Night Moves : Dream Man/After the Night Read online

  Unfortunately, Monica was home for good, too, and was as spiteful as ever. Everyone else was merely contemptuous; Monica actively hated anyone with the name of Devlin. Faith couldn’t blame her, though, and sometimes even sympathized with her. No one had ever said that Guy Rouillard wasn’t a good father; he loved both of his children, and they loved him. How did Monica feel, hearing people talk about Guy’s long-standing arrangement with Renee, knowing that he was openly unfaithful to her mother?

  When she was younger, Faith had daydreamed that Guy was her father too; Amos was nowhere in the picture. Guy was tall and dark and exciting, his lean face so much like Gray’s that, no matter what, she couldn’t hate him. He had always been kind to her, to all Renee’s kids, but he had sometimes gone out of his way to speak to Faith and had once or twice bought her a small treat. It was probably because she looked like Renee, Faith thought. If Guy had been her father, then Gray would be her brother, and she would be able to worship him up close, live in the same house with him. Those daydreams had always made her feel guilty about Pa, and then she would try to be extra nice to him to make up for it. Lately, however, she was fiercely glad that Guy wasn’t her father, because now she didn’t want Gray to be her brother.

  She wanted to marry him.

  This most private of her daydreams was so shocking that sometimes it startled her, that she would dare to even dream so high. A Rouillard, marry a Devlin? A Devlin set foot in that hundred-year-old mansion? All the Rouillard ancestors would rise up from their graves to drive out the intruder. The parish would be aghast.

  But still she dreamed. She dreamed of being dressed in white, of walking down the wide aisle of the church with Gray waiting for her at the altar, turning to watch her with those heavy-lidded dark eyes, the expression in them hot and wanting, and just for her. She dreamed of him sweeping her up in his arms and carrying her over the threshold—not at Rouillard House, she couldn’t imagine that, but somewhere else that was theirs alone, maybe a honeymoon cottage—to a big bed that awaited them. She imagined lying under him, her legs around him as she had seen Lindsey’s, imagined him moving, heard his seductive voice whispering French love words in her ear. She knew what men and women did together, knew where he would put his thing, even though she couldn’t imagine how it would feel. Jodie said that it felt wonderful, the best thing in the world . . .

  Scottie gave a sharp cry, jerking Faith from her daydream. She dropped the potato she had been dicing and jumped to her feet, because Scottie didn’t cry unless he was hurt. He was still standing at the screen, holding his finger. Faith picked him up and carried him to the table, where she sat down with him on her lap and examined his hand. There was a small, deep scratch on the tip of his index finger; probably he had raked his hand across a hole in the screen, and the torn wire had dug into his skin. A single drop of blood had welled in the tiny wound.

  “There, there, it’s all right,” she soothed, hugging him and wiping away his tears. “I’ll put a Band-Aid on it and it’ll get well. You like Band-Aids.”

  He did. Whenever he had a scrape that needed bandaging, she ended up plastering the things over his arms and legs, because he would keep nudging her until all the Band-Aids in the box had been used. She had learned to take most of the bandage strips out of the box and hide them, so that only two or three were there for him to see.

  She washed his finger and got the box down from the top shelf, where it was kept to keep him out of it. His round little face was glowing with delight and anticipation as he held out his stubby finger. Making a big production out of it, Faith applied the bandage to the wound.

  He leaned forward and peered into the open box, then grunted as he held out his other hand.

  “Is that one hurt, too? Poor hand!” She kissed the grubby little paw and applied a bandage to the back of it.

  He leaned over and looked into the box again, and grinned as he held up his right leg.

  “My goodness! You’re hurt all over!” she exclaimed, and bandaged his knee.

  He checked the box again, but it was now empty. Satisfied, he trotted back to the door, and Faith returned to fixing supper.

  With the long summer days, it was just twilight at eight-thirty, but by eight that evening Scottie was already tired and nodding off. Faith gave him a bath and put him to bed, her heart squeezing painfully as she stroked his hair. He was such a sweet little boy, oblivious to the health problems that would keep him from living to adulthood.

  At nine-thirty she heard Amos driving up, his old truck clanking and backfiring. She went to unlatch the screen and let him in. The stink of whiskey came in with him, a purulent, greenish yellow stench.

  He stumbled over the threshold, and righted himself. “Where’s your ma?” he growled, in the ugly mean tone he always used when he was drinking, which was most of the time.

  “She went out a couple of hours ago.”

  He lurched toward the table, the uneven floor making his steps that much more perilous. “Damn bitch,” he muttered. “Ain’t never here. Always out shakin’ her ass at her fancy rich boyfriend. Ain’t never here to fix my supper. How’s a man supposed to eat?” he suddenly roared, hitting the table with his fist.

  “Supper’s ready, Pa,” Faith said quietly, hoping the uproar didn’t wake Scottie. “I’ll fix you a plate.”

  “Don’t want anything to eat,” he said, as she had expected. When he was drinking, he never wanted food, just more booze.

  “Is there anythin’ in this damn house to drink?” He staggered to his feet and began opening cabinet doors, slamming them when they didn’t reveal what he wanted.

  Faith moved quickly. “There’s a bottle in the boys’ bedroom. I’ll get it.” She didn’t want Amos stumbling around in there, cussing and probably puking, and waking Scottie. She darted into the dark little room and blindly searched under Nick’s cot until her hand brushed against cool glass. Dragging the bottle out, she carried it back into the kitchen. It was only about one quarter full, but anything would pacify Pa. She twisted the cap off and handed the bottle to Amos.

  “Here, Pa.”

  “Good girl,” he said, brightening as he tipped the bottle to his mouth. “You’re a good girl, Faith, not a whore like your ma and sister.”

  “Don’t talk like that about them,” she protested, unable to listen. Knowing it was one thing, but talking about it was another. It wasn’t as if Pa had any room to throw stones.

  “I’ll say what I damn well please!” Amos flared. “Don’t sass me, girl, or I’ll belt you one.”

  “I wasn’t sassing you, Pa.” She kept her voice calm, but prudently moved out of reach. If he couldn’t reach her, he couldn’t hit her. He was likely to throw something, but she was quick and his missiles seldom struck her.

  “Fine kids she gave me,” he sneered. “Russ and Nick are the only two I can stomach. Jodie’s a whore like her ma, you’re a prissy smart-ass, and the last one’s a goddamn idiot.”

  Keeping her head turned away so he couldn’t see the tears that burned her eyes, Faith sat down on the ragged, sagging couch and began folding the laundry she’d done that day. It would never do to let Amos see that he’d hurt her. If he ever scented blood, he moved in for the kill, and the drunker he was, the more vicious he became. The best thing to do was ignore him. Like all drunks, he was easily distracted, and she figured he’d soon be passed out anyway.

  She didn’t know why it hurt. She had long since ceased to have any feelings for Amos, not even fear. There was certainly nothing there to love, the man he had been long since destroyed in countless bottles of whiskey. If he had ever shown any promise, it had been gone by the time she’d been born, but somehow she thought he had always been pretty much as he was now. He was simply the type of person who always blamed others for his problems rather than doing something to correct them.

  Sometimes, when he was sober, Faith thought she could see why Renee had once been attracted to him. Amos was a little over average height, with a wiry body that had n