Honey Moon (46 page)

"Theoretically."

"I don't have any reason to trust you. I don't even like you."

"No, I don't expect you do."

He said the words so matter-of-factly that she was ashamed. Obviously, he didn't expect anything more from her.

Snatching up her uneaten lunch, she rose from the log and gave him a hostile glare. "All right. You've

got a deal. But you'd better not cross me, or you'll regret it."

He watched her as she stalked away. Big talker, he thought to himself. She was still swinging those fists just as she had when she was a kid. Still daring the world to cross her. And had it ever.

He couldn't tolerate watching her shadowbox with ghosts much longer. And the worst ghost of all was that damned roller coaster. She had said the coaster was about hope, but he had the uneasy sense that

she somehow thought Black Thunder could bring her husband back. He stood and picked up the remnants of his lunch. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to be loved as Honey loved Dash.

Even though he didn't have to be back in L.A. for two weeks his mind screamed at him to leave now. Take himself as far from the grieving Widow Coogan as he could get. That's what he should do. But instead of disengaging himself from her, he had just become even more entangled, and when he asked himself why, he could only come up with one answer.

In some strange way, he felt as if he had just taken a giant step toward finally earning Dash Coogan's respect.

26

Not a single red bow or a sprig of holly decorated the interior of her trailer on Christmas morning. Honey had planned to endure the holiday rather than celebrate it, but when she got out of bed, she couldn't make herself climb into her work clothes for another day of solitary labor.

As she stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, some small shred of vanity poked at her. Dash used to

tell her how pretty she was, but the small face that looked back at her was gaunt and haunted, a street urchin grown old too quickly. She turned away in disgust, but instead of walking out of the bathroom,

she found herself kneeling down to search the tiny storage space below the sink for the hot rollers she

had stuck there when she had moved in, along with her makeup.

An hour later, dressed in a silky turtleneck and pleated trousers of antique rose wool, she finished brushing out her hair. It fell in loose waves to her shoulders and shone like warm honey from the conditioner she had used. Makeup camouflaged the circles under her eyes while mascara thickened her lashes and emphasized her light blue irises. She dusted her cheekbones with blush, slicked on a soft pink lipstick, and fastened the gold crescent moons Dash had given her into her lobes. Her eyes began to sting as she watched one of the moons tangle with a tendril of hair, and she quickly turned away from her reflection in the mirror.

When she reached the trailer's living area, she poured herself a cup of coffee and went to the table next to the couch for the brown envelope she had put there several days earlier. It had a message scrawled across the front in Chantal's childish handwriting. "Do Not Open Until December 25. This Means You!" She tore apart the envelope flap and pulled out a lumpy package wrapped in white tissue paper with a note affixed to the top.

Dear Honey,

Hope you have a Merry Xmas. Me and Gordon like Winston-Salem. We found a place to stay in a real nice trailer park. Gordon likes his job. He said to tell you he's got a present for you, but you won't get it for a while.

I made a friend. Her name is Gloria and she taught me how to croshay.

I'm still thinking you should go back to L.A. I don't think Dash would like what your doing to yourself. I miss you. I hope you like your present.

Love,

Chantal

(and

Gordon

)

P.S. Don't worry. If you go back to L.A., me and Gordon won't come with you.

Honey blinked her eyes and unwrapped the tissue paper. With a shaky smile she drew out the first real present she had received from Chantal since they were children, a hand-crocheted cover for a roll of toilet paper. It was made of neon-blue yarn and ornamented with misshapen yellow loops to represent flowers. She carried it to the bathroom, where she stuffed it with a spare roll and set it in a place of honor on the back of her toilet.

That done, she tried to think of something else to occupy her time. Impulsively, she snatched up a gray wool jacket, grabbed her purse, and headed for her Blazer. She would turn the radio up and take a long drive.

Only Christmas carols were playing on the local stations, so she snapped the radio off before she reached the town limits. The weather was in the high fifties and clear, and she had just decided to drive over to Myrtle Beach to watch the ocean when she spotted Eric's van stopped at a traffic light several blocks ahead of her. She remembered his mysterious disappearances and wondered if he were on his way to meet a woman. The idea made her feel sick.

