Книга - In My Dreams

In My Dreams
Muriel Jensen


All he wants is family… Crawling on his belly through enemy fire is nothing compared to the murder that ripped Jack Palmer's childhood apart. Now that he's home from his tour of duty, the ex-soldier's most critical mission lies ahead: finding his long-lost sisters. And Sarah Reed can help.The compassionate former pediatric nurse awakens powerful feelings in Jack. Yet Sarah's traumatic loss of a young patient prevents her from wanting a family of her own. Is Jack ready to risk his place in his adopted family for the chance to reunite with his biological one…and claim a childless future with the woman he loves?







All he wants is family...

Crawling on his belly through enemy fire is nothing compared to the murder that ripped Jack Palmer’s childhood apart. Now that he’s home from his tour of duty, the ex-soldier’s most critical mission lies ahead: finding his long-lost sisters. And Sarah Reed can help.

The compassionate former pediatric nurse awakens powerful feelings in Jack. Yet Sarah’s traumatic loss of a young patient prevents her from wanting a family of her own. Is Jack ready to risk his place in his adopted family for the chance to reunite with his biological one...and claim a childless future with the woman he loves?


“It’ll get better, Jack.”

Suddenly overwhelmed with empathy for what he was going through, she instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck.

“The bad memories will fade and you’ll find your sisters.”

They shared a moment of stillness, until she recognized the instant her embrace stopped being about comfort and became...something else.

“Sarah,” he whispered.

He pushed her slightly away, looking down into her face. She looked up. His mouth came down, and hers reached up. The kiss was a gentle communication.

For about a second...


Dear Reader (#ulink_e4399324-714b-5f8c-a80b-90cc8e4991fb),

Ideas for books usually fall on my head, as though there are helpful muses in the clouds attaching notes to bricks and letting them fly. That’s truly how it feels when I think I have a good idea. Before it arrives, I think and think, read all kinds of different things looking for plot possibilities or character inspiration, then it hits me!

This time inspiration came from across the street in the person of our young neighbor who did two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan and remains the nicest, dearest man. His parents are wonderful and my hero’s childhood experiences are not at all Sean’s, though their war experiences are very similar.

I love the beleaguered hero who is strong despite it all, and a heroine who can still find love to give when her own life is difficult. So I crossed Jack Palmer’s path with Sarah Reed’s and sort of tore up the roadway.

He’s plagued by dreams of all he’s seen in war, and his confused subconscious is mixing them up with memories of his childhood so that his mother is riding in the turret of his Humvee. He fears for his sanity.

Sarah wants to help him, but she has her own awful memories of a career as a pediatric nurse and the heartbreak of trying to help children with health problems for which there are no solutions.

Let’s raise our glasses and coffee mugs to people in pain who reach out with love anyway. People who try to make a better world when their own little corner of it has been awful. Let’s put them into office. Let’s pay them multimillion-dollar salaries.

That’s how you start to think when a brick hits you in the head.

I hope you enjoy the story it created.

Muriel


In My Dreams

Muriel Jensen




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


MURIEL JENSEN lives with her husband, Ron, in a simple old Victorian looking down on the Columbia River in Astoria, Oregon. They share the space with a loudmouthed husky mix and two eccentric tabbies. They have three children, eight grandchildren and four great-grandchildren.

Their neighborhood is charmed, populated with the kindest and most fun-to-be-around people. Who would have guessed that the eight-year-old who lived across the street and came to watch television and eat cookies after school when he’d misplaced his key would grow up to inspire a book and its hero?

No one is safe from the writer’s reach.


To Sgt. Sean M. Johnson

Apache Troop 3rd Squadron, 89th Cavalry Regiment

4th Brigade, 10th Mountain Division

This handsome young man, who has lived across the street from us since he was a child, has grown up to be a credit to his parents and his own sense of honor. When I told him I wanted to dedicate this book to him for all his help with the first chapter, and the psyche of my hero, he said, “Dedicate it to all those who’ve served and sacrificed their lives, and for all who still put their lives on the line.”

