Together always (8 page)

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 slept 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, something 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."

*'Men don't cry."

"One of the biggest lies around." Mike reached for a pipe and began to tamp it full of tobacco. "Men hurt the same as women."

Trace looked uneasy. "You don't think I'm a... a sissy or something?"

Mike's snort of laughter held an undercurrent of some emotion Trace couldn't identify. He continued to tamp tobacco into the pipe, taking neat little pinches, his movements calm.

"I think you're about as far from a sissy as it's possible to get. You've taken on responsibilities men twice your age would have hesitated to tackle. You got Lily out of a bad situation and you kept her safe. You've got guts. I tell you what, when I was on the force, I'd have been proud to have you for a partner."

Trace flushed, his shoulders straightening. He'd known Mike Lonigan long enough to know that he couldn't have been paid a higher compliment.

Mike lit his pipe and the sharp woodsy scent of the tobacco drifted in the air. The fire hissed as rain found its way down the chimney and evaporated in the flames. They sat in silence for a long time, listening to the rain and watching the sparkle of lights on the Christmas tree.

Mike couldn't have said how much time had passed when he looked over to find that Trace had fallen asleep, his head propped in the comer of the sofa, his long body twisted in an impossible angle.

If he narrowed his eyes, Mike could almost imagine it was Michael. There'd been some good times between the two of them. But not enough, not near enough. He'd pushed too hard and hstened too seldom. And he'd paid for it.

He looked at the Christmas tree, narrowing his eyes against a burning sensation. He hadn't had a tree since Michael left home. The hoHdays had been just a time to get through since then. He'd missed them, missed the excitement, the fun. He might have taken two kids off the street but they'd given him far more than he could ever give them. Life. He felt alive again. He had something to look forward to. He wanted to see Lily grow up, wanted to see Trace fulfill all the potential he saw in the boy.

But he'd learned his lesson too late to salvage his relationship with his own son. He wasn't going to push Trace the way he'd pushed Michael. He'd let the boy make his own choices, his own decisions. Not everyone was given a second chance. He'd been blessed and he was going to handle this blessing with care.

He nodded, the pipe clamped between his teeth. As for the three of them, they were going to be the salvation of one another. He had the feeling life was going to go nowhere but up from here on out.

Dear Mom, I hope you are well. Lily and I are just fine. The weather here has been warm for the last week or so but it's been a wet winter overall. I guess the farmers can use the rain.

Trace stopped, his fingers tightening on the pen, his brows hooking into a frown. So far the letter sounded as if he were writing to a total stranger. But then, wasn't that exactly what Addie was? He hadn't seen her in eight years. But she was his mother.

Thanks for the birthday card. I'll try to send you a picture when I get a chance, though I don't look much different at twenty-four than I did when I left home. Lily is the one who's changed. She's ahnost seventeen now and very beautiful. She doesn't date much, which is probably just as well. Mike is very protective of her.

Mike wasn't the only one. Trace reached for his coffee, nursing it between his palms while he stared at the photo of Lily that sat on one corner of the table that served as both desk and dining room in the small apartment. It was just a school picture, one of hundreds the photographer had taken

that day, but the beauty of the subject lifted it out of the ordinary.

Lily's eyes looked out at him, a deep green that seemed to hold so many secrets. He picked up the photo. There was a spring dance at her school the end of the week. Lily had modeled her dress for him when he saw her last weekend and Mike wasn't the only one who'd been struck by the way she seemed to have grown up overnight.