Fortune (10 page)

B
ut Claire wasn't there. Chance stood in the center of Skye and her mother's obviously empty trailer, working to hide his dismay, trying to decide what he should do next. Skye was beside herself, hysterical with worry, her headache nearly unbearable.

Even so, she refused to take her headache medicine, because she said it sometimes made her sleepy. She told him she was afraid to go to sleep. Finally, by promising he wouldn't leave until her mother returned, Chance convinced her to take two of the tablets and lie down.

He sat on the floor beside the bed, the space so small he barely fit. He forced a breezy smile, all too aware of the time that had slipped past. “It's going to be all right, kid. Any moment your mom's going to walk through that door. And boy, are you going to feel silly then.”

She searched his gaze. “What if she doesn't?”

“She will.”

“Where's your mom?”

He hesitated a moment, feeling her question like a punch to his gut. “She's dead.”

“Oh.” Skye drew her eyebrows together. “What happened? I mean, was it an accident or—”

“She got sick,” he said roughly. “And then she died.”

“Oh.” An awkward silence stretched between them. After a moment's hesitation, she cleared her throat. “Chance?”

“Yeah?”

“What's it like? Being without a mother?”

“I don't think about it much. Not anymore, anyway.”

Tears flooded her eyes, and he knew she was thinking about her mother, thinking that she would never see her again. He leaned toward her. “It's bullshit, Skye. She's going to be home any minute.”

“But wha'if she's not?” Her words slurred slightly, and he knew the medicine was kicking in.

“She will be.”

Her eyelids fluttered. “Don't…leave me. You promised.”

“Yeah, I know. I promised, and I won't.”

Within moments her eyes closed and her breathing became deep and even. He stayed beside the bed, anyway, watching her while she slept. Silly, sweet Skye. She liked to play the tough kid, the invincible one. But that wasn't the way she looked now. She looked young. And soft. And lost. He lightly touched his index finger to her cheek, then drew his hand away, surprised by the rush of tenderness he felt for her.

He'd never had a brother or sister, though once upon a time he had wanted one. Someone to share things with, someone to belong to when his mother didn't have the time—or inclination—to belong to him.

That had been a long time ago. So long he had almost no memory of it anymore. He'd been lonely, he supposed. Ages ago, back when he had needed people to make him happy. To make him feel safe.

He unwedged himself and crossed to the door. There, he stopped and looked back at her. What she had told him earlier, about her and her mom picking up and moving in the middle of the night did sound weird. But the mob? No way. That was just too Hollywood.

No, Claire was probably trying to stay a step or two ahead of the bill collector. She had probably refused to tell Skye anything about her father because she didn't even know who he was.

Ugly but true. Too ugly, he supposed. Too true to tell a little girl who loved her mother.

After one last glance at Skye, he went to the front of the camper to wait. He sat. He paced. He checked—and rechecked—his watch. The minutes ticked past. Still Claire didn't show.

He shook his head. She probably had a boyfriend and had sneaked off to fuck her brains out.

Even as the thought filtered through his head, he acknowledged to himself that it didn't ring true. He didn't know why. He didn't know Claire well, hardly at all, in fact. She could be a raving nympho, for all he knew.

But he had seen the way she looked at her daughter. He had seen how much she loved Skye. Nothing meant more to Claire than her daughter, and certainly not some small-town, back-lot fuck. Maybe he was being naive, but he didn't believe Claire would leave her daughter alone to go do that.

Then, what had she left her alone to go do?

Even as the question registered, he heard her at the door. A second later, she stepped into the kitchen, saw him and stopped dead.

“Hello, Claire.”

She looked past him, toward the back of the trailer where Skye slept, then back, her expression alarmed. “What are you doing here?”

“I think the question is, why weren't you here?”

“I went out for a walk. I couldn't sleep and—”

“It's the middle of the night!” He jumped to his feet. “Jesus, Claire, Skye was scared to death. She came to get me, she was so scared.”

Claire paled. Her hand went to her throat. He saw that it trembled. “I'm sorry. Like I said, I couldn't sleep, and I…” She turned her head toward Skye's bedroom. “Is she asleep?”

“I think so. She took a couple of those headache tablets, but only after I promised her I'd stay. She was afraid to be alone.”

Tears flooded Claire's eyes. “Thank you, I'll…I need to see her. Excuse me.”

Chance thought about leaving, then decided against it. Something didn't sit right with Claire's explanation. Skye was right, her mother acted as nervous and jumpy as a cat. She was afraid of something. Or someone.

Chance took a seat at the dinette and waited. From the bedroom, he heard the sound of muffled voices. And of tears, though whether Skye's or her mother's he wasn't sure. Maybe both.

Several minutes later Claire reappeared. She looked shaken. “I can't believe I…I didn't think she would wake up. She's always been a sound sleeper and…”

Her voice trailed off. She met his eyes. “I need a drink. You want a beer?”

