Читать книгу Home At Last - Deborah Raney - Страница 14

Chapter 6

6

Shayla helped Portia out of the truck and held her hand as they crossed the busy parking lot to the movie theater.

“I gotta go! I gotta go potty!” Portia held herself, wriggling.

Link waved them off. “You take her. I’ll get the tickets. Meet you in front of the restrooms.”

When they came out, he ruffled Portia’s hair. She squealed and ducked out from under his hand, but Shayla could tell she liked it. Liked Link. A thread of caution tugged at her spine.

“Do you want popcorn?” Link asked.

“This girl can’t watch a movie without popcorn,” Shayla said. “But I’ll get it. You want anything?”

He eyed her, then fished in his back pocket for his wallet. “I’m a little old-fashioned, okay? This is a date. I’m buying the popcorn.”

She shrugged, somehow fully relieved of guilt that he was paying for everything. “Portia and I will share.”

He stepped into the line at the concessions counter and herded them close with an arm lightly around each. Despite how much she liked the way it felt, Shayla couldn’t let herself lean in the way she might have if Portia hadn’t been with them. She tried not to resent her niece for that fact. But at the same time, she couldn’t let Portia get too attached to Link Whitman. He might be gone next week. And Portia’d had enough heartbreak. So had she.

While Link ordered their snacks, a group of teenage boys roughhoused in the line next to theirs, punching each other hard in the shoulders, not caring who they bumped into. The ringleader had a tall, yellow-dyed Mohawk, his eyebrow pierced with a silver spike identical to the one in his lip—newly installed, judging by the way he kept working his tongue over it. She turned away, pretending she didn’t see them.

“Man, look how dirty that kid is. That’s what happens when you mix where you shouldn’t mix.”

She wheeled to see the ringleader pointing at Portia. Shayla pulled her close, turning her back to the thug and shielding Portia from their view. It had been a long time—since she was a little girl—but the script hadn’t changed. Mama and Daddy had taught her and Jerry that some people—both black and white—didn’t think races should mix. “That’s like saying tall people shouldn’t marry short people,” Mama had said. “But there’s no accounting for ignorance.”

“Just ignore them,” was Daddy’s mantra.

But sometimes Mama couldn’t seem to resist muttering an argument. Shayla had never understood that like she did now. But she held her tongue, hearing Daddy’s voice louder than Mama’s in her head. It helped that Mohawk weighed probably two hundred pounds.

Link left the concession stand in time to see Mohawk pretend to spit on the carpet near Shay’s feet. She instinctively jumped away, pulling Portia with her.

“What’s going on?” Link thrust two tubs of popcorn at Shayla, shooting her a questioning look.

“It’s nothing.” She started to walk toward the hallway where their movie was showing.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree apparently,” one of Mohawk’s sidekicks muttered.

He was rewarded with guffaws from his buddies.

“A little soap and water might be in order . . .” Mohawk raised his voice. “Don’t you think?”

Shayla pulled Portia closer and tugged on Link’s sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go.”

But he didn’t look at her and instead glared at the gang, his hands in tight fists at his side.

“Come on,” she said, panic rising in her throat.

Ignoring her, Link took a step toward the kid with the Mohawk. “You need to apologize.”

“For what?” he challenged.

“For what you said.”

Mohawk only made himself taller, standing with legs apart, and crossing his arms in front of him like Mr. Clean. He flexed his muscles comically.

“Just forget it, Link.” Shayla shifted the popcorn in her arms and tugged on his shirt sleeve. “It’s not worth it.”

“Apologize,” Link told the kid again.

Mohawk’s buddies flanked him, copying his stance. People were watching now and Shay’s breath came in shallow huffs. This would not end well. “Link, come on.” Her voice rose.

“What’s wrong, Shay?” Portia looked up, her tiny brow furrowed. “What did that guy with the funny hair say?”

