Mike took a certain pride in his ability to judge character. He knew he was going out on a Hmb but he simply couldn't turn them back onto the street. They needed more than a hot meal. A lot more.
**How did you end up at my store? From what Lily says, you took a bus here this morning."
Trace hesitated a moment and then pulled a ratty envelope out of his pocket, shoving it across the tiny table toward Mike.
**The guy who gave us a lift to Denver said that we should come here if we needed help."
Mike stared at the bold printing, feeling his heart give a sharp kick.
''What was his name?" Was that his voice sounding so anxious?
"John. He didn't say a last name."
"I don't need one." Mike's rough fingers smoothed out the envelope. Maybe it wasn't too late to make up for the past, after all. Maybe he'd given up hope too soon.
**I tell you what, Vm going to close up early today. You two can come home with me and stay the night. We'll decide what to do with you in the morning.'*
Trace stared at him, his expression wary. "Lily and I stay together. Nobody is going to separate us."
Mike nodded. "Fine with me."
An hour later he was opening the door of a small house in a modest neighborhood above Glendale. Trace stepped inside, feeling as if he were walking into a dream. In his childhood he'd sometimes fantasized about living in a house that didn't lie in the middle of the prairie. A cozy house with green lawns and trees around it. This house could have been the one in his dreams.
"You two could both use a shower, I'd guess. There's a bathroom upstairs and one downstairs. Why don't you get cleaned up and I'll see what I've got for dinner."
"We just ate." As if on cue. Trace's stomach growled loudly. He flushed and Mike laughed, not unkindly.
"It's going to take your stomach a while to make up for lost time. It's best if you eat a few small meals instead of one or two big ones. Give your belly a chance to adjust. Come on, I'll show you the bedroom you caa use and then the bathrooms. Take your time getting cleaned up."
Later that night as he lay in bed, Trace stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. The first decent bed he'd had in months and he was wide awake, his mind churning with possibilities. Mike Lonigan was gruff but he seemed kind. Lily slept peacefully in the twin bed across from him, Isaiah clutched firmly to her chest. Mike had suggested that the dog could use a washing and they'd see about it tomorrow.
Tomorrow. It had been so long since he'd made any plans for tomorrow beyond just surviving. Despite himself. Trace felt a shallow flicker of hope. Maybe their luck really had
changed. If Mike would help him find a job... Maybe he'd even let them live here if they could pay rent.
He shut his eyes, forcing his mind to go blank. It was too soon to start hoping. He'd see what tomorrow brought before he made plans for the day after.
Chapter Five
Despite Trace's pessimism, their luck seemed to have changed at last. The envelope that had been given to them so many months ago turned out to be the key to their survival—their salvation. Mike Lx)nigan's stocky body was an odd package for an angel but he was little short of that.
He opened his home to the two refugees, offering them a place to stay and the first decent food they'd had in months. When they came downstairs the next mon^ing, Trace was tense, uncertain, wondering how he could persuade this stranger to let them stay. It galled his pride that the only argument he could offer was their desperate need. For Lily he'd swallow that pride, but not without a struggle.
But somehow Mike didn't make it seem like a shameful thing that they needed a home. He made it seem like an equal trade. They needed a home, he had plenty of room. Years later. Trace still marveled at the deft touch Mike had employed. Even the prickly pride of the man-boy he was at sixteen had been soothed and he was left with the vague impression that they were doing Mike some kind of a favor by staying with him.
There were no formal arrangements made, no point where Mike asked them if they wanted to live with him permanently. They simply stayed one day and then two and then a week. At the end of two weeks, Mike found a job for Trace
working in a grocery store not far from his own liquor store. The owner was a friend of Mike's and he didn't object to Lily accompanying his new employee like a small shadow.
Lily opened her heart to Mike with grave ease. She accepted his presence in her life the same way she'd accepted Trace, their running away and living on the street. She seemed to watch the world through eyes that were too old, had seen too much. With Trace and Isaiah close by, Lily's family was complete. Gradually Mike became a part of that small circle and she accorded him the same devotion she gave to Trace.
For Trace, acceptance was much slower. Mike earned his respect, even a certain amount of trust, but affection was something else again. In his limited experience, adults were seldom to be depended upon. His stepfather, his mother, even his father—none of them had shown him a reason to have faith in this newcomer in his life.
He settled into Mike's house cautiously, trying not to grow too accustomed to its comforts, trying not to depend on the stocky gruff man who'd plucked them off the streets.
Mike watched the boy he'd taken in, reading the wariness in the cool blue of his eyes, the stubborn pride in the set of his shoulders. Trace reminded him of another boy, his hair darker, his eyes a different shade but still holding so much young pride. He hadn't understood that pride and he'd paid dearly for his lack of understanding.
Mike wasn't an overtly religious man but he had a strong belief in the powers above. Perhaps he was being given a chance to rectify some of his mistakes. He couldn't change the past, but with Trace he could make up for some of the mistakes he'd made with his own son. Mistakes that had cost him a high price. Surely it was a sign that the two of them had been sent to his store in such a way.