He is now Officer Sean Johnson with the Cannon Beach, Oregon, Police Department, and has a beautiful wife, Allison, and brand-new son, Odin Curtis-Wayne Johnson, born July 17.


Contents

Cover (#ud8975c7d-43e5-5db2-b7da-b05a1ad5b731)

Back Cover Text (#udb868a9f-bb18-584b-89fa-f8631c6c2453)

Introduction (#uf1507498-433e-53f0-9272-c4f2cd5f38e5)

Dear Reader (#u55d03e0d-f555-5777-a88f-22a2da0a5d59)

Title Page (#u481b8f18-ff60-573d-a0ee-c08e9e3e4591)

About the Author (#ue65502f6-9644-5052-ac41-590b5d409e33)

Dedication (#uf451325f-61cc-5890-9268-f6784e39d4ea)

CHAPTER ONE (#ue161570e-036c-5fe1-93b5-728b5c2044ac)

CHAPTER TWO (#u82c8f4fe-4886-547d-bc6d-f42f862cb6f5)

CHAPTER THREE (#u27e54eff-b00d-564c-9ed7-1e213239751e)

CHAPTER FOUR (#u6b2fa5d8-4887-5fcc-aebe-465f8fa491fa)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_00d008f1-bfe3-59c6-ac93-8ce0a9662a96)

THE AIR INSIDE the Humvee was thick with dust and heat. Under his camo jacket, Jack’s skin prickled with the threat of danger as he scanned the road ahead. The escort of Special Forces to a chicken farm in Southeastern Iraq where the farmer was dealing in rockets and missiles had been uneventful, but it was insurgent strategy to let them pass, plant IEDs when they were out of sight, then wait for the patrol to return and watch the jihad happen.

Sweat broke out along his spine. He had leave in a week and a half. He was just imagining trouble. He was going to be fine. The day was quiet. He was a cavalry scout, the best of the best, the baddest of the bad, able to take on the world—or so the scouts told each other. Ego could keep you alive.

“You feel that?” Bolton asked. He was a teacher from New Jersey and claimed to be “in tune with the universe.” He sat beside Jack.

“Yeah,” Jack said. It wasn’t anything audible, just hung in the air like a weight. “What is it?”

“I don’t know. But something.”

Everything inside Jack sharpened—his senses, his instincts and his primal sense of survival. This close to the end of his tour, fear no longer had meaning. He couldn’t function with it. Simple, steady common sense and remembering his training became the focus of every moment on the road.

The flash of light burst all around him like some personal supernova. Later, the other joes would talk about the deafening explosion, but he never heard it. There was only the light and the diffusion of everything beyond its circle.

When Jack came to, Bolton was slumped in his seat and the whole right side of the vehicle, which included the computer and a rifle, was gone. Above Jack’s head, Curry, the gunner, was praying urgently. “Help me. Please, God, help me.”

Jack forced himself to assess. He ran his hands up and down his arms, felt his thighs, his knees. He was okay. He pushed at Bolton’s shoulder. “You okay? Bolton?”

Bolton didn’t answer. There wasn’t a sound from the three other vehicles in the convoy. Jack’s heart beat fast enough to choke him.

He checked Bolton for injuries and found a lot of blood on his right side. But he had a pulse.

“Help me,” Curry continued to pray. “Please help me.”

Jack leaped out on his side and climbed into the turret. Curry’s face was white and his blood was everywhere. The explosion had blown away most of his right forearm, still held on by something stringy—a tendon, maybe. Swallowing the need to hurl, Jack pulled a tourniquet from pieces of the first-aid kit in his pocket. He tied it just above Curry’s elbow.

That’s when he saw the figure approaching from the west and drew his sidearm. It was a column of white walking out of the dry desert grass on the side of the road.

The caftan billowed in a whisper of breeze as the figure took a step forward. Jack aimed his weapon, widened his stance and shouted, “Stop!” The figure kept coming. Jack shouted again and held up his hand in the universal signal to halt. Still, the figure kept coming as though simply on a stroll. Jack fired above his head, but the figure didn’t stop.

