The Million Dollar Gift Read online

  Chase tried to reply, but the spots in his vision grew bigger. He stumbled and felt Mr. Clark’s steady arms catch him before he blacked out.

  Chapter 2

  “Mr. Brockson?”

  Chase’s mind surfaced as though he’d been swimming in a deep, dark pool. The first thing he felt was pain, a dull, throbbing pulse from his knee, a sharp stab in his side whenever he took a breath, and a tremendous headache centering around his left eye where he’d been kicked. He could feel bandages across his brow and wrapped snuggly around his knee. The sterile tang of antiseptic registered and the events of the evening rushed back. He reached up slowly and touched the cloth on his forehead.

  “I’m glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?” Chase recognized Mr. Clark’s mellow, clear voice.

  “Like I ran with the bulls in Pamplona and the bulls won.”

  Mr. Clark chuckled. “I’m glad to see you have a sense of humor after that beating.” His voice took on a more serious tone. “I don’t know how to thank you. To go back in the shape you were in and put your life on the line for strangers. . .” He paused and his voice grew softer. “You don’t know how much it means to us to have Clara and Matty back safe.”

  Chase didn’t know what to say. He opened his eyes, grateful for Mr. Clark’s foresight in keeping lights off as even the faint gray that trickled through the blinds across the window made his headache pound. He tried to sit up, but his head spun.

  Mr. Clark’s firm hands eased him back down. “You need to rest. If you’d been out much longer, I would have taken you to the hospital regardless of your views against it.” His tone was fatherly.

  Chase closed his eyes against the slowly spinning room. “How long was I out?”

  “Through half the night. Penny suspects you have a mild concussion. It’s four in the morning.”

  Surprised, Chase glanced at him. “You must be tired.”

  Mr. Clark shrugged. “Sleep’s overrated. Except for you; you need as much as you can get. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He rose from the wooden chair he’d been sitting in and stretched tiredly. “Get some more sleep. Penny put a clean change of some of Daniel’s more conservative clothes in the bathroom for you to wear if you want to shower later.”

  Chase knew by Mr. Clark’s tone that he thought a shower would be a good improvement. “Could I borrow a razor?” he asked quietly.

  “There’s already one waiting for you,” Mr. Clark replied with obvious approval in his voice.

  Chase attempted to roll onto his side, then thought better of it as pain shot up from his ribs. Mr. Clark reached the door and turned back to close it behind him. “Thank you, Sir,” Chase said just loud enough for him to hear.

  Mr. Clark turned back, a mildly surprised expression on his face. He opened his mouth to say something, then nodded instead. He pulled the door shut behind him.

  ***

  The next time Chase awoke, late afternoon sunlight was streaming in through clean, light green curtains. He sat up slowly and glanced around. He was in a small bedroom. He wondered vaguely who he had ousted from their room. The carpet was dark blue and well-worn in some places, but spotless. A matching dresser set sat against the opposite wall with a variety of family photos, a little league football trophy, two blue and orange Broncos baseball caps, a pair of rolled-up socks, and a handful of change complete with pocket lint on top. There was a poster of Kurt Cobain on one wall, and one of Metallica near the window.

  He eased his legs off the edge of the bed and winced when a shooting pain ran up from his injured knee. He pulled the tattered pant leg up, hesitated, then slowly unwound the ace wrap he found there to reveal his knee already swollen with black, purple, and green bruises along the outside. He bent it experimentally and gritted his teeth at the fresh throb of pain.

  Satisfied that he hadn’t broken anything, Chase eased to a standing position. He wove at the sudden movement and steadied himself with a hand on the bedpost. His head ached, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as the night before. Clenching his jaw, he was able to hobble across the floor to the open bathroom with only moderate nausea. The bathroom had two entrances. The second was locked, which he assumed with a surge of gratitude was to keep anyone from disturbing him. He sat down on the edge of the bathtub, already exhausted from the expended energy and alarmed at how quickly his strength left.