Lily was the glue that held the three of them together. Mike knew that without her, Trace would have struck out on
his own, no matter how foolish it would have been. But he wanted more for Lily than he expected for himself so he stayed. Mike understood and respected his reasons. He didn't yet know why the two of them had left home. Lily was vague on the subject. She'd only done what Trace had told her. On the one occasion Mike broached the subject with Trace, the boy's eyes grew frighteningly cold. When the time came that Trace trusted him, perhaps then he'd find out what those reasons had been.
So he waited, biding his time, careful to respect the fact that Trace was much older than his years, careful not to presume too much too soon. He tried to guide and suggest rather than order and demand and he had the satisfaction of seeing a httle of the boy's wariness fade.
When fall approached, Mike introduced the subject of school with cautious steps. It didn't surprise him when Trace flatly refused to go. The boy had been through far too much to slip neatly back into a typical sbcteen-year-old's life. But he was surprised that Trace supported him when it came to Lily's returning to school. When he thought about it, he realized that he shouldn't have been surprised. Trace was fiercely determined that Lily have a normaj life.
So the little household shifted along together, not quite smooth yet but slowly finding a tentative balance that was comfortable for all of them. The weather cooled and a few trees halfheartedly turned rather yellow. Southern California's version of fall came and went without fanfare. The rains dampened the streets enough to bring out the summer's accumulation of oils, making driving a hazardous affair, and then they departed for another month and the sun shone down with bright good cheer.
The Thanksgiving holiday was spent as Mike always spent it, working in one of the missions, feeding the homeless. Trace and Lily worked with him. Trace dished out food, his eyes dark. A few months ago he and Lily had been sleeping
in the streets with the men and women he was now serving. If it wasn't for Mike, they might have still been there. The memories were too close, too vivid, and it was a long time before he sle
pt that night, thinking of what could have been.
After Thanksgiving, Christmas rushed toward them and the contrast was even more vivid. This year he had money in his pocket. Not a fortune but enough. They had a roof over their heads. A home, not a motel room. This year Lily was going to be the angel in the Christmas play, and Trace was ashamed of the way his eyes burned when he saw her in the simple white dress Mike's neighbor had made for her, a silver halo ringing her inky hair, her eyes wide and excited as she solemnly performed her duties onstage.
Mike threw himself into the holiday with Irish fervor. The sight of him standing at the kitchen counter, swathed in a chef's apron, his fiery red hair standing on end, flour coating ever>' surface as he doggedly worked his way through a recipe for gingerbread men, should have been enough to send Trace into peals of laughter. But the emotion he felt wasn't amusement. He felt as if something had cracked inside, some long-held barrier. He backed away, unconsciously trying to repair the damage. If he didn't protect himself, he was going to get hurt.
But the barrier had been wearing down for months; he just hadn't noticed the cracks in his defenses. Maybe it was the holiday season. Maybe it was just a very human need to believe in someone.
A huge tree stood in one comer of the living room, far too large for the small room and yet somehow just right. Trace had no way of knowing that it was the first tree Mike had had in nearly six years. All he knew was that the little house oozed warmth and holiday spirit and something seemed to be crumbling inside him.
Lily went to bed early on Christmas Eve in the hope that it would make Christmas morning arrive a little sooner.
When Trace went up to check on her at nine she was fast asleep, Isaiah's felt eyes watching over her. On the night table Esmeralda sat, her painted blue eyes chipped and faded.
Trace hesitated at the top of the stairs, listening to the rain outside, the closest L. A. ever got to a white Christmas. Mike was in the living room with a fire in the fireplace, the lights from the tree glowing. He walked down the stairs slowly, as if pulled half against his will.
"Trace. Glad you came back down. I was just about to have some more eggnog. You want some?"
*'Sure." Trace put his hands in his pockets and then pulled them out again, nervous without knowing why. He took the chilled mug from Mike and sipped, tasting the subtle bite of rum.
'Tily asleep?"
"Yeah. Out hke a light." Trace sat down at the opposite end of the sofa from Mike, a half smile flickering across his lips. "I think all the waiting has really worn her out."
"My son was like that when he was Httle. Christmas just about killed him every year."
Trace looked at Mike, surprised. "I didn't know you had a son."
Mike's smile was tinged with regret. "Still do, as far as I know."
"You've never mentioned him."
"Michael and I parted company a few years back. He left home and I haven't seen him since."
"He ran away?"
Mike shrugged. "More or less. He was older than you are. Almost nineteen. I guess it's not really running away at that age but he's gone just the same."
"Why did he go?" The question was jerked out of him before he could control it, his need to know stronger than his need to keep his distance. Mike didn't seem offended.
His wide shoulders lifted in a shrug and he stared into the fire, his eyes full of memories.
*'We fought a lot. Always had, even when he was a boy. He was stubborn and so was I and we clashed head-on more times than I can remember. Then his mother was killed when he was fifteen and it seemed as if we just couldn't get along after that. It was my fault, probably. I thought keeping him on a tight rein would keep him from making mistakes. I guess I forgot that part of growing up is learning from your mistakes.
