“Somebody ought to take you down a notch,” Butch sneered.
Marie saw that Mick and his dark-haired friend had seen it all. Mick made an okay sign and grinned at her as she came to their table. “Way to go, slugger,” he said.
The dark man simply stared at her with a strange intensity. He said, “We both saw what he did. Do you want us to report it? He was completely out of line.”
He looked genuinely concerned, but she said, “No thanks. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?” he asked, looking into her eyes.
“Positive,” she said. And she was positive. She had a green belt in karate, and someday she intended to work her way up to black. Colette had insisted she take classes. Darwin had its rough elements, and Marie was so small that Colette wanted her to know how to protect herself.
But physical toughness wasn’t going to get her through this latest crisis. Colette’s illness demanded a different kind of strength, and she wasn’t sure how much she had left.
And as the work night wore on, she wondered more and more about the contents of Colette’s mysterious envelope. Why’d she give it to me now? What did she mean, it’s time?
Her uneasiness grew.
Andrew and Mick lingered, nursing their drinks until closing time. They had much to talk about, and in the back of Andrew’s mind, he worried about that small blond woman who might be too spunky for her own good.
Sure enough, just as he and Mick were back in Mick’s Jeep, about to pull away, he saw two women dash through the mist toward an older model car. One of them was the little blonde, her head down. The rangy busboy stepped from the shadows and blocked their way. He looked as if he might have helped himself to a drink or two at the bar. He grabbed the blonde’s arm, scowling, hectoring her.
The dark-haired woman looked frightened, the little blonde seemed incensed. Mick started to say something, but Andrew didn’t hear it. He was out of the Jeep, and in six strides he was between the busboy and the blonde. “Look,” Andrew said from between his teeth, “leave the lady alone. You want to pick on somebody, try somebody your own size. Will I do? Huh? Will I?”
The rangy kid swore, but after casting Andrew a filthy look, he turned and quickly sloshed off into the shadows, kicking angrily at puddles. The dark-haired woman was already in the car.
“Get in, Marie,” she called. “Before he comes back.”
“I’ll stay until you’re out of the lot—and watch that nobody follows you,” Andrew said, looking down at Marie. “You have a cell phone in case you need one?”
She stared up at him, her face pale in the parking lot lights. Her pale skin gleamed with moisture from the night’s haze. My God, he thought, she’s lovely.
“A mobile?” she asked. “Yes. Yes, I do. I’ll be fine. Really, I—I can take care of myself. I—I—”
She amazed him by beginning to shake. Not just a slight tremor, but a real shaking, like someone shivering from intolerable cold.
He seized her upper arms in concern. He could feel her muscles jerking beneath her raincoat’s thin fabric. Her lower lip worked helplessly, her chin trembled, and he couldn’t tell if her eyes were moist from tears or from the fine rain.
“Are you okay?” he demanded, leaning nearer.
“Y-y-you’ve been very kind, b-b-but—” She couldn’t seem to get any more words out. He slipped one arm around her, afraid her knees were about to buckle.
“Miss, I’m going to tell your manager about this incident. And if that fool harasses you again, call the police. I mean it.”
She tried to disengage herself, but when she took a step backward, she swayed, as if she couldn’t quite support herself. Instead, she sagged forward, clutching the lapels of his rain jacket. She buried her face against his chest. Her back heaved as if she were sobbing silently.
But only for the briefest of moments. Then, as if by sheer willpower, she righted herself again, drew back and looked him in the eye. “I’m terribly sorry. It’s not him.” She nodded in the direction the busboy had fled. “I’m absolutely okay. Just some—an illness in the family. I’m terribly embarrassed. I apologize. And thank you again. But I’m fine.”
Before he knew it, she’d slipped from his grasp, opened the passenger door, and was sliding into the car beside her friend. She smiled at him, and there was something in that smile that nearly broke his heart.
The car drove off, and he stood in the mist, looking after the disappearing taillights.
Chapter Two
The rain started to drizzle harder as Marie and Izzy left the parking lot. It was just after midnight. Izzy stopped at a light and said, “What was that all about?”
“Butch groped me again,” Marie said in a flat, no-nonsense voice. “I stomped on his foot. That’s why he came after me in the parking lot. Mick and that other man saw it happen. They must have realized Butch wanted to get even.”
“So that handsome guy comes to your rescue?” Izzy asked. “God, I wish Butch’d pinch me so I could stomp on him.”
Marie said nothing, just sat lower in the seat.
Izzy cast her a sideways glance. “That handsome guy? He was watching you tonight.”
“I didn’t notice,” Marie said. And she hadn’t.
“Not notice? How could you not notice? He’s been in the papers, on the telly.”
“I don’t have time for the papers or telly,” Marie murmured, gazing out at the darkness.
“He’s a high muckety-muck in horse racing. American. He’s going to run for some horse-thingy president. Against Jacko Bullock.”
“Uck.” Marie shuddered. Bullock turned up several times a year at the Scepter during the racing season. She thought he looked like and acted like a pig. “Bullock’s nasty. He’s worse than Butch any day. He propositioned me right at the table one night, in front of three other men. I almost poured his drink on his head. I’d have loved to.”
“Well, he’s powerful,” Izzy said. “He’ll gobble that poor Yank up and spit out his bones.”
“Sad but true. The Yank seemed like a nice fellow.” He had, she thought vaguely. An extremely nice fellow.
“I guess,” Izzy rejoined with heavy irony. “And that’s why you ended up in his arms? I thought he was going to plant a big smoochie on you.”
Marie shrugged irritably. “Look, I went wobbly. I had a bad day.”
“Oh, chook,” Izzy said. “I’m sorry. Is it your mom?”
“Yes,” Marie said, her throat tight. “But I don’t want to talk about it.”
And Izzy, who had a kind and sensitive heart, asked no more.
But at home, Marie had to think about her mother. She could think of nothing else. She took Colette’s envelope, sat on the edge of the bed and forced her hands to stay steady as she opened the flap.
She unfolded a sheet of paper, a letter. It was dated just over two years ago and signed “Willadene Gates.” It began:
My Dear Miss Colette Lafayette,
Thank you for writing me, for I think I can answer your questions, as years ago when I was not yet 17 yrs. of age I become an attendant at a home for unwed mothers.
A high-priced place,