Not that she had a choice. Look at what she had just done. Look at how she had put off all the appointments with men after the last night with Jack.
The Rolls slid smoothly to a halt before the entrance of the St. John. Without a word to the chauffeur, Eileen let herself out and walked into the lobby like a queen. She called for a taxi and within minutes was on her way to Jack DeShane’s house. All the way she prayed that he was home. They had not seen each other for over a week because of his searching the streets. Could she ever erase his agony over Willie?
Would his son’s death destroy him so that their love might never have a chance?
“Here you are, lady,” the cab driver said, clicking over the meter.
Eileen looked out the window to the porch awash in yellow light. This was a home, not a hotel. It reminded her of Bloomington. “Thanks, keep the change.”
Her lovely smile melted the driver’s heart so thoroughly that it was not until he had driven away that he realized she had given him a twenty-dollar bill for a ride that cost three.
Betty Lawrence stood before the open door, a look of astonishment on her face.
“Is Jack at home?” Eileen asked.
Mrs. Lawrence quickly assessed the woman before her: fur jacket, small silver-beaded purse clutched to her chest, thick, luxurious red hair piled atop her head, and the sweetest face God must have ever made. What on the earth could she want with Jack DeShane?
“No, I’m sorry, but he’s out,” Mrs. Lawrence said when her appraising eyes were halted by the steady sea-green gaze.
“I’m a close friend of Jack’s,” Eileen explained. “Do you think it would be too much trouble if I waited for him?”
Mrs. Lawrence saw the cab pull away and stepped aside to allow the woman to come in. “He might not be back for some time,” the older woman warned. “He’s had a misfortune, and he spends every night out this way. If you’re close like you say, then maybe you know what he’s up to.”
“Yes, I know about Willie. And I know about Jack trying to find out something on the streets.”
Mrs. Lawrence heaved a sigh. Perhaps here was an understanding soul. But what this wealthy lady had to do with a poor cop was still a mystery. “I’m Mrs. Lawrence, Mr. DeShane’s housekeeper. I moved in to stay awhile after what happened to Willie.”
“Eileen McKenna.” Eileen held out a hand. “Jack’s told me about you. He really appreciates all you’ve done for him, Mrs. Lawrence, and so do I. I don’t know if he would have made it without you here to stay with him.”
The housekeeper took Eileen’s fur coat and hung it up. When she turned back to the woman, she was struck again by the unearthly beauty of Eileen McKenna. “Lord, but you’re pretty,” she said, and quickly closed her mouth in embarrassment.
But Eileen’s smile was innocent and kind, quickly putting Mrs. Lawrence at ease. “Thank you,” Eileen said. She glanced down the hall to the kitchen and into the darkened living room.
“Well, well. Look at me forgetting my manners this way,” Mrs. Lawrence said sheepishly. She took Eileen by the arm to lead her to the kitchen. “I’ll make tea if you like, and we’l1 have a little talk while we wait. I had just made myself some fried toast for a snack. I don’t sleep till Mr. DeShane gets home safe nights. Would you like a slice of toast, Miz McKenna? Or I could fix you something else.”
A long lost memory of a plate of fried toast from when she had been a girl in Bloomington surfaced and made Eileen’s stomach rumble. Home.
“I’d love fried toast!” she said. “That would be a wonderful treat.”
Mrs. Lawrence listened eagerly while melting butter into a heavy black skillet. The beautiful lady came from a small Texas town and a poor family. She was no stranger to fried toast and grits and collard greens and cornbread. The more she talked about herself and her childhood, the more the housekeeper liked her.
Not a snooty bone in her body, she thought happily. What a catch she would be for Jack. The house might come alive again with love and happiness with this lady around. God willing, and with a careful nudge from interested parties, Jack DeShane could be in line for a miracle. Stranger things had happened.
Both women’s attention turned to the sound of a key scratching in the front door. It was eleven-thirty, an early hour for Jack’s return from the streets. For a few seconds Eileen remembered the killer who stalked the city. Without her knowing it, Mrs. Lawrence too felt sudden fear at the sound from the front of the house. When they heard Jack’s familiar greeting, “Mrs. Lawrence, I’m home,” the women gave twin sighs of relief and only then realized how frightened they had both been.
Mrs. Lawrence smiled to Eileen shakily and said, “That’s my cue to go to bed. I’m sure Mr. DeShane will be happy to see you. If either one of you need anything later tonight, don’t hesitate to call me.”
“It was good to meet you, Mrs. Lawrence. Jack’s lucky to have you for his friend.”
“What he’s lucky about is having you.”
Mrs. Lawrence met Jack in the hall and told him he had company waiting in the kitchen. Then she excused herself and went to bed.
Jack stood at the threshold in the large, homey kitchen, obviously surprised. “Eileen, what are you doing here?”
Eileen felt horrible at the way he looked. His eyes had bags beneath them, and his scar, usually unnoticeable, was puffy and red. He was dressed like a poor bum and the jeans accentuated the weight loss he had experienced over the last few weeks.
“Oh, Jack, Mrs. Lawrence was right.” She slowly walked to him. It took all of her willpower not to enfold him in her arms and soothe him like a child. “You’re trying to kill yourself. This has to stop.”
Jack dismissed the topic with a gesture of his hand. He had been hearing the same thing every night from his housekeeper, and he did not want Eileen to worry. “I’ll be all right,” he said, kissing her lightly and leading her to the table. “That’s not what brought you here, is it? If Mrs. Lawrence called you…”
“Jack, you know better than that. Mrs. Lawrence didn’t even know me before I came here tonight. Though she would have had a perfect right to call for help. You look like a scarecrow.”
Wearily Jack ran a hand over his gaunt face and slid down in the dining-room chair until his head rested on its back. “No one seems to understand that I can’t sit at home waiting for the department to come up with something.” He sat up abruptly and his face was full of barely controlled fury. “This leave of absence is driving me crazy, don’t you know that? They won’t let me work on the case; they keep me in the dark when they get snippets of evidence. And they don’t have the manpower it takes to patrol the streets looking for a lead, any lead. This is the only thing I can do to help find the bastard who killed Willie. It may not be worth a damn, but at least I’ll know I made an effort.”
Eileen put à hand on Jack’s arm and squeezed it, offering support. “Jack, I didn’t mean to quarrel with you over what you’re trying to do. I’m just concerned about your health. Late hours, not eating, and even Mrs. Lawrence told me you’re going to parts of town where it’s dangerous to be at night. It scares me, Jack.”
Her eyes filled with tears and she wanted to curse herself. The self-control she valued so highly seemed to have deserted her.
“Don’t cry, Eileen, please. It just seems so many people are against me and I get defensive. Sometimes I feel raw all over, as if my skin’s been peeled away. I catch myself blowing up at Mrs. Lawrence over nothing, and now I’ve made you cry. I’m so miserable that I make everyone around me miserable.”