  The bathroom, like the bedroom, was spotlessly clean. Black and white tiles lined the floor and above the sink, countered with light green towels and a soap and toothbrush holder that sported smiling, dark green frogs. A frog-shaped rug surrounded the base of the toilet, and a frog sticker on the mirror, faded and almost colorless from numerous cleanings, reminded him that brushing his teeth was ‘toadally awesome’.

  He smiled when he saw a still-packaged toothbrush sitting on top of a folded, faded blue tee-shirt, washed out blue jeans, and a fresh pair of socks. True to his word, Mr. Clark had left an electric razor plugged in next to a comb and deodorant.

  Chase stood and undid the gauze wrapped snuggly around his head. Beneath the clean cloth, butterfly bandages were spaced evenly across the gash on his brow. The blood had been cleaned from his cheek, but he could still feel its grittiness in his hair.

  He turned on the facet in the bathtub and waited for it to warm. He ran his fingers through the water, feeling the minute temperature change and wondering when the last time was that he’d had a good shower. An image of his father surfaced in his mind; he shook it quickly to clear the memory, then put a hand to his forehead when the movement brought a strong reminder of his headache. He twisted the knob to bring the water to the shower head and stepped over the side of the tub.

  Warm water streamed into his hair. He ran his fingers through it so that it laid back instead of across his forehead in an effort to keep the water from ruining Mrs. Clark’s bandaging. His jet black hair was normally straight, but the ends curled at the base of his neck from being longer than he was used to. Working shampoo to the roots, he could feel hidden bumps and bruises left by Torn’s men.

  The thought of his near proximity to death made Chase’s blood run cold. He reached down and turned the hot water higher to chase away the chill that ran up his spine. He might have saved Clara and Matty, but by being there, they, too, had saved him.

  The thought that he didn’t deserve all of this kept running through his mind. He, a dirty, bedraggled stranger, had been welcomed into this cozy home, been bandaged, clothed, and now given the opportunity to clean the grime of the city streets from his body. He wondered why they trusted him, and why Clara hadn’t just left him in the alley in the first place. It would have been so easy.

  He leaned his forehead against the cool tiles careful not to put pressure on the gash. He wouldn’t trust himself, he thought grimly. After all he’d done, he didn’t deserve this caring treatment. “I deserve the street grime,” he whispered and shut his eyes tight. He pounded a fist softly on the wall, telling himself he should leave and never come back. A sharp throb ran through his swollen knuckles. He didn’t belong in a home with a loving family, especially so close to Christmas.

  That thought came like a fist closing around his heart. It was almost Christmas, only a week away now. He finished washing and no longer relished the feeling of being clean. He would leave at the first opportunity.

  He dried off with a huge, fluffy blue towel that waited on the other side of the sink. A glance in the mirror showed more bruises along his back and deep purple bruising across his ribs on the right side. He touched the aching place carefully, wondering if his ribs were broken or just cracked. He pulled the blue tee-shirt on and gritted his teeth at the pain in his ribs when he lifted his arms above his head. He then sat on the edge of the bathtub and re-wrapped his swollen knee before pulling on the pants. They were a bit short, but fit fairly well.

  He rose carefully and limped to the sink. Steam from the hot shower covered part of the mirror, revealing the words, “Martin rules all”, written with a finge
r. Chase studied his reflection, his brow creased in disapproval. He looked far older than he had a month ago. Dark, sleep-deprived circles lined both eyes while his left one was also rimmed in a black bruise below the gash. His month-old beard was thicker than he thought.

  He reached for the electric razor despite the pointlessness of shaving if he was just going to leave. If it meant something to Mr. Clark, he could at least do that. It felt good to clear his cheeks again. The jaw revealed was strong and stubborn, his father’s jaw. He sighed, set the razor down, and gathered up the fallen hair with toilet paper. He then brushed his teeth, relishing their clean, smooth feeling.

  A quick search revealed grocery sacks under the sink for use in the small garbage can. He placed his dirty clothes in the bag, hesitated, then wrapped toilet paper around the toothbrush and put it in the bag, too. He doubted anyone would mind its absence. He put the bag by the door so he could grab it when he left.

