a dream. A nightmare. She was fine. He’d seen her with his own eyes. Everybody was fine. But it had been too close. Way too close.
Thank you, Lord. He took a deep breath and got to his feet, trying to shake off the terror of the dream. The TV said it was 2:27.
Porsche. Where had that come from?
Thinking back, he was pretty sure Shayla had screamed that word. In real life. Maybe it was the little girl’s name. He’d heard stranger names, although he didn’t even want to think about why somebody would name their kid after a sports car. Tim had teased him once that he was named “Link” because he’d been conceived in the back of the ’75 Lincoln Continental Mom and Dad owned the first few years they were married. He didn’t think it was true, but . . . Eww. Thanks a lot for nothing, bro. Hope you’re happy for putting that image in my mind for the rest of my adult life.
Porsche. Maybe it was just part of his crazy nightmare. Some dream interpreter would probably say it represented his deep, dark desire to drive a fast sports car away from life as he knew it—or some other wacko mumbo jumbo.
He looked at the clock again. The bakery in Langhorne would still be open. He probably should call and make sure everything was okay. He could almost hear his dad’s voice. It would be the right thing to do. Dad was always all about doing the right thing.
He grabbed his jacket and his keys off the counter. If he hurried, he had time to do one better: he’d go and see for himself if everyone was really okay.
Chapter 3
3
The bells on the door jangled, and Shayla Michaels looked up to see who had the nerve to show up five minutes before closing time. She’d just sent her part-time college help home early, and she was eager to call it a day.
Her breath caught. It was the guy from this morning—Link. She pretended not to see him and busied herself boxing up the day’s unsold pastries for the homeless shelter in Cape Girardeau—ironically where she’d first met him. They’d been on a first-name-only basis, but thanks to Google, she now knew his name was Link Whitman. And his parents ran the Chicory Inn up the road a few miles off Chicory Lane.
He strode toward the counter now, but she didn’t look up until she could see his reflection in the display case. “Yes?” Her trembling voice betrayed her, but probably not for the reason he thought. “May I help you?”
“I just came by to check on your daughter. I’m Link Whitman. I’ve never properly introduced myself.” He stripped off his gloves and extended his right hand.
She held up her own plastic-gloved hand. “Sorry. I’m working with food.”
“Oh. No problem.” He withdrew his hand. “I understand. Is she doing okay? Your daughter?”
“She’s not my—Like I told you this morning, she’s fine.”
His mouth tilted in a sheepish smile. “Maybe the question is, how are you holding up?”
She couldn’t help but stare at the steel gray-blue of his eyes. From that first day at the shelter, his eyes had reminded her of Portia’s eyes. “I’m fine.” If she said anything else, she might dissolve into tears again. He’d already caught her losing it once today. That was plenty.
“Listen . . .” He shifted from one foot to the other, then back again. “I’m really sorry about what happened. I know that must have scared you to death. I don’t have kids, but I’ve seen my sisters freak out about a lot less with their own kids.” He looked at the floor. “I honestly don’t think I was driving too fast or anything, but—well, if it was my fault, I’m really sorry. I’ve had nightmares about it.”
She tilted her head and eyed him. “It just happened this morning. How could you be having nightmares?”
“Well, nightmare. I’m working extra shifts lately. So sleeping at odd hours. Like this afternoon. And I had a wild dream, a nightmare. I’m not lying to you.”
“Never said you were.”
“That’s where I’m headed now. Work.” He nodded to where his truck was parked out front. “But I wanted to be sure your daughter was okay first. I could tell your husband was upset and I just—”
“My husband? What in the world are you talking about?” She hadn’t meant for it to come out quite so shrill.
“The guy in here this morning.” One side of his mouth tipped up. “Sorry. That wasn’t your husband?”
She couldn’t help laughing. “That’s my dad.”
“Oh.”
If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought he looked relieved. Don’t go getting any ideas, Shayla Jean. You’ve got no business—
“Sorry.