“Nothing, sweetie. Come on. Let’s go find our seats.” She couldn’t stay here and let Portia get caught in the middle, but everything in her wanted to scream for Link to let it go.

She hurried away, but before they reached the ticket-taker, she realized Link still had the tickets in his shirt pocket. “Come on, sweetie, we’ll wait over here.” She guided Portia to a spot where she couldn’t see over the concession stand to where Link stood. Shayla could just see the yellow Mohawk quivering and hear their raised voices.

Link glared at the guy. “Does it make you feel like a man to pick on a five-year-old?”

“Wasn’t her I was picking on.” The guy sneered.

“Well, if it was either of those ladies, you owe an apology. And if it was me, you still owe an apology.”

“You gonna make me?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.” He took a step closer, straightening until he was half a head taller than the guy.

Shayla saw fear in the punk’s face. His so-called buddies had slinked away, apparently not willing to defend him. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t help him get even later. She shot up a prayer that Link would just let it go.

Instead, he took another step closer and got in the kid’s face. He lowered his voice, but Shayla could read his lips. “I want to hear an apology.”

“Yeah, and people in hell want ice water.”

“Real original.” Link gripped the guy’s bicep. To a bystander, it could have looked like a friendly grasp, but Mohawk’s expression said otherwise.

Link’s jaw tensed. He spoke through clenched teeth, and Shayla couldn’t hear what he said.

But Mohawk’s eyes widened. He looked at the ground and muttered, “Yeah, whatever.”

“What’s that?” Link said, tightening his grip.

“Sorry.” The guy shrugged and jerked away from Link. “Now get your freakin’ hands off me.”

“Happy to. Enjoy your movie.” Link gave guy’s bicep a pat and walked away.

A minute later, he appeared at Shayla’s side looking pleased with himself. “Okay, let’s go watch a movie.”

“What did you do?”

“I just taught the guy a few manners is all.”

She stopped and put a hand on her hip. “This isn’t funny, Link.”

“I wasn’t laughing.”

“You’re being smug.”

“I kind of think I have a right to be smug.”

“You shouldn’t have gotten involved.”

“I just squeezed an apology out of him is all.”

She scoffed. “Yeah, well, you have that luxury. We don’t.”

He stopped, cocking his head. “What do you mean? We? Who’s we?”

She gave him a look meant to say, “Seriously?” She didn’t think Link was that naive, but maybe he was. Sometimes the nicest people were the most clueless. “You know what?” she finally said. “Let’s just go watch a movie. Forget about it.”

She felt a tug on her jacket and looked down to see Portia’s huge blue eyes looking up at her. “Why did that guy with the crazy hair say I was dirty?”

Shayla felt sick knowing Portia had heard him. She shot Link a look, working to keep the anger from her voice. “He probably just meant because you got your hands dirty. From the popcorn.”

“No, ’cause I didn’t have any popcorn yet.”

Busted. “I know, but . . . Maybe he thought you did.”

“That don’t make no sense.” She gave an exaggerated frown that made Shayla and Link both laugh.

But you couldn’t pull anything over on this little girl. Shayla herded Portia closer to the fancy-wallpapered wall of the corridor and squatted down in front of her. She felt Link behind her. “Don’t you worry about anything that guy said, baby. He’s just a dumb teenager who doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Come on. Let’s go see our movie!” She forced false cheer into her voice.

The film—even though the theater was full of noisy kids—was an entertaining one, and Portia was glued to the screen, seeming to have forgotten all about the disgusting creature with the Mohawk. But Shayla felt Link’s eyes on her more than once during the movie.

After the feel-good ending, Shayla could almost forget what had happened earlier. At least until Portia said she wanted to go to the bathroom.

“Again?” she said. “The movie was only an hour and a half long.”

“I don’t gotta pee. I wanna wash my hands.”

“You can wash them when we get home.”

“No, they’re dirty. I need to wash them now.”

