Beverly Barton - Grace Under Fire

When he tried to sidestep her, Elsa grabbed his arm and swung him around to face her. "Where were you all night long?"

He jerked free and glared at her. "I'm nineteen frigging years old. I don't have to report in to you. Haven't you figured that out yet?"

Elsa inhaled deeply, then released her breath as she counted to ten. "I thought we had a deal, one you've lived up to for nearly a year now. I pay the bills and you go to school and keep your nose clean. Has something happened to change that?"

With his back to her, he shook his head. "Nah, not really. Not yet. It's just… well… I got a part-time job and I got a girl."

"Are you saying you were working last night or are you telling me you stayed over at some girl's place all night?"

Troy glanced over his shoulder sheepishly. "Both actually. The job's in a warehouse down at the waterfront. My new girlfriend picked me up afterward and I spent the night with her."

"I see. You could have called, you know." Why didn't his explanation relieve her worries? she wondered. Maybe because it was too little information, too late. "When did you get the job? How long have you been working? How'd you meet this girl? Who is she?"

"Damn, what is this, the Spanish inquisition?"

"Look, Troy, I was up all night. I called every friend of yours I could think of. I checked with the hospital and even with the police to see if you'd been in an accident. I had to call in at work this morning to let them know I'd be late because I didn't know what had happened to you."

"Hey, I'm sorry, okay." Troy sucked his cheeks in as if trying to curb his explosive temper. "I'm not back on the hard stuff. I swear. I drink a few beers now and then and that's it."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Elsa waited, expecting a reply to her questions.

"I met Josie at school this quarter. She's taking a secretarial course. She shares a place with a friend and works at the diner over on Fifth Street." Troy glanced down at the floor. "And before you ask, yes, I'm being careful. We… uh… I always use a condom."

Elsa let out a loud, exasperated breath, closed her eyes and prayed for patience. And while she was at it, she prayed that Troy was telling her the truth. All she needed at this point in her life was her brother knocking up some girl and her winding up having to raise the baby.

"What's the name of the place where you're working?"

"It's just a warehouse. I'm not sure about the name. I help load and unload crates off trucks and boats. The guy pays me in cash. It's good money for a few hours work."

Elsa didn't like the sound of it. "What's in the crates you're helping load and unload?"

"How should I know?"

"Drugs?"

"Hell, Elsa, get off my back. I said I don't know what's in the crates… and I don't care. Josie told me that a guy she knew had a good paying part-time job, so I applied for the position and got it. I thought you'd be pleased. Aren't you the one who's always griping about money?"

"What's the guy's name?"

"What guy?"

"Your boss?"

"Curt Poarch."

"What if I want to talk to this Mr. Poarch, how do I get in touch with him?"

"No way." Troy 's face flushed; his body language became hostile. "Stay out of my business."

Before she could say another word, Troy stormed out of the kitchen. Elsa followed him down the hall and into his bedroom. She stood in the doorway and watched while he stuffed a knapsack full with his underwear and clothes.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I'm moving out, that's what I'm doing. I'll take what I can this morning and I'll come back for my other stuff later-after you've left for work."

"Where will you live?"

"Josie will put me up for a few days until I find a place of my own." He grinned mockingly. "Who knows, maybe we'll get a place together. Split expenses."

"This man-Curt Poarch-must be paying you pretty good if you think you can rent your own place, keep up your truck payments, pay for your schooling-"

"I'm outta here." Troy hoisted his canvas knapsack over his shoulder and all but shoved Elsa out of the way as he moved past her.

" Troy." She raced down the hall after him. By the time she caught up with him, he was outside, dumping his knapsack in the cab of his older model Ford pickup.

"Think about what you're doing," Elsa said, as he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door. "What if the guy you're working for is doing something illegal? Is it worth that kind of risk just to make some fast, easy money?"

He cranked the engine, shifted the gears into Reverse, and said, "It's a hell of a lot better than working for pittance the way you do at a job where you have to lick Ms. Rich Bitch Beaumont's fancy high heels every day." With that said, he backed out of the driveway and sped onto the road.

Elsa heaved her shoulders as she sighed heavily. God in heaven, where had she gone wrong? Hadn't she done everything in her power to help Troy, just as she had Sherrie and Milly?

For the time being there wasn't much she could do, short of praying. If Troy needed her, he knew where to find her. In the meantime, she had herself and Milly to support.

Elsa checked her watch. If she left now, she would be only two hours late. That was two hours of pay she couldn't afford to miss and she didn't want to use a sick day because she saved those days in order to volunteer once a month at St. Camille Haven, the private boarding school where Milly lived during the week. It was a school for children with severe learning disabilities. For volunteering one day a month, they reduced Milly's tuition by a small amount.

She knew that if she'd taken Grace Beaumont up on her kind offer of assistance in paying the tuition for St. Camille Haven, she wouldn't constantly be struggling to make ends meet. But she would not accept charity from anyone. Not even from Grace. Besides, she was well aware of the fact that Grace had arranged for the scholarship that paid over fifty percent of Milly's bills at the school.

Elsa made a mad dash to the bathroom, ran a comb through her hair, swiped on some lipstick and checked her appearance in the full-length mirror attached to the back of the door. She looked presentable. That was good enough. She detoured through her bedroom, grabbed her keys and handbag, and rushed out to her car, all the while praying Troy would come to his senses before he got in over his head with the wrong people.

A two-story structure that blended in nicely with the century-old buildings in downtown St. Camille, the headquarters for Sheffield Media, Inc. presided over two acres of land within the city limits. Consisting of several small buildings resembling raised cottages, so prevalent in Louisiana, and connected by white lattice-covered breezeways, the administrative center looked more like a mini-community than a business site. Grace gave Jed a tour of the entire compound, introducing him as "Mr. Tyree, who will be working for me a few weeks in an advisory capacity." She hadn't elaborated on his job description and no one had asked for more information.

Jed opened doors for Grace as they made their way into the heart of the complex, which was alive with activity. All the employees were friendly. They smiled, greeted them and paid the proper respect to the CEO and her guest. Did any of these people know who he was and what he was doing here? Probably not.

"Exactly who knows about the letter you received?" Jed asked.

"Four people other than myself… and the person who wrote the letter." She paused by the desk in an outer office, then glanced around as if searching for someone. "My senior vice-president, Hudson Prentice, who is also a good friend, my cousin Joy Loring, my lawyer and family friend, Willis Sullivan, and my personal assistant, Elsa Leone, who doesn't seem to be here this morning."