MIDNIGHT CINDERELLA

by Eileen Wilks

  Nate had thought he and Mark might be able to meet her here about twelve-thirty, but it was nearly that now and she didn't see the big black Lincoln he was driving today instead of his pickup. The car had been his father's, bought new in the year of his death, and Nate had kept it around for those rare times when he didn't want to use his truck. Mark and his broken leg wouldn't fit in the cab of the pickup, but he could spread out comfortably in the back seat of the old Lincoln.

  Hannah pushed the door to the drugstore open, making the bell above it jingle. Her spirits lifted slightly as she stepped inside. The mustiness of old floorboards blended with the faint, floral scent of the colognes at the front of the store, overlaid by the smell of hot grease from the lunch counter at the rear of the store.

  Hannah loved old drugstores. She liked the clutter, the bargains and the surprises. Maybe it was just as well that Nate wasn't back yet. Poking around in here might perk her up. She'd cashed her first week's paycheck, and the check from her sister would be here any day now, so she could afford to buy herself a cheer-me-up present while she waited. And if Nate ran really late, she would go ahead and eat—and study the pages she'd copied.

  There were several other customers, but most of them were eating lunch at the rear, so she almost had the store to herself as she wandered around. She picked up some panty hose and found two greeting cards she couldn't resist, then headed for the cosmetics section.

  The aisle that held various powders, lotions, spritzes and splashes dead-ended at a counter with a display of costume jewelry. Three teenaged girls had their heads together over the necklaces and bracelets. Hannah had noticed some other teens at the lunch counter. Apparently the drugstore was close enough to the high school to be a hangout.

  Hannah stopped to sniff some lavender-scented lotion. One of the girls looked over at her, giggled and said something to the other two, who started whispering and darting glances at her. Then they all giggled.

  Well, Hannah thought, it's obvious who their topic of conversation is. She refused to take it personally. Girls that age ought to have better manners, but rarely did. And she should have expected the gossip about her and Nate to be flying. Good grief, they'd been holding hands in the vet's waiting room when Ona Biggs saw them. Of course people were talking.

  A heavyset woman with battleship-gray hair sailed past the girls. Their giggles hushed as if her passage had laid down a wake of silence. She came to a stop in front of Hannah. "May I help you, ma'am?"

  The clerk looked like her fourth grade teacher. Mrs. Marvel had been telepathic, and she'd hated children; Hannah was convinced of both facts. "I don't think so," she said cautiously. "I was just browsing a bit while I wait for…" My friends? My employer and my patient? My lover and his brother? "…before I eat lunch."

  "I will be glad to assist you." She folded her hands in front of her. "Are you interested in some cologne to go with that lotion?"

  Irritation was edging out intimidation. "No, thank you."

  "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Andrew Green."

  Hannah caught a glimpse of the girls. One of them was making a face at Mrs. Green's back. Hannah had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Green. My name is Hannah McBride."

  She inclined her head once. "I am aware of that, of course. I hope you will excuse my making your acquaintance in this fashion. I believe you visited St. Luke's last Sunday?"

  The girls were giggling again. Someone else moved into view, coming from the back of the store. Someone Hannah knew. She stared over Mrs. Green's shoulder. "Uh—yes. Lovely church."

  It was the youth from the bus station. Not Mario, nor any of the ones that had scared her the day she tried to walk from the grocery store to the library. This was the scrawny one with the pale, stringy hair and empty eyes. He was talking to the girls.

  "I understand from Irene Robbins that you do not have a church home."

  "That's right. My job keeps me on the move."

  "I wish to extend an invitation to you to visit the Faith Temple Church on Broadway while you're here. We have a wonderful pastor."

  Hannah relaxed. Apparently the woman's pushiness was inspired by congregational rivalry, not suspicion of an outsider. "I'll be glad to." She kept part of her attention on the scruffy youth while she chatted with Mrs. Green—or, rather, while Mrs. Green issued pronouncements with which Hannah was allowed to agree.