She wasn't planning to follow him, but when he turned off Palmetto Street, she found herself turning,

too. A number of holiday travelers were on the road, and she didn't have any trouble keeping several car lengths between them. To her surprise, he pulled into the parking lot of Paxawatchie County's major hospital.

She parked her car a few rows over from the van and waited. Several minutes ticked by. Her mind

drifted to Dash, and because that was too painful, she thought about the work that lay ahead before

Black Thunder could once again fly over the tracks.

She returned her attention to the van as the back doors swung open. And a clown stepped out.

He was dressed in a purple shirt tucked into baggy polka-dotted trousers, and his hair was covered by

a frizzy red wig tied with a pirate's scarf. In one hand he held a bundle of multicolored helium balloons,

in the other a plastic trash bag that looked as if it might be stuffed with presents. Just as she decided she had followed the wrong van, the clown tilted his head and she caught a glimpse of a purple star-shaped eye patch. For a moment she felt disoriented.

Eric Dillon had still another face.

Who was he? How many identities did he have? First Dev. Now this. She wanted to drive away, but she couldn't. Without stopping to think about what she was doing, she followed him inside.

He had disappeared by the time she got to the lobby, but it wasn't difficult to find his trail. An elderly woman sat in a wheelchair holding a red balloon. A child with an arm cast held a green one. Further on, she came upon a patient lying on a gurney with an orange balloon floating overhead. But the trail ran out in a back hallway.

She tried to talk herself into leaving, but instead she approached a nurses'

station. "Excuse me. Did you happen to see a clown go by earlier?" The question sounded ridiculous.

The young nurse behind the desk had a sprig of artificial holly stuck in her plastic name tag. "You mean Patches?"

Honey nodded uncertainly. This must not be Eric's first visit to the hospital.

Was this where he came when he disappeared?

"He's probably doing a show for the kids today. Hold on." She picked up her phone, asked a few questions of the person on the other end, then hung up.

"Pediatrics on three. They're starting now."

Honey thanked her and headed for the elevators. As soon as she stepped out onto the third floor, she heard squeals of laughter. She followed the sounds to a lounge at the end of the corridor and stopped.

It took all of her courage to look inside.

A dozen very young children, probably between four and eight years old, were gathered in the cheerfully decorated room. Some wore hospital gowns, others robes. They were black, Asian and white. Several sat in wheelchairs and a few were hooked up to IVs.

Beneath his curly red wig, Eric's face was disguised in clown white. He had one large eyebrow drawn on his forehead, a scarlet mouth, a red circle at the end of his nose, and the purple star-shaped eye patch.

He was concentrating on the children and didn't see her. Fascinated, she watched.

"You are not Santa Claus!" one of the children called out, a small boy in a blue robe.

"Now that's where yer wrong," Eric retorted belligerently. "I got a beard, don't I?" He stroked his smoothly shaven chin.

The children greeted this observation with vigorous shakes of their head and shouts of denial.

He patted his flat waist. "And I got a big fat stomach?"

"No, you don't!"

"And I got a red Santy Claus suit." He plucked at his purple shirt.

"No!"

A long pause fell. Eric looked bewildered. His face puckered as if he were about to cry, and the children laughed harder.

"Then who am I?" he wailed.

"You're Patches!" several of them squealed. "Patches the Pirate!"

His face cracked open in a smile. "That I am!" He pulled at the waistband of his baggy red and purple polka-dot trousers and half a dozen small balloons floated up and out. Then he broke into "Popeye the Sailor Man," substituting the name Patches and performing something close to an Irish jig.

Honey watched in bewilderment. How could a person who was driven by so many private devils set

them aside to perform like this? His accent was a comic mixture of Cockney, Long John Silver, and Popeye's nemesis Bluto. The children were clapping with delight, completely caught up in the enchanted spell he was so effortlessly weaving about them.

