Home At Last. Deborah Raney

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      “Not sure about Tuesday. I’ll let you know.” Link inched toward the door, seeming a little too eager to get away.

      She wondered if he had a date. From her lips to God’s ears. “Oh, hey! You said you slid on the ice? What happened?”

      Link stopped with his hand on the door like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

      “You didn’t smash up your truck, did you?”

      “No. No damage. Just scared the snot out of me.”

      “Yeah, so I heard. Except snot’s not what I heard.” She gave him the look. The one her kids used to call “Mom’s stink-eye.” Probably still did. She knew her kids weren’t angels, and she appreciated that they cleaned up their mouths around her and Grant—and the grandchildren, she hoped. But as she’d always told them when they were kids, what slipped out in a moment of crisis was a good indicator of what was in their hearts. She hoped Link had taken note. But he was a grown man—twenty-nine!—and she wasn’t going to hassle him about his mouth now. That was between him and God. Still, she couldn’t help but think that a good woman would smooth out her boy’s rough edges.

      With a sheepish grin that made him look like a little boy again, Link opened the door. “Tell Dad hi. See you later.” He gave a little wave and exited before she could say more than “drive safe.”

      Hmm. She knew her son, and something was definitely up.

      Oh, that it was a girlfriend!

      ***

      The roads were still slick and Link drove with a newfound caution. The more he thought about the close call this morning, the heavier his gut felt. In the blink of an eye, his life—and the lives of so many others—could have changed in horrific ways. He truly didn’t think what happened had been his fault. He hadn’t been speeding. He was sure of that. And yes, he’d been pulling double shifts for several weeks now, but he wasn’t sleep deprived. Still, he had been distracted—on the phone with Mom, thinking about work . . . about flirting with the pretty girl at the bakery. Shayla.

      He threw up a prayer of thanks that things had turned out the way they had. That the little girl was safe. Although her existence sure did throw a wrench in things. Even if Shayla was available, a single mom wasn’t exactly on his list of things to look for in a woman. But probably a hazard of dating at his—according to his sisters—ripe old age. He remembered his mother saying something about her and Dad not being surprised if he ended up with a woman who’d been married before. He rolled his eyes. They all acted like he was fifty or something. Never mind that some days he felt like fifty.

      Part of it was work. He didn’t really mind his job, but it wasn’t where he’d envisioned himself at this point in life. He’d been with Carson Tech since one month after graduating from Southeast Missouri State. It was just a job. An entry level job—testing electrical wiring—that really had nothing to do with his business major. It was merely supposed to be something to pay the bills until he found a “real” job.

      Yet here he was, six years later—no, almost seven now. Man, where had the time gone? He’d gotten a couple of raises over the years and had managed to put away some savings. But that was only because his apartment was a hole in the wall studio in a not-so-great part of town.

      He pulled up to the apartment and parked along the curb, praying he didn’t have to scrape the windshields before he went in to work tonight. Flipping on the lights inside his studio, he tried to view the place with objective eyes.

      No way around it: he’d be embarrassed for any woman to see where he lived. Not to mention, walking in the front door was essentially walking into his bedroom. Despite his sisters’ attempts to convince him to fix the place up, he hadn’t done more than move in some of Mom and Dad’s castoff furniture and buy some matching dishes off Craigslist.

      He’d been able to pick up some extra shifts this fall, hoping to save enough to afford a better place after the first of the year. But in the back of his mind, he knew what he really needed was to find another job. Not just because of the money. But because he was afraid if he didn’t get out of Carson Tech now, he’d be retiring from here. And he wanted more than that out of life. A lot more.

      He shrugged out of his jacket, flipped on the TV, and navigated to the sports channel. He could save a hundred bucks a month if he canceled cable. He rarely watched it now that he was working overtime anyway. An involuntary sigh escaped him, and he went to the fridge for an almost empty carton of orange juice. Drinking from the carton, he kicked off his shoes and settled on the futon.

      Settled. That was his problem. He’d settled for a life that was comfortable and easy, but he didn’t like being settled at twenty-nine. And it got worse every year. His friends from high school and college were all either married with kids, or off living in some exotic spot in the world. There were a few slackers like him, but fewer every year. And in truth, it might not have bothered him that much if it didn’t bother his family.

      Of course his little brother—God rest his soul—had set the bar high. He had beat Link to the altar when he got married at twenty-one. To Bree Cordel, who set the bar even higher. Tim had been a Marine by the time he was twenty-two. Then dead—a hero—two years later. Tough act to follow. It seemed strange that his brother, who’d been only a year younger than Link their whole lives, was now almost five years younger—forever twenty-four in Link’s mind and memories.

      The TV droned on. Scores of games he didn’t really care about. And even though he was only working the seven-to-eleven shift tonight, he needed to catch some shut-eye before heading in. He put his feet up and closed his eyes.

      The truck started sliding. He slammed on the brakes but nothing happened. He slammed harder. Nothing! The little girl stood there in the middle of the road just looking at him. Staring. Like she wasn’t even afraid.

      “Porsche!” It was Shayla’s voice. He was sure of it.

      He pushed the brakes harder, but it was like stepping on a dry sponge.

      “Porsche!”

      Why was she yelling that? He wouldn’t mind having a Porsche, but he drove a Dodge Ram. With a hundred seventy thousand miles on it. And if he couldn’t get the beast to stop, he was going to hit that little girl!

      Stop!

      Link bolted upright on the futon. He broke into a cold sweat, his heart racing. He’d almost hit her! Another split second and . . .

      No. It was only a dream. A nightmare. She was fine. He’d seen her with his own eyes. Everybody was fine. But it had been too close. Way too close.

      Thank you, Lord. He took a deep breath and got to his feet, trying to shake off the terror of the dream. The TV said it was 2:27.

      Porsche. Where had that come from?

      Thinking back, he was pretty sure Shayla had screamed that word. In real life. Maybe it was the little girl’s name. He’d heard stranger names, although he didn’t even want to think about why somebody would name their kid after a sports car. Tim had teased him once that he was named “Link” because he’d been conceived in the back of the ’75 Lincoln Continental Mom and Dad owned the first few years they were married. He didn’t think it was true, but . . . Eww. Thanks a lot for nothing, bro. Hope you’re happy for putting that image in my mind for the rest of my adult life.

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