  The girls giggled and acted silly in the way of young females who think they're being daring, but the boy seemed to be behaving himself. Hannah wasn't sure about the girls, though. One of them, a dark-haired charmer of fifteen or so, was up to something, judging by the furtive glances. Hannah couldn't tell what. There was rather too much of Mrs. Green blocking her view.

  Just as the girls moved away, heading for the back of the store, the bell tinkled over the entry. Hannah looked over that way, hoping for Nate.

  A short, dark-haired man wearing a fancy western-style shirt walked in. Beside him was a woman Hannah had never seen before—a pale, skinny woman with haunted eyes and long, strawberry blond hair … and an oddly familiar face. A narrow face with delicate features.

  Hannah stared. Jenny? Could this sad-faced woman actually be Nate's ex-wife?

  The pale woman clutched the arm of the man with her, and stared back.

  Did Hannah herself really look like that? She frowned. Surely not.

  The man said something to the woman, who shook her head and started for Hannah.

  "Oh, my," Mrs. Green said.

  Hannah suspected that was something of an understatement. She braced herself, unsure what to expect.

  Jenny was one of those rare people who walk with such grace that people compare their movement to floating. The effect was heightened by the ankle-length skirt of her dress, a very feminine creation in a dainty floral print with a white Peter Pan collar and wide cuffs. She wore a dark blue crocheted sweater-vest over the dress, and her long, shiny hair spilled halfway down her back.

  She looked sweet … and either ill or anorexic. The pretty dress hung on her as if she'd recently lost a great deal of weight.

  Jenny stopped in front of Hannah and smiled uncertainly. "Hello," she said in a soft voice. She was three or four inches shorter than Hannah. "I hope you don't mind my speaking to you like this. I thought … there are things you should know."

  The man who'd come in with her came up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders. "Honey, you don't have to do this if it upsets you."

  "Oh, but I do. I need to be sure she understands. Nate can be so…" Her lower lip quivered, but she continued bravely. "He can be terribly compelling. She needs to know the truth before it's too late. I have to warn her so she won't be hurt."

  "From what I've heard," he said contemptuously, "it's already too late. She's made her bed. With him. Now let her sleep in it."

  Hannah thought that was about enough. "I hate to intrude on this conversation the two of you are having about me, but I think we should introduce ourselves. My name is Hannah McBride. I haven't the foggiest idea who you are, mister, but the young woman who wants to warn me about something must be Jenny." She held out her hand. "How do you do? Nate has told me so much about you."

  Someone gasped.

  Hannah glanced around. Mrs. Green had been tactful enough to move away, though she hadn't gone far. She was meticulously straightening the jewelry that the girls had been trying on earlier. The gasp had come from the personal hygiene section one aisle over. Several people who had been eating a few minutes ago had developed a sudden need for deodorant or a toothbrush.

  She looked back at the woman in front of her.

  Slowly, as if she expected Hannah to strike her instead of shaking hands, Jenny held out her hand. Her palm was dry and rather bony. She had long, narrow fingers, a tiny wrist and a weak clasp. Hannah could see a pulse fluttering in the woman's throat, and she was reminded of a bird.

  "What did he say about me?" Jenny whispered.

&nb
sp; Hannah hadn't expected to ever meet this woman. Now that she had, she waited to have some sense of evil, some recognition of the monumental selfishness that had destroyed lives. But all she saw was a frightened child. She shook her head and dropped Jenny's hand. "Never mind."

  "I want to know. I need to know."

  Hannah tried to steer the conversation into safer channels. "Are you in town for a visit? I understood you were living in California."

  She shook her head, making all that red-gold hair shimmer around her face. "I'm going to move back home. It's time. I'd been wondering if it might be, and then I heard about you from my aunt, and I had to be sure you understood. He's just using you, you know."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I don't want you to be hurt. What Nate and I have is sacred. We're soul mates. That's why I need to know what he said about me. I was hoping—" She swallowed. "It doesn't matter. Just tell me what he said."

  Hannah couldn't think of anything at all to say.

  The man standing behind Jenny closed his eyes as if he were in pain. "Oh, honey," he said, helplessly. "Oh, Jenny, honey."

  The bell over the door chimed again. Everyone looked that way.