As he wound up for his finish, he pulled three rubber balls from his pants pocket and began juggling

them. He was a clumsy juggler, but he was so enthusiastic that the children loved it. And then he saw her.

She froze.

One of the balls slipped from his grasp and bounced across the lounge. Several seconds ticked by as he stared at her, and then he immediately returned his attention to the children.

"I missed it on purpose," he growled, planting his hands on his hips, glaring at them, daring them to contradict him.

"You did not!" a few of them countered. "You dropped it!"

"You all think yer so smart," he glowered. "I'll 'ave you know I was trained in the arts of juggling by Corny the Magnificent 'imself!"

"Who's that?" one of the children asked.

"You never 'eard of Corny the Magnificent?"

They shook their heads.

"Well, then. . . ." He began spinning a magical yarn of jugglers and dragons and a beautiful princess with

a wicked spell cast upon her that had made her forget her name and left her cursed to wander the globe trying to find her home. With facial expression and gesture, he created imaginary pictures so vivid they could have been real.

She had seen what she'd come for, but she couldn't make herself leave. Strands of the snare he had woven about the children entrapped her, and as she listened, it became impossible to remember who existed behind that clown's face. Eric Dillon was dark and damned; this pirate clown exuded a joyous, enchanting charm.

Patches shook his head dolefully. "So beautiful the princess is, and so sad. 'Ow would you like it if you couldn't remember yer name or where you lived?"

"I know my name," one of the bolder little boys called out. "Jeremy Frederick Cooper the third. And I

live in Lamar."

Other children called out their names, and Patches congratulated them on their excellent memories. Then his shoulders hunched forward and he looked doleful. "Poor princess. If only we could 'elp her." He snapped his fingers. "I got me an idea. Maybe all together we can break that wicked spell."

There was a chorus of agreement from the children, and one little girl wearing eyeglasses with clear

plastic frames lifted her hand.

"Patches? How can we help the princess if she's not here?"

"Did I say she wasn't 'ere?" Patches looked befuddled. "Naw, I didn't say that, mate. She's 'ere, all right."

The children began to look around, and Honey felt the first twinge of alarm.

" 'Course she's not wearin' 'er princess clothes," Patches said.

Her palms began to sweat. Surely he wouldn't.. .

"On accounta the fact that she doesn't remember who she is. But she's beautiful just like a princess should be, so it's not 'ard to pick 'er out, now is it?"

A dozen sets of eyes landed on her. She felt as if she had been pinned to the wall like a dead butterfly. She spun toward the door.

"She's leaving!" one of the children called out.

Before she could clear the doorway, a rope dropped over her head and tightened around her waist, pinioning her arms to her side. Stunned, she stared down.

She'd been lassoed.

The children shrieked with laughter while she stared at the lariat, unable to believe what she was seeing. He began to reel her in. The children cheered. She stumbled backward, embarrassment making her even more awkward. How could he do this to her? He knew that she wasn't ready for anything like this.

Her body bumped against his.

"She's shy around strangers," Patches said, beginning to untangle her from his lariat. As soon as he freed her, he threw his arm around her shoulder, ostensibly to give her a hug but, in reality, to pin her to his side. "Don't worry, Princess.

None of these blokes'll 'urt you."

She looked out at the children and then back at him, her expression beseeching.

"Poor princess. Looks like she's lost 'er voice, too." He actually seemed to be teasing her. She wanted to push herself away in outrage, but she couldn't do it with the children watching.

"Where's your crown?" one skeptical little boy with an IV in his arm asked.

She waited for Eric to respond, but he kept silent.

The seconds ticked by.

He looked down at the fingernails on his free hand, then began an elaborate show of inspecting and buffing them while he waited for her to speak.

"Tell us, Princess," the little girl with the eyeglasses said softly.

"I—uh—I don't remember," she finally managed.

"See wot I told you?" Patches snapped one suspender with the hand he'd been buffing. "Memory like a piece a Swiss cheese. Full of 'oles." He sounded smug, and it irritated her.