Jack aimed for the chest, his finger on the trigger, but confusion made him hold back. Why wasn’t the attacker returning fire? He could see both his hands, scanned his body for a weapon and saw none—unless a bomb was strapped to his chest. Jack’s heartbeat accelerated and sweat ran into his eyes as the guy closed the distance between them.

Then he realized it was not a man. The walk was fluid and graceful. A woman. She could be as lethal as any man. He took aim again and then the pistol went slack in his hands as the woman raised her head to reveal a beautiful, wholesome face. The last time he’d seen that face, he’d been eight years old and the world as he knew it had ended.

“Mom?” He heard his astonished whisper.

The face’s soft beauty suggested the complete opposite of the drug-hungry woman who’d had three children she’d ignored while going through man after man in her attempt to stay high. Blue eyes met his and honey-blond hair ruffled as she pulled off the hijab.

“I’m going, Jack,” she said in the slightly slurred voice he remembered. She came to a stop near the vehicle. “You’ll be fine.”

Now two little girls who hadn’t been there a moment ago held her hands. One of them was dark featured and about four. The other was just a toddler with blond hair. Both pulled away from their mother and reached for him, crying his name. “Jack! Jackie!”

He felt a burning in his gut, as though she’d shot him.

He was Section 8. He’d been afraid this would happen. The guys who survived emotionally in this bubble of hell managed to somehow exist outside it. After living through an ugly childhood, he’d thought he was strong enough to get through anything, but apparently he wasn’t. After all he’d seen and done and survived, he was now hallucinating. His mother had been in jail for over twenty years, and he hadn’t seen his sisters in about as long.

His mother called his name, but it couldn’t be her; it was his brain playing tricks. He screamed for the image to go away or he’d shoot again. Now the girls were gone and his mother climbed the turret and took hold of his forearms.

“No!” he shouted and used every ounce of strength he had left to push her away. She screamed as she fell backward.

* * *

“JACK!” SARAH SHOUTED into his face, pushing at his chest with both hands. It was like trying to move a refrigerator. She wanted to think he wouldn’t harm her, but he was caught in one of his nightmares and in this one, she seemed to be a threat. Since he was a well-honed fighting machine, she had to wake him. “Jack! Stop! It’s me!”

Whatever was going on in his mind had twisted his handsome face into a mask of pain.

“Jack!” she said again. “Wake up!”

His eyes opened and he blinked, confusion, disorientation in his face. She took advantage of the moment to push harder against him and roll him over so that she knelt astride him and pinned him to the mattress. “Wake up!”

“Geez!” A strong male arm suddenly circled her waist and pulled her off Jack. “What happened?” Ben demanded, setting her on her feet and holding Jack down with his other hand.

Ben, a Beggar’s Bay, Oregon, police officer, was Jack’s brother and her boyfriend. She smiled feebly and indicated Jack, who was now clearly awake and trying to sit up but for the hand to his chest. “He was crying out. I was starting breakfast and came in to see if he was okay.”

Jack pushed Ben’s hand away and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He wore boxer shorts and a T-shirt, revealing bulging arm and thigh muscles. He smiled apologetically. “I was dreaming that she was going to make me eat oatmeal again today,” he said, his brown-eyed, bloodshot glance teasing. “I want bacon and eggs.”

“Funny man.” Sarah took a steadying breath and turned to give Ben a quick kiss. He looked stressed out. “Hi. My hero.” She put her hands on her hips and frowned good-naturedly at Jack. “You know, I’d like you better if you didn’t try to kill me when I come over to make your breakfast.”

She’d promised Jack and Ben’s parents that while they were at their winter place in Arizona, she’d prepare meals and keep an eye on Jack. She worked for Coast Care, a home health-care provider.

Neither brother had kitchen skills and the Palmers had been concerned about Jack’s nightmares. He’d been cleared of mental health issues upon discharge two weeks ago. He insisted he would be fine as soon as he put the past six years away and reclaimed his civilian life.

To ease his parents’ minds, Ben had assured them that he and Sarah would look out for his brother. To that end, he’d temporarily vacated his condo and moved into their childhood home. Sarah had been coming daily as promised. This was the second time Jack had mistaken her for an Iraqi insurgent.