“Sure.”

She went to the mini-fridge and took out a couple of beers. As she opened the door, a shaft of light speared through the dark kitchen, illuminating her expression. Something was wrong. Definitely.

She handed him a bottle of beer. “Glass?”

He shook his head. “This is fine. Thanks.”

Without another word, she slipped into the booth across the table from him. She took a swallow of the beverage, her gaze on a place somewhere over his right shoulder. He was reminded so vividly of his mother he winced.

He shook the thoughts off and narrowed his gaze on Claire. “What the fuck's going on?”

Startled, she swung her gaze to his. “Pardon me?”

“You don't add up. Neither does Skye. Why are you traveling with this two-bit outfit?”

“Why are you?”

“It's a way out. It's not permanent.”

“It's not permanent for us, either. It's just for the summer.”

“Same question still applies.” He brought the bottle to his lips, tipped his head back and drank, his gaze still on hers.

She looked away first. “What question was that?”

“Please, give me a little more credit.” He set the beer sharply on the table. “Why are you here? You don't belong. You're too…” He cocked his head, studying her, trying to put his finger on what it was that had bothered him about her all along. “You're too classy. These people are rough, they're a breed all their own. You have other options.”

“Maybe I like it.”

“That's bullshit.”

“Thank you for helping Skye.” She slid out of the booth and crossed to the door. “Good night, Chance.”

He met her eyes but didn't stand. “Skye thinks you're on the run from the mob.”

She caught her breath. “That's ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“She brought me the front page of a newspaper. On it there's this bit about a mobster set to testify day after tomorrow in Philadelphia. She found the newspaper on your bed and put two and two together. Is she right, Claire?”

“No.” She shook her head for emphasis. “Not even close.”

He gazed speculatively at her for a long moment. “Then, what is close?”

“This is none of your business, you know. I'd appreciate it if you left now.”

“It became my business tonight. When you weren't here.”

“I made a mistake, Chance. I shouldn't have left her alone. It won't happen again.” She opened the door. “But thank you for your concern.”

He slid out of the booth and crossed to her. “Skye thinks you're in some sort of trouble. She's thinks you're running from something. Or someone. If not the mob, Claire, who? Skye's father?”

She opened the door wider, then motioned out with her half-f bottle. “I'd like you to leave now.”

“Fine. My pleasure.”

As he moved past her, she caught his arm, stopping him. “I love my daughter, Chance. More than anything. I'd move heaven and earth for her, I'd face the most unspeakable evil to save her. And that's all you need to know.”

Something in her expression told him that she had already faced the unspeakable for her daughter. But that didn't change what had happened tonight. He looked her square in the eye. “I'm sure you do love her, but she thought you either ran away or were taken away. And she was really scared. I think you need to face that. I think you need to deal with it.”

She dropped her hand. “Good night, Chance.”

He took her invitation to leave, turning back to her when he had cleared the stairs. “You know, Claire, Skye doesn't buy what you've told her about her father. She doesn't buy that you pick up and move in the middle of the night because you enjoy it. Frankly, I don't buy it, either.”

T
he weeks slipped by. June became July; the Fourth came and went. The initial days of August brought both blistering heat and, unbelievably, the first tinges of fall's golden hues. Marvel's had traveled from Pennsylvania, through West Virginia, up to Ohio, and was now deep into small-town Indiana. From Indiana, the show would head south, winding its way through the Deep South on its way back to winter quarters in Florida.

Chance planned to be long gone before then. As would Claire and Skye, he knew. The question was, who would be the first to leave.

It didn't really matter; either way, he would miss them.

Over the past weeks, the three of them had become friends, forming a kind of family. Chance supposed sharing that strange, emotion-charged night all those weeks ago had, on some level, connected them, for after that they had slipped into a familial role. They helped each other, they kept each other company, they filled the empty hours between gigs together. Chance took many of his meals with them, and always breakfast, as that was the one meal they all had at the same time during show runs.

Most mornings he would wander over to their trailer on the pretense of saying good morning, and Claire would offer him coffee and eggs. It had gotten to be a kind of joke with them, about how his morning stroll always ended up in a home-cooked meal.

In truth, he liked to check on them in the mornings, just to make sure they had made it through the night, to make sure that one or both of them hadn't disappeared. For, as the weeks had passed, Claire had seemed to become jumpier, more nervous. She had lost weight; her eyes had taken on a hollow, hunted look.

And as those weeks had passed, Chance had come to believe that Skye was right about her mother. She was in some sort of trouble; she and her daughter were on the run from something. Or someone.

He wondered who. He wondered where Claire was from and what had happened to Skye's father. Though when he did, he reminded himself that they, like his stint as a carny, were only temporary. He reminded himself that Marvel's was only a means to an end; their friendship only a way to fill a few hours.

In truth, he was glad he didn't know more about the mother and daughter, glad that Claire didn't offer up personal information the way she did eggs and bacon in the morning. Because then he would feel compelled to share himself with them, then he would feel closer to them.