"Anyway, we quarreled about everything. A lot of it seems pretty stupid now but it seemed worth fighting over then. I don't even remember what the last fight was about. But Michael stormed out, saying he'd never be back. I didn't believe him so I let him go. A week later I got a letter from him saying he'd joined the marines. It was the last time I heard from him."
"How do you know he's alive?"
Mike's smile deepened. "Oh, I got some evidence not long ago that he's all right."
The room was silent for a long time, only the sound of the rain and soft hiss of the fire filling the quiet. It was Mike who spoke first.
"You know, you've never told me just why you felt you had to take Lily and run away from home, Trace. You don't have to tell me, of course, but sometimes it helps to talk about things. That's a lesson I learned a little late."
Trace's fingers tightened over the mug until the knuckles showed white. He wasn't going to say anything. He'd sworn to take the truth to the grave with him. It was too shameful to tell anyone.
"It was because of Lily," he said jerkily without looking at Mike. "I had to keep her safe."
"Safe from what?"
**!...she's not really my cousin, you know. At least we're not blood related. My stepfather was her uncle. When her folks were killed in a plane crash, she came to live with us. I'd never seen anything so beautiful in all my life. She didn't even look real. She didn't belong there. The house was just a shack.
"My mother tried," he added fiercely, as if Mike might have been thinking she hadn't. He looked at Mike but saw nothing but interest. There was no judgment in his eyes. After a long moment he continued. Now that he'd started, it was impossible to stop the flow of words.
"She tried but she just didn't have any strength left, and then there was Jed." The name was full of hatred.
"Your stepfather?" Mike asked the question gently, not wanting to do anything to discourage him.
Trace nodded, staring into the fire. "He was a pig. He drank and he used to beat my mother. Till I got big enough to stop him. But then there was Lily, and I couldn't let him hurt her. I just couldn't."
"Hurt her? Did he beat her?" Mike was trying to feel the way, trying to clarify the jerky picture the boy was painting.
"No." The flat word was all Trace said, but Mike waited, sensing there was more. After a long moment he started again. "It was the way he looked at her. He shouldn't have looked at her like that. She's just a little girl. I kept her in my room and I heard him go to hers and then he came and stood outside my door. So I kept her with me again and then one night I waited up with a gun."
He stopped, his eyes focused on something only he could see. Mike waited. "Did you kill him. Trace?" What was he going to do if the boy had killed a man?
Trace shook his head as if coming out of a trance. "No, but I wanted to. I prayed he'd come through that door. I could have pulled the trigger without a thought. I wanted to
see him die." He glanced at Mike and the look in his eyes made it clear that he was telling no less than the truth. '*So I took Lily and ran."
''What about your mother?" Mike asked gently.
"She couldn't do anything," Trace said in a flat way that made it impossible to argue. "She wanted to. I know she wanted to but she just didn't have the strength. You can't blame a person for that, can you? She did the best she could." His voice cracked with emotion and Mike reached out hesitantly, uncertain if he had the right to offer comfort but knowing he had to try.
"You took on a lot of responsibility."
* 'There wasn' t anyone else.''
Mike set his hand on the boy's arm, feeling the rigid muscles, the tension that locked them tight. "I'm sure your mother did the best she could, son. Just as you did the best you could."
It might have been the word son. It might have been the tone of his voice. Or it might have been that Trace had simply had as much as he could handle. He'd been strong for so long. He couldn't remember a time when he'd been able to lean on someone else completely. All his life he'd been protecting someone, first his mother and then Lily. He could feel himself dissolving inside and he knew he should get up and leave before he made a fool of himself. But something held him where he was, somethi
ng even stronger than pride. Need. He needed, desperately, to know that he wasn't alone anymore.
"I—" His voice cracked and he fought to get it under control, setting down the mug and wiping his fingers on his jeans. "I should get to bed." His voice sounded strange, scratchy and hoarse.
Mike's hand tightened on his arm, a gentle pressure that seemed to offer something Trace couldn't even define.
*'You know, it's not a bad thing to need other people, son. Everybody needs a little help now and again.**
There it was again. Son. No one had ever called him that. Son. He wished suddenly, quite desperately, that he was this man's son. That he had a right to that title. He shook his head, aware of a fierce burning in his throat.
"I don't—I can't—" He couldn't get the words out. He looked up, meeting Mike's eyes, and the last of the long-held barriers collapsed. There was compassion in the older man's expression, but there was also something else he was afraid to put a name to. Love?
**I— " Mike's image wavered in front of him. Trace drew a deep breath, fighting for control, but Mike had already seen the moisture in the boy's eyes and he wasn't going to let him throw up those barriers again. His hand settled gently on Trace's shoulder and he felt the shudder that ran through the lanky body in the instant before that long-held control crumpled and his breath exploded on a sob.
Mike held him, his arms strong around Trace's shaking body. His own face was tight and hard, thinking of what the boy had gone through in his short life. Too much responsibility much too soon. His stepfather should have been shot.
Trace drew a deep breath, his shoulders stiffening as he sat up. He wiped his eyes self-consciously, his face flushed, his expression uneasy.
**rm sorry. I don't know what happened," he mumbled.
"I'd say you reached the end of your rope. Nothing to be ashamed of in that."
Together Always Page 6
