Judy Christenberry - The Last Bachelor

She took the food. Who knew when she’d have a meal again? She’d best be practical.

Joe was relieved that she accepted the food. She was looking pretty fragile. After she’d had several bites, he asked casually, “What is it your mother wants you to do? And where is she?”

Ginger looked up from her food. “She’s in New York. She married a man there.”

“So she got her citizenship because she’s married to an American? How long has she been married to him?”

“Three years. He came to Estonia and he proposed. We came to America three months later and they married at once.”

“She knew him before?”

Ginger shook her head.

Joe stared at her. She was a beautiful, delicate young woman. If her mother looked anything like her, he wasn’t surprised that a man would marry her at once. “So why would she want to send you back to Estonia? She might never see you again.”

Tears pooled in her blue eyes again and she looked away.

“You’ve got to tell me, sweetheart. Otherwise, I can’t help you.”

“You can’t help me, anyway. My mother will not change her mind.”

“Just tell me,” he urged softly, reaching across the narrow table to lay his warm hand over hers.

“She wants me to marry.”

“Whom?”

Her cheeks flushed again, as if the information shamed her.

“Do you know him?”

She nodded her head, but she didn’t look up.

“You don’t love him?”

“No!” When he didn’t speak again, she finally said, “My mother married a man who is a member of the mob in New York. I believe that’s what you call it, right?”

“Yeah,” he said grimly. He didn’t like the way the story was going.

“My stepfather’s friend is his boss. He decided I would make a good bride, but I said no.”

“How old is he?”

With her head still down, she whispered, “Fifty-eight.”

“Damn!” Joe cursed. That kind of a marriage was barbaric, trying to force a beautiful young woman into a marriage with a man three times her age. “You were right to refuse.”

“Even if it means my mother is beaten?” When she lifted her gaze to him, he read the guilt and pain there. He squeezed her hand.

“It’s not your fault.”

She looked away. “I was eighteen. I believed all the wonderful things they say about America. I thought I was free, that I could choose.” She sobbed, before she could compose herself. “I ran away.”

“Good for you.”

His reaction seemed to surprise her, but the thought of her being married to an old man, one involved in crime, made his gut clench. “I think if we explain the problem to the government men, they won’t send you back.”

“They will,” she assured him, fear in her eyes. “I must go away where they can’t find me.”

“Ginger, I don’t think you can hide that easily. You’ll need to work. They’ll be able to find you.”

“I saved all I could. I can make it for a while.”

“Let me contact a lawyer. There’s got to be a better way.”

“Lawyers are very expensive. I cannot—”

“One of my brothers is a lawyer. He’ll help us.” He took a bite of his hamburger, but he kept his gaze on her.

She shook her head. “I don’t want other people to be punished. I don’t even know your brother. I cannot shift my troubles to him. Or to you.”

“Ginger, I want to help.”

“No. I must go.” Without waiting for his agreement, she slipped out of the booth and headed for the door, leaving her food uneaten for the most part.

Joe stared after her. Then he wrapped up his hamburger and fries, grabbed his drink and hurried after her. By the time he got to the car, she was nowhere in sight. But he couldn’t stop trying to help her. Getting in his car, he drove the two blocks back to her apartment. He scanned the area and didn’t see the government car. Maybe they had given up and returned to wherever their office was located.

He found a parking place. Leaving his food in the car, he locked the door and headed for Ginger’s apartment. He only knew which it was because he’d discovered Ginger walking home one Friday night and had insisted on driving her home. He’d even walked her to her door, telling her it wasn’t safe to just drop her off.

He knocked on the door. “Ginger? It’s Joe. Let me in, please.”

She opened the door slightly. “Go away, Joe. I’m packing.”

“Don’t go, Ginger. I can help you.”

“No, I can’t—”

“Miss Waltek?”

The two men in dark suits were standing behind Joe, staring at Ginger.

Joe saw panic on Ginger’s face and regretted his attempt at intervention. Maybe she would have gotten away if he hadn’t held her up. But he knew better than that. Besides, a life on the run would be hard for her.

Her head fell, and she stared at her feet. Then she looked up. “Yes, I am Virvela Waltek.” She stuck out her wrists, as if she expected to be cuffed.

The men stared at her in surprise. “We just wanted to ask a few questions. May we come in?”

Her expression blank, she moved back and nodded.

After the two men had stepped around Joe and entered the apartment, they tried to close the door.

“I’m coming in, too.”

“Who are you?” one of the men asked.

“Who are you?” Joe demanded in return. After all, the men hadn’t identified themselves.

“I’m Carl Fisher and my partner is Craig Caldwell. We’re INS officers. And you?”

“Joe Turner, a friend of Ginger’s.”

“That is not her name,” Fisher pointed out.

“It’s what I call her.” He wanted to plow his fist into the man’s face, but reminded himself they were only doing their jobs. Still, if they tried to shut him out, he would fight them.

“Miss Waltek, do you mind if he comes in?” Fisher asked.

“He hasn’t done anything wrong!” she exclaimed.

“They know that, sweetheart. I just want to be with you, in case you need me. Okay?”

She nodded.

Joe shut the door behind him, looking around at the flimsy table and four chairs, one beat-up sofa and an old lamp. When Ginger said nothing else, still looking panic-stricken, he gestured to the table and chairs. “Shall we sit down?”

The two agents turned to the table and Joe reached out for Ginger’s hand. “Come on, honey.” He led her to the table and took the seat beside her, keeping her hand in his.

Fisher folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Miss Waltek, your mother has informed us she is withdrawing her sponsorship of you for citizenship. Can you tell us why?”

Ginger said nothing, only shrugged her shoulders.

The other man, Caldwell, added, “Your mother has told us you are working as a prostitute.”

“No!” Ginger slammed the table and stood up.

“Gentlemen,” Joe began, keeping his temper with deep breaths, “that is not true. I’ve known Ginger for the past six months. I can vouch for her.”

Both men ignored him and stared at Ginger, who reluctantly sat down.

“Why would your mother say such a thing?” Fisher asked.

“She—she is trying to force me to come home,” Ginger said, her voice trembling.

“Tell them everything, honey,” Joe urged. “Tell them the truth.”

“Yes, tell us the truth,” Caldwell encouraged.

Ginger stared at the table, visibly swallowing, before she spoke. Then, shaking, she explained why her mother was trying to force her to return to New York.

“The mob? You mean the Mafia?” Fisher asked.

Joe stepped in. “Yeah. Look, the man her mother wants her to marry is fifty-eight! And her mother is being beaten because Ginger ran away.”

“Beaten? A woman can get a divorce and keep her citizenship if she’s being abused.”