Someone To Believe In (45 page)

He didn’t look convinced.

“I also wanted to say good-bye.”

“Good-bye? You’re still going ahead with
Guardian, aren’t you?” Suze asked with uncharacteristic emotion in
her voice. “You’re going to retire the Street Angel and run the
shelter.”

“No, I’m done with any kind of gang
intervention.”

“That wasn’t the plan, Bay.”

“I know. That was before...” She looked
around. “I didn’t do such a good job anyway, Suze.”

Amid protests, she went to her office to
clean out her things. The others got back to work and Suze left.
Father Tim, however, appeared at her doorway. “Need some help? You
shouldn’t be lifting anything.”

“That would be great.” She nodded to her
bookshelf. “Those books need to be packed and addressed. I’m having
everything shipped to Clay’s house.”

“It’s not your house, too?”

“No.”

Carefully she put pictures in the
boxes. There was one of her and Suze when they opened ESCAPE. Rob
and Joe when they joined the organization. On the walls were matted
and framed posters of bits of letters they’d received from gang
kids who’d they’d gotten out and were now living productive lives.
She bit her lip at some of the messages:
I
couldn’t have done it without you...You saved my life...I have a
daughter now because of you guys...

She coughed to clear her throat of the
emotion and left the posters where they were. Instead she packed
pens, notebooks, personal pictures.

As they worked, Tim said, “You can talk to me
about it. I won’t tell anybody.”

Looking over at him, she shook her head.
“There’s not much to say.”

“Except that you lied to Rob and Joe.” His
gaze was knowing and full of compassion.

She tried to slough it off. “You can hear my
confession.”

“Talk to me.”

Taking in a deep breath, she continued to
pack. “I had to protect Clay.”

“And defend him like a supportive wife.”

“I meant what I said about this marriage not
being made in heaven.”

“I know you did.”

She shrugged. “He betrayed my trust.”

“To protect you.”

A big metal dish she used for candy clattered
to the floor. She sank onto her chair and scrubbed her hands over
her face. “He’s so used to being in control, Tim. He says he’ll let
me do my own thing, then when push comes to shove, he takes over.
With disastrous results, this time.”

Tim crossed the room and knelt down in front
of her. He took her hands. “This is a problem that can be worked
out.”

“Not necessarily.”

“If you love him enough.”

Bailey couldn’t answer.

“You took vows, in good times and bad times.
That’s important to remember.”

“Are you telling me to stay with my
husband—like a good Catholic priest?”

“I’m telling you to follow your heart and
work out your problems—like a friend would.”

“I love him, so much. I want to get past all
this.”

He kissed her forehead. “Let’s get coffee.
Talk this out.”

“All right. Then I have somewhere else to
go.” She stared at him. “Could you come with me?”

“To hell and back, if you need me.”

“Well, this place is close.”

BECAUSE SHE WAS sixteen and had confessed to
a crime for a plea down, Mazie Lennon was in Lancaster State Prison
on the outskirts of New York. Because it was the night before
Thanksgiving, and Bailey was with a priest, out of curiosity the
guard told them, Mazie agreed to see them.

Bailey sat in the visitors’ room, forcing
herself not to react. But the smell of sweat and desperation, the
clanking of bars, and the occasional bark of a guard, catapulted
her back to her own days in prison.

Finally, a blond girl was led into the area;
she swaggered over to a chair behind a plastic shield, her orange
coveralls revealing a tall lanky build. So this was Mazie Lennon.
Bailey got up and went to sit across from her, on the other side of
the shield. Up close, Bailey could see several piercings, and an
all-too-familiar look on her face. It was one the hard-core
inmates had worn when Bailey was in prison. “Who the fuck are
you?” the girl asked with a sneer.

“I’m the Street Angel.”

Mazie threw back her head and laughed—an
ugly, maniacal sound. “Looks like I got the last laugh, don’t it,
chickie?”

“You think killing Taz was funny?” Even
Bailey, used to the amoral nature of gang kids, was stunned.

“Yeah, it was a blast. You shoulda seen her
choking down the barrel of my gun.” She tossed back her hair,
snapped her gum. “‘Course she wasn’t so pretty after I got through
with her.”

Bailey felt her stomach churn. “I have a
question to ask.”

“Why’d I do it?”