  After tidying up the bathroom, Chase ran a quick hand through his hair. It stubbornly fell in front of his eyes again. Steeling himself, he unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway. Immediately, scents of pot roast, fresh rolls, and homemade mashed potatoes tickled his nose. His stomach growled, reminding him that it had been more than a few days since he’d had a decent meal. Before he knew what he was doing, he followed the tantalizing smell to the dining room, leaning heavily against the wall to keep the weight off his bad knee.

  He stopped awkwardly at the open door. At least a dozen people sat around a long, well-worn but lovingly polished table with pull-out eves in place. Three children, Matty included, sat at a smaller table in the corner making interesting pictures out of their mashed potatoes and peas. The adults laughed and joked amid passing heaping plates of still-steaming food.

  At Chase’s appearance, the group grew quiet. Nods and warm smiles beamed at him wherever he looked. Almost desperately, he sought out Mr. Clark at one end of the long table.

  “Good to see you up and about,” Mr. Clark said with satisfaction. “You clean up well.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Chase replied. He could feel everyone looking at him and fumbled his words. “I-uh. Well, I’d better get going.”

  Mr. Clark’s eyebrows rose. “Going?”

  Chase nodded. “I appreciate the hospitality you and your family have shown to me, but I really shouldn’t impose on you any longer.”

  A rotund, highly spirited woman with short blond hair jumped up from Mr. Clark’s right side and hurried toward Chase. “Oh, nonsense,” she said, clucking her tongue. “We’ve enough food to feed an army, and I’ll bet by the looks of you that it’s been a while since you’ve had proper nourishment.” Upon reaching him, she took his arm and led him limping around the table to a vacant seat on Mr. Clark’s other side. “We won’t be sending you out in this shape no how,” she said in a tone that left little room for argument.

  Chase hesitated, saw that he had no choice, and sat down. Bewildered, he glanced over and met Clara’s eyes. She was smiling with one corner of her mouth higher than the other, as if she knew the awkwardness of the situation and found it amusing. At his puzzled frown, she shook her head and indicated the food. “Eat,” she mouthed.

  Chase’s stomach growled again, bringing his attention back to the food in front of him. During his brief, wordless exchange with Clara, Mrs. Clark had taken the opportunity to fill his plate with more food than he could eat in a week. Talking had already resumed around the table. After glancing around again, Chase picked up a buttered roll.

  The conversation was pleasant and charged with the sarcasm and wit of a family that took little offense at anything. Chase listened to an exchange between an older gentleman he guessed to be Clara’s grandfather and a boy who looked like a decades’ younger clone of Mr. Clark with light brown hair and a patient smile. They argued good-naturedly about the differences between acting in movies from the past and in the present.

  Clara joked with the boy seated next to her. Chase guessed he was close to seventeen. He had dyed his blonde hair black and styled it in moussed spikes. He wore black clothes, had black painted fingernails, a ring in his bottom lip, several in one ear, and silver chain around his neck with a simple circle on it.

  The couple next to Chase turned out to be the Clarks’ neighbors, the retired Mr. and Mrs. Stevens, who would be leaving the next day to spend Christmas with their son and daughter-in-law in Los Angeles. They were busy telling Mr. and Mrs. Clark about their plans for a trip to Rome over the summer. The two other children at the kids’ table with Matty were the Stevens’ grandchildren who would be flying back with them.

  Bailey, the big white dog, sat almost patiently near Mr. Clark licking his chops at the scents that wafted from the table. Occasionally, Mr. Clark tossed the dog a scrap as a reward for his patience. Mr. Clark saw Chase watching and fired his fingers at the dog like a gun. The dog immediately flopped onto his side, death simulation complete with a lolling tongue hanging out of his mouth. After half a second of holding the position, Bailey was on his feet wriggling with excitement at properly carrying out the trick. Mr. Clark laughed and tossed him a generous piece of meatloaf.

  “I don’t make my special meatloaf for it to be turned into dog food,” Mrs. Clark scolded, clucking her tongue, but the smile in her bright green eyes negated any truth to the scolding.

  “This is a wonderful meal,” Chase told her sincerely. “Thank you for having me over.”

  “It’s the least we could do,” Mrs. Clark replied, pleased at the compliment. Her green eyes twinkled.

