“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-full 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.”
Chapter Thirteen
The 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