  Mark's leg came through the door first, sticking straight out in its white plaster cast. He was riding in a wheelchair, his broken leg on the extended leg rest. For once he was fully dressed in a shirt and a pair of jeans she'd altered for this occasion.

  But Hannah didn't waste much time looking at Mark, because Nate was pushing him. And Nate wasn't surprised. That was the first thing she noticed: he wasn't at all surprised to see Jenny. Someone must have warned him who was here, and he had himself locked up as tight and hard as she'd ever seen him.

  "There you are," Hannah said with all the cheeriness she could muster. She started toward him, but Jenny stood in the way. "Excuse me," she said politely.

  The other woman had turned to face Nate. She glanced back at Hannah, her eyes wide and blind with feelings Hannah didn't want to witness. "This time," Jenny said very softly. "Just this one time." And she moved aside.

  "Nice wheels, Mark." Hannah hurried forward, thinking they might still manage to brush through this without a direct—and painful—confrontation between Nate and Jenny. "Can I take you for a spin?"

  "Spinning I can do on my own." Mark grinned, ready to help her slick a little normalcy on these troubled waters. He indicated his casted arm, currently held in front of him in a stylish blue sling. "When I try to get this rig rolling one-handed, I end up going in circles."

  "Ready for lunch?" Nate asked abruptly.

  She met his eyes and her stomach jittered. "Sure. You going to let me drive Mark's new wheels?"

  His answer was slow in coming. "All right," he said, letting go of the grips and looking straight into her eyes. "I trust you."

  Did he mean that the way her heart hoped he did?

  The commotion from the jewelry counter was as unwelcome as it was loud. Hannah glanced that way and saw that Mrs. Green had hold of the scrawny youth's arm. She shook it. "For shame, Sammie! Give them back right now, you hear?"

  His answer was clearly audible. "I don't have anything of yours, bitch."

  "How dare you!"

  "Hey!" The man in the pretty western shirt moved closer to the other two. "You don't talk to a lady that way, boy. You want me to take him out back and teach him some manners, Mrs. Green?"

  "Who is that man?" Hannah muttered.

  "Ben Rydell," Nate said, his voice flat as a ruler. "Jenny's brother."

  Oh. Hannah grimaced.

  Mrs. Green was informing the boy of the penalties for shoplifters and instructing someone to call the sheriff. Hannah bit her lip. She hadn't had her eye on the youth the whole time. And he was an odd one. He might have taken something.

  And yet…

  Jenny drifted their way. Mark grabbed the wheel of his chair with his one good hand and gave it an abrupt twist, turning so he blocked her before she could drift all the way up to Nate.

  Hannah wasn't sure Jenny really noticed Mark, or anything except Nate. She did stop, though. She stood there and looked at him, her blue eyes huge with longing, and held out both hands. "Oh, Nate," she said, "haven't you punished me enough?"

  Out of the corner of her eye, Hannah saw three teenage girls making their way to the front door—very quietly. No giggling now.

  She sighed. Much as she wanted to give her entire attention to Nate and the sad, beautiful leech he had once been married to, she had to take care of something else right now. "Mrs. Green?" she called, raising her voice enough to be heard over Jenny, Jenny's brother—who still wanted to hit someone—and two of the customers. "If you're looking for a shoplifter, I think you should check out the young lady who's edging toward the door right now with two of her friends."

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, Hannah stood next to the Lincoln's open trunk. It took Nate's size and strength to get Mark and his casts disposed of comfortably in the back seat of the Lincoln, so Hannah was taking care of the wheelchair while Nate took care of Mark, and Mark was grumbling about the indignity of being toted around like an infant. Hannah suspected his complaints came from pain as much as indignity. Being lifted and moved hurt those healing ribs.

  The dark-haired teenager who had pocketed several pieces of costume jewelry was home now with her parents, who had persuaded Mrs. Green not to press charges. The scrawny youth—Sammie, Mrs. Green had called him—had fled the moment the woman let go of his arm.

  Jenny and her brother were gone, too, but they probably hadn't gone as far as Hannah might have wished.