  “Yeah, it’s a good thing you were there to save Clara and Matty.”

  The atmosphere changed and Chase looked up. The brown haired boy, Martin, who had been talking to Grandpa Clark was the one to speak. The teenager smiled amiably at Chase, but Chase could tell that it was a topic the Clarks would rather not talk about at dinner.

  Chase glanced quickly around and saw that all eyes were on him except Clara’s; she studied her empty plate, her expression unreadable. Chase sat up, ignoring the twinge in his side. “Actually,” he told the boy with a serious expression. “She was handling herself pretty well there. I was more afraid for the bad guys than her. Right, Matty?” He winked at the boy.

  Matty grinned. “Clara was going to whoop ‘em!” he replied.

  Everyone laughed and Mr. Clark turned back to Chase. “Well, we’re very fortunate you were there, Mr. Brockson. We are in your debt.”

  “Please, call me Chase, Sir,” Chase replied, embarrassed. “And I really didn’t do much, honest.”

  “Well, Chase,” Grandpa Clark said, “It’s good to know there’re still some heroes left in this crazy world.”

  A pit grew in Chase’s stomach. He dropped his eyes. “I’m no hero, Sir. I just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time.” He brushed his hair back from his brow, feeling the butterfly bandages beneath his fingertips. The pit in his stomach grew heavier when he thought about how close he had come to being killed. It was his fault Torn’s men were there in the first place. Clara and Matty wouldn’t have been in danger if it wasn’t for him.

  He glanced up and met Clara’s eyes. They were puzzled, searching. He looked away, angry at himself for staying, for intruding on this unknown, caring family, and for letting down his carefully constructed walls, even if just a little bit.

  “Dad, can Chase come with us to find our tree tomorrow?”

  Chase looked up, surprised. It was Matty who asked. “I want a huge tree!” the young boy said, jumping up on his chair and reaching his fingers as high as he could to demonstrate just how big it needed to be.

  “We should get a fake one,” Martin said with a glance at his dad. “We won’t be killing a tree and there’s less mess to clean up.”

  “It wouldn’t be Christmas without the fresh smell of pine in the house,” Mrs. Clark replied with a smile.

  “Bailey wouldn’t get covered in sap,” Grandma Clark pointed out. She smiled at Chase. “He always sleeps under t
he tree, and we have the darndest time getting the sap out of his fur.”

  Daniel, the black-haired boy next to Clara, laughed. “He looks like a deranged tree ornament when the bulbs get stuck to him.” The others chuckled at the memory.

  Chase shifted uncomfortably. He was a stranger amid a family of friends. He regretted the decision to stay for dinner.

  “Can he?” Matty pressed, bringing Chase’s attention back.

  Mr. Clark shrugged. “It’s up to Chase.” He looked at the young man, his eyes questioning.

  They were all looking at him. Chase glanced at Matty’s eager expression, his green eyes, a shade lighter than Clara’s, sparkling with anticipation. Chase looked away and shook his head. “I don’t really celebrate Christmas,” he said uncomfortably, the pit in his stomach making him nauseous.

  A hush fell around the table. “How can anyone not celebrate Christmas?” Daniel asked in amazement.

  Mr. Clark frowned at his son. “We mind our own business in this family, Daniel.” He turned back to Chase. “It’s more of a fun outing than anything else. We pick out a tree at Brecker’s Farm, get ice cream at The Barn, and catch a movie, sort of a Clark family tradition.”

  “We’d love for you to join us,” Mrs. Clark said with a beaming smile. “You’re practically part of the family after what you did. Besides, you’ll get to meet our daughter Ilene and her family.”

  He saw Grandma and Grandpa Clark nod out of the corner of his eye. He should say no; he knew he should. But Mrs. Clark’s words made him hesitate. How would it feel to be part of a family like this, if only for a little while?

  “Please?” Matty pleaded.

  “We do have a good time,” Martin said.

  Clara nodded, an encouraging smile on her face.

  Chase battled briefly with what he should do and what his heart truly wanted. For once, though he couldn’t explain why, he let his heart win. “Okay,” he finally agreed.