“No, I know the answer to that one.”

Pressing her hands against the glass, Mazie
got as close as she could. “Good. Pass it along to your buddies.
Nobody gets out of a gang.”

“I want to know why she came back? Did she
tell you?”

“Who the fuck cares? She never was no
Einstein. And she always had a stupid soft streak. She had to know
I was gunnin’ for her.” She laughed at her pun.

Bailey shook her head. “I just don’t get
it.”

“What’s there to get? You lost, lady. You
ain’t gonna get nowhere with your outfit. Gangs are family and we
stay together.”

“Or you kill each other.”

“Damn straight.”

“How could you murder a part of your family?”
Bailey choked on her words and tears burned her eyes. “How could
you murder your friend?”

“You don’t turn on your homies, plain and
simple.”

“I see.”

“And it’s your fault, sister, for tryin’ to
get her out.”

Bailey stared hard at the girl before her.
Her eyes were crazed, her face contorted with the purest hate
Bailey had ever seen. “No, Mazie, it wasn’t my fault.” Or Clay’s,
she realized with meteoric impact. “It was yours. You pulled the
trigger.”

Mazie leaped up and started pounding on the
glass and yelling. “You fuckin’ cunt. It’s your fault. You and that
goddamn ESCAPE.” She used other expletives that resounded in the
near-empty visiting area.

Father Tim came running from across the room
where he’d been watching Bailey, and the guard went for Mazie. When
she was restrained, she yelled, “Go away, Angel.”

Bailey backed up but nailed Mazie with
a hard glare. “I will. One thing, though, Mazie; think about this.
You
do
get out of a gang.
Either organizations like ESCAPE can help you leave safely, or you
can end up here, without your posse. Taz chose the first way, but
you wouldn’t let her go. Ironically,
that
got you out of the gang.”

CLAY SAT IN the rocker, holding a sleeping
Rory to his chest when the front door opened. Bailey was late
getting home, but there had been a message on the machine saying
she’d been held up.

“Hi,” she said coming into the foyer. She
nodded to her son. “What’s going on?”

“He got sick at the zoo.” Clay kissed his
head, smelling the shampoo and soap from the bath they’d managed to
wrangle him into. “Poor little guy.”

“Oh, dear. Did he throw up?”

“All over Jon.”

“No.”

“I think my son got carried away with having
a little brother. Gave him too much junk when I was on my cell
phone.”

“I’m sorry.” She crossed to them and smoothed
down Rory’s hair. Up close, he could see the fatigue in her eyes
and a slump to her usually sturdy shoulders.

“You look tired.”

“I am.”

He waited. He wouldn’t ask about her day. He
suspected she went to ESCAPE, but she had to tell him things on her
own. He was done pushing. “Did you eat?”

“Uh-huh. With Father Tim. At a diner.”

“Good.” He rubbed Rory’s back. “I hope he’s
all right for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow.”

“He will be. This kind of thing just wears
him out. It’s happened before.” She looked around. “Where’s
Jon?”

“Spending the night at his mother’s. She’s
pissed as hell he’s not going to be at her house for dinner
tomorrow.”

“Just wait until he experiences an O’Neil
Thanksgiving. He’ll wish he was with Karen.”

“I highly doubt it.” Clay stood, holding
tight to Rory. “I’ll put him down.”

“Want me to fix you a drink?”

“That’d be nice. I’d like a shower, too. I’m
a little worse for wear.”

“Go on up. Put him to bed.” She cocked her
head at him. “Thanks for taking such good care of him, Clay.”

“I’d do anything for Rory.” He leaned over,
and still holding her son, kissed her nose. “And for you.”

Reaching out, she grasped on to Clay’s
shoulders, though it was awkward with Rory between them. “That got
us into this situation, didn’t it?”

“I guess.”

He took Rory upstairs, put him down, and sat
on the side of the bed for a moment. He wondered if this was the
last Thanksgiving he’d spend with the boy—and his mother—or the
first. A situation which, he knew now, was out of his control. He’d
learned, through this whole ordeal, that a lot of things were
beyond his power to make happen, no matter how hard he fought to
orchestrate everything. “I love you, champ.”