It struck Shayla then what was going on. She didn’t really want to press it in front of Link, but she didn’t want to let it go for Portia’s sake either. “Why do you need to wash your hands, sweetie?”

Portia held her hands out and inspected them, turning them over to reveal her pale colored palms. “I just do. They’re dirty. ’Cause of the popcorn.”

Shayla looked up at Link and motioned for him to give them a moment. He took a step back and watched people streaming in for the next showing. But she got the distinct impression that he was listening to her and Portia.

She knelt in front of her niece. “We can go wash your hands if you want to, but they are perfectly fine. They aren’t dirty and they never were. Well, except maybe that time you played in the mud with Josie.”

That earned her the giggle she’d been going for.

“Maybe I can wait till we get home,” Portia said.

“Good plan.” She rose and touched Link’s shoulder. “Okay. We’re ready.”

Portia skipped ahead of them, singing a song from the movie.

“Everything okay?” Link’s brow wrinkled with genuine concern. “What did I miss?”

She gave him a short version of the exchange, not sure if he’d heard everything that had transpired before he picked a fight with the yellow-haired kid and his gang. “She wanted to go wash her hands.”

“Oh, man. That loser,” Link said under his breath.

“So what really happened? Earlier. What did you say to him?”

“I just told him he needed to grow up. And to pick on somebody his own size . . . if he could find a Neanderthal anywhere in the county.”

“You didn’t?” She held her breath.

“Well, I might not have said that last part loud enough for him to hear. But he got the picture.”

She rolled her eyes. “Well, I appreciate the thought, but I really wish you would have just let things be. We don’t need any trouble.”

He straightened and lifted his chin, and she could almost see his defenses rise. He opened his mouth but just as quickly closed it as if deciding better of what he’d been going to say. “You hungry?” he said instead.

“Sure.”

Portia was waiting for them by the door. Two clean-cut black teens slammed through the doors nearly knocking her over.

One of them stuck out a hand to keep her from falling, but looking embarrassed, he yelled at Portia. “Hey, move it, kid! Not a good place to stand.”

Shayla hurried to her, looking daggers at the kid.

He ducked his head and rushed away.

But Portia just shook her head matter-of-factly. “It’s okay. He’s just a dumb teenager who doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Shayla looked at Link and they both lost it. They laughed all the way to Link’s truck with Portia asking over and over, “What’s so funny?” Which only made them laugh harder.

***

Link sat at a table in the back of the bakery, listening to murmurs and giggles drifting down from upstairs. Shayla was tucking Portia into bed. It sounded like they had a routine a lot like his sisters’ kids—brushing teeth, reading stories, saying prayers. He had to keep reminding himself that Portia wasn’t Shayla’s daughter.

He heard one last round of goodnights, then saw the light at the top of the stairway click off, and Shayla came trotting down the stairs.

“Whew. She’s down.” She slumped into the chair across from him. “You want something to eat?”

He patted his belly. “No way. I’m still stuffed.” They’d gone for burgers at Culver’s after the movie and he’d overdone it with a large chocolate shake.

“Something to drink? Coffee?”

“Maybe some water.”

“Sure.” She scooted the chair back and went to the sink behind the pastry counter.

“Thanks,” he said, when she set glasses of ice water on the table. “Hey, I’m sorry about that jerk at the theater.”

She shook her head. “There’s one born every minute. You learn to ignore them.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe you ought to let him have it.”

“Oh, yeah. That would go over real well.”

“Because you’re a girl?” Or because you’re a black girl? The question hung between them, unspoken.

Shayla answered it anyway. “Not just because I’m a girl. Besides, how would that help Portia if I’m always walking around with a big ol’ chip on my shoulder? She doesn’t need to go through her whole life expecting the worst of people.”

“Even when people are at their worst?”

“Those kind of people don’t deserve one moment of my attention or emotion. And for sure not a moment of Portia’s. There’re always going to be people like that in the world. Doesn’t mean we have to let them ruin ours.”