He preferred his isolation. He preferred some distance. He had never belonged, not anywhere or with anyone. He never wanted to worry about having to say goodbye.

Chance alighted from his trailer and tipped his face to the turbulent gray sky, the early-morning sun obliterated by the approaching storm. The weather forecast called for rain across the entire region for the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours. An extensive line of slow-moving thunderstorms, some possibly severe, was headed their way. The night before, Marvel had told them all to hold on to their butts, it looked like this one was going to be a doozy. For the first time in a decade, he'd ordered an early teardown. Depending on how the weather played out, they would either batten down the hatches and sit tight or pick up and try to outrun the weather.

Either way, the next few hours were going to be a real bitch.

“Chance!” Skye ran toward him, eyes wide. “Did you hear about the weather? A twister touched down in Fulton!” She skidded to a halt, then fell into step with him. “I can't believe it.”

He cut her an amused glance from the corner of his eye. “You're awfully charged up this morning.”

“It's just so exciting! That twister touching down and all.”

“You're right,” he teased, “we could all be killed in the blink of an eye. That
is
exciting.”

Ignoring his sarcasm, she skipped out in front of him. “Do you think Marvel's going to have us haul out early?”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Chance shook his head. “All these trailers on the road? No way. I think we're here for the duration.”

As they walked the rest of the way to her and her mother's trailer, Skye kept up a constant flow of excited chatter. Her mother was making her favorite for breakfast, French toast; she mentioned that damned twister three more times and shared some gossip she'd heard about Len and a girl back in Florida. Then she mentioned that her mother had had a nightmare the night before.

“A nightmare?” he repeated. “What about?”

“I don't know, but she screamed. And when I ran in to check on her, she was all sweaty and out of breath.” Skye pursed her lips. “She has nightmares a lot, but lately…lately they seem to be worse.”

Chance wanted to ask Skye more, but they had arrived at the trailer. They stepped inside just as Claire set a heaping plate of French toast in the middle of the table.

“'Morning,” she said, turning back to the range. “Get it while it's hot. You know where the coffee is.”

Skye didn't need to be told twice; she grabbed a plate, piled on several pieces of toast and drowned them in Aunt Jemima's. Chance took his time. He poured himself a cup of coffee—a taste he had acquired in the past two months—took a seat at the table and filled his plate.

“So,” Claire asked, “what do you think? Are we going today or staying?”

“Skye asked me the same thing.” He poured syrup over his toast. “Staying, I'm certain of it. It would be too dangerous to be on the road.”

“I agree.” Claire sat across from him. “Better safe than sorry.”

She speared a piece of toast with her fork; Chance noticed that her hand shook. He shifted his gaze to her face, and made a sound of concern. She looked like hell.

He told her so, and Claire laid her napkin in her lap. “I'm fine. I just haven't been sleeping well, that's all.”

“I told him about your nightmares,” Skye said around a mouthful of food. “I told him you had one last night.”

“It's no big deal. Really.”

Claire met his eyes, then motioned toward Skye and shook her head. He nodded, understanding that she didn't want to talk in front of Skye.

Twenty minutes later, after sending Skye out for an updated weather report, Claire turned to Chance. “I need a favor.”

“Sure. What's up?”

“I need you to watch Skye for a while. Tonight, after she's gone to sleep.”

“After she's gone to sleep?” he repeated, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. “What's going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Right.”

“No, really. It's nothing, I just—”

He caught her hand and looked down at her nails. They were raw, bitten to the quick. He met her eyes. “You practically jump out of your skin every time someone speaks. You're constantly looking over your shoulder, and you're not sleeping. I don't have to be a fortune-teller to know something's wrong.”

She snatched her hand away. “You're not a fortune-teller.”

“Exactly my point. You want to tell me what's going on? Maybe I can help.”

For a moment he thought she was going to feed him the same line of bullshit she usually did. She opened her mouth, then shut it again. Turning away from him, she crossed to the sink and stared out the small window above it.

“I wish you could help,” she said softly. “But you can't.” She swung to face him. “I have to go into town. I have to make a…phone call, and I…I don't want to leave her alone. Especially with the storm.”

“Why can't you take her with you, Claire? Who're you calling? Skye's father?”

“No!” She shook her head for emphasis. “No.”

“Last time, that night you disappeared, is that where you were? Making a call?” She shifted her gaze, and he had his answer. He held out a hand to her. “I know you're in some sort of trouble, Claire. And I'm pretty sure it has something to do with Skye's father.”

“Well, you're wrong. It has nothing to do with him.” She caught his hands. Hers were like ice. “I need your help. I need you to do this for me. Will you? Yes or no?”

“Claire—”

“Yes or no? It's important, Chance.”

He hesitated, not at all certain he was doing the right thing, then nodded. “What time do you want me here?”