The Last Bachelor. Judy Christenberry
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aprons they wore in the Yellow Rose Café. One of the waitresses was running from the parking lot toward the main highway.
Almost immediately he realized it was Ginger, her smooth hair blowing away from her face as she hurried. He knew she didn’t have a car, but usually she caught a ride with one of the other girls. Besides, he knew she worked until nine o’clock on Fridays.
Joe picked up speed and followed the circle up the other side, toward the highway. He pulled in front of Ginger and stopped, hurrying out of his car to intercept her.
“Ginger? Is something wrong?”
“Oh, Mr. Turner! No. Nothing is wrong.”
“Then why are you crying?”
She self-consciously wiped her cheeks. “Uh, I—I don’t feel well. I must go home.” She started around him.
“Get in my car. I’ll drive you home.”
“No, I—” As she looked back toward the country club, she evidently changed her mind. “Okay.”
Joe looked behind Ginger and saw two men in dark suits getting into a dark car—a government car from the looks of it. With a frown, he slid behind the wheel again as she got in.
“Who are they?” he asked. He turned to look at Ginger, only to discover she’d slid down in the seat, as if she were hiding. “Ginger, what’s going on?”
“I—I can’t—Please just take me home.”
Her normally pale cheeks were flushed and tears gathered in her light blue eyes. Joe could never refuse to help her. He put his Lexus in Drive and started toward the small apartment where Ginger lived. When he’d first realized Ginger lived in such a tiny place, he’d tried to talk Harvey Small, the manager of the club, into giving Ginger a pay increase so she could afford a nicer apartment.
Joe didn’t like Harvey, but the man assured him Ginger was making good money. It wasn’t his fault she didn’t spend her pay on better accommodations.
Joe drove slowly, studying Ginger out of the corner of his eye, trying to figure out what was wrong. She didn’t give him any clues.
“Are you nauseated?” he asked.
“No.” She stared straight ahead, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, a frown on her face.
“I could take you to the doctor.”
“No! I—I just need to go home.”
“Okay,” he agreed, trying to sound calm. But something was wrong.
They approached the small apartment house, and Joe figured he’d done his best for her. She obviously didn’t want any help.
Suddenly she moaned. “No! No, no, no!”
He stopped at once. “Ginger, what’s wrong? I’ll help if you’ll tell me.”
“No one can help me now.” Her mournful words broke his heart.
“Sweetheart, I promise I’ll do what I can.”
“Take me to…the park, please.” She had her eyes closed. Then she opened them and hurriedly said, “If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.” The small park across the street from the apartments had a few picnic tables and a basketball court that drew the neighborhood boys after school. Right now it appeared deserted.
He parked his Lexus in the empty parking lot. When he turned around, he saw Ginger staring into his rearview mirror. That was when he noticed the dark sedan parked near Ginger’s apartment. The same car from the country club.
“I think it’s about time you explained to me what’s going on. Obviously those two men are upsetting you. Shall I go talk to them?”
“No!” she shouted, then seemed to pull herself together. “Mr. Turner, you’ve always been so nice, so generous, I know you want to help. But there’s nothing you can do. If you don’t know what’s wrong, then you can’t be accused of anything.”
“Accused? Accused of what? There’s nothing illegal about giving a ride to a friend.”
Ginger looked at the man beside her with gratitude. An architect from Chicago, Joe had come back to his hometown a few months ago to supervise the rebuilding on the country club, after a bomb had destroyed the Men’s Grill restaurant. He’d been friendly ever since the first time she’d served him. Ginger had loved waiting on him not only because he was handsome, with mahogany hair and chocolate eyes, but because he treated her with respect. He didn’t try to get familiar with her or ask her out. Now he called her his friend.
But she couldn’t get him in trouble. With a sigh, she suggested he go back to the country club.
“Are you coming with me?”
“No, I can’t.”
“So what are you going to do?”
She didn’t have an answer for him. As long as those men were there, waiting for her, she couldn’t go home. And she couldn’t leave until she got her money out of the apartment. Why hadn’t she put it in a bank? Instead she’d cashed her paychecks and hidden in her apartment the money she didn’t need to pay bills. All so she could leave quickly when she had to.
“Ginger?”
It took her a moment to remember Joe had asked her a question. What was she going to do? “Uh, I don’t know.”
“Are those men looking for you?”
“They are looking for Virvela Waltek,” she admitted with a sob.
Joe frowned at her. “Who’s that?”
She sniffed. It was so very hard to admit the truth. Finally she whispered, “Me.”
She didn’t want to look at him, expecting him to be horrified by her deception. When she looked at his handsome face, however, she didn’t see disgust.
He leaned closer. “I knew you had a little accent, but I couldn’t identify it. Where are you from?”
“Estonia. I came to America three years ago. I was sixteen.” It seemed so very long ago.
“Good Lord, you’re only nineteen?”
“Almost twenty.”
He smiled ruefully. “I’m fifteen years older than you.”
She shrugged her shoulders, as if that didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if he was romantically interested in her. A good-looking man in his prime, educated, wealthy, Joe Turner could have any woman he wanted.
“So, are you here illegally? Is that why you’re scared?”
“Not really. But…my mother has refused to sponsor me now.”
This time she had shocked him, she could tell.
“Your mother? Your mother sicced the INS on you?”
Ginger nodded, keeping her gaze lowered. It was such a shameful thing, for her own mother to turn her back on her. She’d warned Ginger, of course, thinking it would make her come home and do what her mother wanted her to do. But it hadn’t.
His stomach growled and he apologized. “I’m sorry, I’m hungry. How about we go to the Dairy Queen and grab something to eat?”
“No. They would find out that you hid me.”
“Sweetheart,” he drawled, and she almost grinned. She loved it when he sounded like John Wayne. “They won’t think I know your identity. Besides, they won’t think to look there.”
“I can get out now and you can go back to the club and have a nice meal.” She was determined to do the right thing for this kind man.
He started his car and backed out.
“Wait, I have