Rory stirred, but stayed asleep. Clay got up,
crossed to his room, and went directly to the bathroom and turned
on the shower. He stripped off his jeans and sweatshirt and stepped
into scalding water. It should be cold, he guessed, given his
body’s reaction to his wife. When she’d leaned over, her shirt
gaped a bit to reveal the top of breasts swelling with her
pregnancy, and he’d gotten stunningly hard. Bracing his hands on
the tile, he glanced down. He probably should take care of this
himself, before he saw her again, but he didn’t want to. “Damn it,”
he said to his pecker. “I want my wife to take care of you.”

He sighed and turned the faucet to cold. But
it was more than sex he wanted from his wife. He wanted her
commitment to him, and her trust. She had to believe in him. Maybe
it would come and maybe it wouldn’t. Tonight, he didn’t feel
particularly hopeful. Over the past week, she’d become more
independent, more sure of herself. She’d been kind and polite to
him, but only when she was sleepy did she turn to him.

Her brothers, on the other hand, were
downright friendly. They even teased him now about getting movie
stars’ addresses. And they joked about forming a support group for
overprotective men, with him and Paddy heading the pack. Funny, the
turnaround. Problem was, like Rory, if he lost Bailey now, he’d
lose her brothers, too.

Stepping out of the shower, Clay dried off,
then wrapped a towel around his waist. In deference to having
Bailey and Rory here, he slept in boxers. He headed to his room to
drag some on.

And stopped dead in his tracks. He swallowed
hard as he stared across the room.

“Here’s your scotch,” Bailey said. From his
bed. With his sheets wrapped around her. Wearing nothing else, from
the looks of it.

“My what?”

“Your drink.” She shook back unbound hair
that splayed everywhere. Its darkness against her creamy shoulders
sent streaks of lust through him. So much for a cold shower.

“What are you doing, honey?”

Lifting her chin, she met his gaze
unflinchingly. “Waiting for my husband to make love to me.”

He felt his eyes sting. “Why?”

“Didn’t you know that pregnant women want to
make love twice, maybe three times as often as those who
aren’t?”

God, his body didn’t need to hear that. “Uh,
no, I didn’t know those exact statistics.”

She lazed back into the pillows. “Come get
your drink, Senator.” And then—holy mother of God—she tipped the
glass and poured some of the liquid onto her chest.

He groaned out loud, and crossed to her.

Setting the glass on the sideboard, she took
his hand and tugged him down. He sat on the edge of the mattress.
She cupped his neck and pulled him to her chest. She smelled like
the liquor. He nosed into her, but drew back. “Bailey, love,
what...” He had to take a breath. “What does this mean? Is it just
sex?”

“Nope. Been there, done that.” She grasped
his hand and brought it to her heart. “It means I want to be your
wife, in every sense of the word. It means I’m staying with you,
and working out our differences. It means Rory can call you Daddy,
Jon can have his room back, and my brothers get to pick on you the
rest of your life.”

He was speechless, stunned, mystified.
Finally he managed to say, “I’ll try, Bailey, really I will, to
let you run your life.”

“You’d better, big guy. Or there’ll be lots
and lots of those fireworks Sellers asked about.” She gave him a
sexy grin. “But lots of the other kind, too.”

“Sounds good to me.” He frowned. “Tell me
what brought this on.”

She sighed. “I went to see Mazie Lennon today
at Lancaster State Prison.”

“You
what
?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Okay, but honey,
Lancaster
?”

“I asked Father Tim to go with me. See, I can
be circumspect.”

“What happened with Mazie? Why’d you even
go?”

“I don’t know exactly. I had to see her and
ask her about Taz.”

His heart constricted. “Did she say it was my
fault?”

“No, she said it was mine.”

“It’s not.”

“I realize that, Clay. And it isn’t yours,
either. It was Mazie Lennon’s fault that Taz died. And Taz’s, too,
for trusting a brutal, amoral, violent young girl.” She kissed his
hand.

He drew in a deep breath. “I guess you’re
right.” He watched her. “And for the other?”

“The other?”

“Trusting me.”

Her face sobered. “We’ll work on that. Father
Tim says we’ll build up the trust little by little by working
together to solve our problems and compromising. We’ll probably
fight, but...” She grinned, a mischievous sexy grin that belonged
to the Bailey he first met and fell in love with. “...we can spend
a lot of time making up.”