  Hannah had just folded the wheelchair flat and fitted it into the trunk when she glimpsed movement out of the corner of her eye. Startled, she turned her head and saw Sammie coming out of a nearby alley, heading for them.

  Nate muttered something and shut the car door. Hannah closed the trunk and turned just as Sammie stopped a few feet away. He pushed a strand of his long, dirty hair out of his eyes. Those eyes still gave her the shivers. "Hello," she said, trying to sound friendly.

  Nate came to stand beside her. He put one hand on her shoulder.

  Sammie's unblinking gaze never left her face. "I didn't want to go to jail. You spoke up for me. You told Mrs. Green I didn't steal anything."

  "I was pretty sure that little brunette had done it. I knew she'd been up to something."

  "Bethany wanted me to say I did it. She said she'd be nice to me if I said I did it, but she isn't nice. She's pretty and I'd like to touch her, but she isn't nice."

  "No, well, Bethany shouldn't have said that."

  "You're pretty, too, but you helped me. I'll remember you. I remember it when people help me."

  "Hannah," Nate said, "this is Sammie Reddington. Sammie, this is Hannah."

  She glanced at Nate. His voice had been surprisingly gentle, considering his protective stance beside her. "I'm glad to meet you, Sammie."

  For the first time, Sammie's gaze shifted to Nate. "Mr. Jones," he said. "I remember you. You don't hit people who are littler than you are."

  "That's right."

  "Mario doesn't like you."

  "I don't like him, either."

  Sammie's gaze darted between Nate and Hannah. "I heard about your dog. That made me mad. People shouldn't shoot dogs. It's bad."

  Hannah's compassion was stirring. It almost drowned out the uneasiness. "Yes, it's bad to hurt a dog."

  "Cows are different. People eat cows."

  "Sammie," Nate said, "do you know who's been shooting cows?"

  "Cows are different," he repeated, and stepped back one step, then another. His gaze stayed fixed on Hannah's face with unnerving intensity. "But he shouldn't have shot your dog. I'll take care of it." He turned and ran.

  "Good grief," Hannah said. "He's … odd."

  "Yeah," Nate said, "he is."

  "He's mildly retarded, isn't he?"

  Nate glanced at her. "Don't let your sympathy interfere with your good sense. I feel sorr
y for Sammie, too, but he's got more problems than being a little slow."

  "He's dirty," she retorted. "If he were in a home where he was cared for properly—"

  "He's been in at least five homes. Sammie likes to start fires. Among other things."

  She thought about that, and about what Sammie had said about Nate not hitting people smaller than him. "He was abused, wasn't he? How did you meet him?"

  He started for the driver's side of the car. "Four or five years ago, some of the older kids were picking on him down at the park—holding him down, rubbing his face in the dirt. I saw it, and made them stop. He wanted me to hit them, and I told him I didn't hit people smaller than me." He opened the door. "The concept seemed to stick with him. Every time he sees me, if he speaks at all he mentions that."

  She was silent as she got into the car.

  It wasn't up to her to fix everyone's problems, she reminded herself as she buckled up. She was going to have her hands full figuring out a way to exonerate Nate. And yet… "Didn't you say you were shorthanded?" she asked Nate when he slid in behind the wheel.

  "Not so shorthanded that I'm going to hire an underage pyro who shoots cattle."

  Put that way, it did sound a little unreasonable. "We don't know that he shot the cows. He just didn't see anything morally objectionable in it."

  Unexpectedly, he smiled. "Hannah," he said, and leaned over and kissed her firmly on the mouth, "you are a wonder to me." He straightened and started the car.

  His kiss left a pleasant buzz in her system. She didn't listen to what Mark was saying as they pulled away from the curb, her mind busy with her own thoughts. They'd stopped at one of the town's three traffic lights when Hannah spoke one of those thoughts aloud. "She has blue eyes."

  "What?"

  "I don't know why people said Jenny and I look alike. Her hair is nothing like mine, and she's shorter and a lot skinnier, and her feet are too small. She looks like a Barbie doll. I don't look like that, do I?"

  "I don't want to talk about Jenny."

  "I was talking about me. I don't think I look like her."