She relaxed, letting out a long breath. Then she gave him a direct, studying stare, as if she were trying to decide whether to trust him or not. Clearing her throat, she said, “Thank you.”
Admiration surfaced in the murky depths of Nick’s impassive soul. He knew how much pride those two words had cost this woman. He admired pride. It had certainly sustained him all these years. Debating his next question, he decided there was no way to dance around this situation. Starting the car again, he carefully maneuvered through the truck stop traffic.
“How’d you wind up…?”
“Homeless, living in my car?”
Her directness surprised him, but then this whole night has been full of surprises.
“If you don’t mind talking about it.”
“My husband died about a year ago.” She hesitated, then added, “Afterward, I found out we didn’t have any money left. No insurance, no savings, nothing. I lost everything.”
Nick glanced over at her as the car cruised farther up the interstate, leaving downtown Shreveport at Line Avenue to head for the secluded privacy of the historic Highland District. Taking her quiet reluctance as a sign of mourning, he cleared his throat slightly, unable to sympathize with her need to mourn; he’d never quite learned how himself. So instead, he concentrated on the fact that she was a single mother. All his protective instincts, something he usually reserved for his sister, surfaced, surprising him. Must be the Christmas spirit. Could I possibly have some redeemable qualities left after all?
“What did you do?” he asked, mystified.
Lifting her head, Myla sighed. “I left Dallas and looked for work. I got a job in Marshall, but the company I worked for closed down. I ran out of money, so we got evicted from our apartment.”
Nick could hear the shame in her voice.
“After that, we just drove around. I looked for work. We stayed in hotels until the little bit of cash I had ran out. That was two weeks ago. We’ve been sleeping in the car, stopping at rest areas to bathe and eat. The kids played or slept while I called about jobs.”
She slumped down in her seat, the defeat covering her body like the cold, hard sleet covering the road.
Then she lifted her head and her shoulders. “I don’t want to resort to going on welfare, but I’ll do it for my children. We might be destitute right now, but this is only temporary. I intend to find work as soon as I can.”
It was Nick’s turn to feel ashamed. He was more than willing to write her a fat check, but he had the funny feeling she’d throw it back in his face. She had enough pride to choke a horse, but how long could she survive on pride? And why should he be so worried that she’d try?
Nick didn’t have time to ponder that question. Minutes later, he pulled the car up a winding drive to a redbrick Georgian-style mansion that shimmered and sparkled with all the connotations of a Norman Rockwell Christmas. Suddenly, the wreaths and candles in the massive windows seemed garish and mocking. He’d told Henny not to put out any Christmas decorations, anyway. Obviously, the elderly housekeeper hadn’t listened to him, not that she ever did.
Now, seeing his opulent home through the eyes of a person who didn’t have a home scared him silly, and caused him to take a good, long hard look at his life-style.
“Man!” Patrick jumped up to lean forward. Straining at his seat belt, he tugged his sleeping sister up. “Look, Jesse. Can you believe this? Santa’s sure to find us here. Mr. Nick, you must be the richest man in the world.”
The woman sitting next to him lowered her head, but she didn’t reprimand her son. Nick saw the pain shattering her face like fragments of ice.
Nick Rudolph, the man some called ruthless and relentless, sat silently looking up at the house he’d lived in all his life. He’d always taken it for granted, his way of life. His parents had provided him and Lydia with the best. And even in death, they’d bequeathed an affluent life-style to their children.
Nick had accepted the life-style, but he hadn’t accepted the obligations and expectations his stern father had pressed on him. When he could no longer live up to those expectations, he’d acted like a rebel without a cause—until he’d seen the truth in his dying father’s eyes.
Everything his father had drilled into him had become a sham. And Joseph, overcome with emotion because he loved his Ruthie too much, had tried to tell Nick it was okay to be vulnerable when it involved someone you loved.
But it had been too late for Nick. He’d learned his lessons well. Now, he guarded his heart much in the same way he watched over Rudolph Oil—with a steely determination that allowed no room for weakness.
Maybe that was why he’d felt so restless lately. Maybe his guilt was starting to wear thin. Though he had it all, something was missing still. Nick had never wanted for anything, until now. All his money couldn’t buy back this woman’s pride or settle her losses. All his wealth seemed a dishonest display compared to her honest humility.
“No, Patrick,” he began, his voice strangely husky, “I’m not the richest man in the world, not by a long shot.”
“Well, you ain’t hurtin’ any,” Patrick noted.
“No, I suppose I’m not,” Nick replied, his eyes seeking those of the woman beside him. “Let’s go inside where it’s warm.”
Opening the car door, he vented his frustration on the expensive machine. He was hurting. And he didn’t understand why. How had the night become a study in contradiction and longing? How had he fallen into such a blue mood? Well, he’d just had an incredibly bad day, that was all. Or was it?
No. It was her—Myla. Myla Howell and her two needy children. He couldn’t solve all the problems of the world, could he? He’d make sure they had a decent place to stay, maybe help her find a job, then go on with his merry life. Things would go back to the way they’d been up until about an hour ago.
And how were things before, Nick? an inner voice questioned.
Normal. Settled. Content.
And lonely.
And that was the gist of the matter.
These three ragamuffins had brought out the loneliness he’d tried to hide for so long. Denying it had been pretty easy up until tonight. But they’d sprung a trap for him, an innocent but clever trap. They’d nabbed him with their earnest needs and unfortunate situation. He’d help them, sure. He certainly wasn’t a coldhearted man.
But he wouldn’t get involved. At all. His formidable father had drilled the rules of business into Nick—no distractions, show no emotions. In the end, however, Joseph Rudolph had forgotten all his own rules. In the end, his own emotions had taken control of his life. Nick had learned from Joseph’s mistake. So now, he let Lydia do the good deeds while he took care of business. It was a nice setup. One he didn’t intend to change.
“I’ll call Lydia. She’ll know what to do,” Nick said minutes later as he flipped on lights and guided them through the house from the three-car garage. A large, well-lit kitchen greeted them as the buzz of the automatic garage door opener shut them snugly in for the night. Nick headed to the cordless phone, intent on finding his sister fast. Then he’d have to call Carolyn and make his excuses. When he only connected with Lydia’s perky answering machine, he left a brief, panicked message. “Lydia, it’s your brother. Call me—soon. I’m at home and I could really use your help.”
We make him uncomfortable, Myla Howell reasoned as she watched the handsome, well-dressed man talking on the phone. She knew she and her children were an inconvenience. When you didn’t have money, or a place to sleep, you became that way.
She’d learned that lesson over the last few months.