“Well, you’re a bigger man than I am.”

“Excuse me?”

He grinned. “You know what I mean. Anyway, despite that yellow-headed idiot, I had fun tonight.”

She nodded. “Me too. And thank you. For including Portia.”

He shook his head. “She’s a character.”

Shayla giggled. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Do you know . . . how long you’ll have her?” As soon as the words were out, he knew it sounded like he was trying to gauge when Shayla would be rid of the “brat.” He hadn’t meant it like that at all. “You said her parents aren’t in the picture? You mean . . . like ever?”

She took a long drink of water. “I don’t know about ever but not for a long time.” She eyed him, as if she were trying to decide whether she could trust him. “My brother’s in jail. Prison. Eight years before he’ll be eligible for parole. Drugs. He’s not exactly father material. At least not now.”

“I’m sorry. That’s got to be hard.”

She shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“What about Portia’s mother?”

“She passed away.”

“Really?” Link knew his face showed his shock, but he was curious why Shayla hadn’t said anything before. That seemed like the kind of thing you didn’t just forget to mention. “I’m so sorry. That’s got to be tough. Portia seems really . . . well-adjusted. I wouldn’t have expected that.” He felt like he was saying all the wrong things.

But Shayla didn’t blanch. “Daddy and I have tried to keep things stable in her life.”

“Of course. I didn’t mean—”

She waved him off. “I know. It’s an awkward situation. People don’t know what to say.”

“It’s not that.” He hesitated and hoped he’d managed to look sheepish. “Well, I guess it is that.” He held up a hand. “I’m really not meaning to be nosy. I just wondered.”

“She’s probably going to be part of our lives—my dad’s and mine—for a long time. I don’t blame you if that scares you off. You wouldn’t be the first.”

Did it scare him? If he was honest, yes. A little. He’d had enough experience with nieces and nephews that he wasn’t uncomfortable around kids. He wanted kids of his own someday. He hadn’t really considered that he might get them “ready-made.” He released a sigh. “I’m still thinking about that, I guess. Just trying to be honest.”

“I get that.”

Except he wanted to ask her out again. He knew that. “Do I have to decide before you’ll go out with me again? I’d really like to ask you out again.” He was diving into the deep end. Sink or swim.

She tilted her head in that winsome way she had. “I don’t suppose you’d be content to just be a friend for a while?”

“Is this your way of saying you like me but . . . not in that way?” The disappointment hurt more than he expected.

But her smile gave him quick relief. “No. I’m not saying that. I’m saying—” She pushed her chair back from the table and grabbed a bar rag from the bakery counter. She rubbed it in circles on the table until Link thought the finish might come off. Finally, she straightened and looked at him hard, a nervous half-grin on her lips. “Why are we having this conversation? Tonight was only our first date. Can’t we just take it one step at a time?”

He shrugged. “Hey, that’s all I’m asking for—the next step. Will you go out with me next week?”

She scrubbed the table with a vengeance. “Let me see if I can find a sitter for Portia. Are you thinking Sunday night again?”

“You can bring her if you want.”

“You don’t understand. If we take her out with us again”—she motioned between them—“then it’s a ‘thing’ with her. And if we never see you again after that . . .”

“Okay. I get that. You’ll let me know? If you can get a sitter?”

“Can I text you?”

He shrugged. “Sure. You have my number?”

She nodded.

He rose. “How about next Saturday night? Does that work for you?”

“Unless you want to do breakfast. Like really early breakfast.”

“Saturday?”

“Any day.”

He grinned. “I figured you got free breakfast here.” He eyed the case of pastries. “Man, if I lived here, I’d never eat anywhere else.”

“Yeah, and you’d weigh four hundred pounds.”

“At least.” He wanted to see her again. Soon. “How about I’ll come by some day this week and we’ll figure out a time then.”

“It’s a free country.” But her smile said she wouldn’t mind if he did.