That Boy From Trash Town by Billie Green Page A

a regular there, but it's not my kind of place," the old man muttered. "Too noisy. My nephew took me there for a beer. He's young enough to put up with that loud music. Rock and roll, you know. Now, Westler's up town is more my speed. They have good old country music, and all my buddies go there. Especially on—"
    "Thank you, sir," Whitney said, already turning to pull the door open. "Would you tell Mrs. Skinner I don't need that address after all and thank her for me?" The last words were thrown over her shoulder.
    Whitney's hands were shaking on the steering wheel as she pulled away from the curb. As soon as she was out of sight of the boarding house, as soon as she turned off Quintan Street, she pulled over to the side of the street and slumped forward.
    Her father was still alive.
    Whitney's one big fear, a fear she had hidden somewhere in the back of her mind, was that Lloyd Grant had died since writing those letters to her mother. That she would have to face his death all over again.
    But he was still alive. And there was no new family to disrupt. She could find him, making herself known to him, without worrying about the other people in his life.
    Tonight she would go to Rick's Pub on Rale Street and start asking— She broke off the thought as another occurred to her. She already accepted the possibility that her father had walked out because he was tired of having a family. But if she started asking questions and word got back to him, he might disappear again.
    She couldn't take that chance. Although it went against the grain, she would have to be patient. She wouldn't mention his name to anyone. The old man at the boarding house said Lloyd Grant was a regular at Rick's, so Whitney would also become a regular. She would listen and watch, and sooner or later she would find him.
    The decision made, she put the car in gear, waited for a station wagon to pass, then pulled out.
    Whitney didn't look forward to going back to the hotel. The room was too empty, too lonely, and she would have to fight herself to keep from calling Dean. She needed to talk to him. And although she wanted to tell him about everything she'd learned, about the detective work she'd done, she knew it would be enough just to hear his voice.
    It wouldn't be the first time in the past two days that Whitney had fought the urge to call Dean. She'd said goodbye to him on a hilltop, but she was discovering that goodbye was only a word. And one little word couldn't cancel out the habits of a lifetime. She was in the habit of thinking of him. She was in the habit of sharing her thoughts and feelings with him.
    She was in the habit of loving him.
    It would get better, she told herself. It had to. As soon as she found her father, she wouldn't feel so alone. She would have something other than Dean to think about
    And someday she would probably get used to the pain of losing him.
    * * *
    Dean threw the heavy book down on his desk and rose abruptly to his feet. He hadn't seen Whitney in four days; she was even refusing to take his calls. Every time he telephoned Sweet House, Anne Grant would tell him, in her stiffly polite voice, that her daughter was indisposed and couldn't possibly come to the phone.
    "Stubborn idiot," he muttered.
    He had never been so exasperated with her. And although he hated to admit it, he had never been so worried, either. Dean had been so sure she wouldn't stay angry with him. But now, since he couldn't talk to her, he didn't know if she was simply sulking or genuinely hurt.
    Rubbing the back of his neck, he walked to the window that looked out over the backyard, his gaze lingering on the flowers she had planted there.
    He missed her, he admitted reluctantly. Whitney had been a part of his life for so long. A big part of his life. When he grew angry with the legal system-something that happened often—or when he became too deeply involved in a case, Whitney was always there to take his mind off his problems. Somehow, at some point in