“I’m fine,” Jack insisted. “Sarah doesn’t have to come anymore. I can make our breakfast.”

“Toaster waffles are not breakfast,” Sarah stated.

“Says who? They’re whole grain.”

She sighed. “You should start the day with fruit, protein and whole grain that aren’t processed into pastry.” She made a beckoning gesture. “Come on. I brought vegetarian sausage, cheese and veggies for an omelet, and grainy bread for toast.”

Jack shook his bed-head at Ben, wearing a weary grin. “She’s such a tyrant. I don’t know what you see in her, apart from beauty and brains.”

“She’s already paid off her student loans, so if I marry her, she can start on mine. I’ve got a sunny future sewed up.”

Sarah shook her head and looked from one brother to the other, then gave Ben a quick hug, loving the easy relationship between them. She’d met Ben when he’d stopped her doing fifty through town on her way to work five months ago. She’d been late and he’d been charming, even though he’d still given her a ticket! He had a degree in Business Administration, but loved police work. And she loved him because he cared about his family and his community.

“Come on, Jack,” she encouraged. “If you’re starting work today like you said, you need nutrition. I know you can’t recover overnight from all you’ve seen and been through, but a healthy breakfast would be a good start.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ve got an hour before Vinny.”

“Vinny?”

“Vinny Caruso, my first client of the day. He’s eighty-four, about five foot six and maybe a hundred and forty pounds. He was an insurance salesman and a musician on the side. He’s about as skilled in the kitchen as you two. But he lives across town, so let’s get moving.”

“All right, all right. I’m right behind you.”

Sarah was now very familiar with the Palmers’ large, comfortable kitchen. Twenty years ago, Gary Palmer, Ben and Jack’s father, had renovated the inside of the spacious Victorian home on the edge of town to suit his family’s purposes. The more recently updated kitchen looked out onto a wide lawn that sloped to the bay on the central Oregon coast. Four fat blue hydrangea bushes now turning green and purple in the September weather crowded a simple wooden gate at the edge of the slope. The gate served no purpose, but Gary had put it there, thinking it provided a pretty sight from the kitchen window.

The room was painted an herbal green and the cupboards and details were rustic with hinges and pulls Gary had salvaged from an old bakery. Sarah loved working in this room; it made her feel connected to past generations. As someone disconnected from her former life, she appreciated that.

Ben placed bread in the toaster while Sarah dropped the sausage into the frying pan. She pulled a bowl of fruit out of the refrigerator and spooned some into three bowls. She topped them with strawberry yogurt, then turned the sausage.

“You all right?” Ben asked, pushing the toaster lever down and moving closer to study her. He frowned at a bruise on her upper arm.

“I’m fine.”

“I warned you not to try to wake him.”

“Ben, he was screaming. I can’t hear someone cry out and not investigate. And, if you recall, when you came to my rescue, I had the upper hand.”

“Upper hand,” he repeated skeptically. “I hate to disillusion you, but the self-defense class you took at the college wouldn’t hold up against military combat training. Had he been a little deeper into that dream, you’d have been in three pieces.”

She rolled her eyes. “Next time he screams, I’ll ask what’s wrong from the doorway.”

She turned the sausage patties again and pointed to the toaster where browned bread had popped up. “I put a jar of strawberry jam in the fridge.”

“Do you have a night job tonight?” he asked, retrieving the jam.

“No. Just Vinny and Margaret. No Jasper today. He’s gone to Portland with a friend. But I do have a meeting with my boss after lunch.” They’d all been her daytime regulars for the past few months. Vinny loved her cooking, Margaret was a lady of the old school and loved Sarah because she was willing to iron her sheets, and Jasper Fletcher, a blind man in his late fifties, counted on Sarah to listen as he told her about what he’d learned from books on tape. Her goal was to make their diets nutritious, as well as to keep them active and social. “I’m done in the middle of the afternoon.”

“Good. I’m off to Eugene in the morning for a weekend cop conference. Want to have dinner tonight?”

“Sure. I’ll fix something for Jack.”

“He’s planning a Blue Bloods marathon.”

“Wouldn’t you rather stay with him? You’d probably love a Blue Bloods marathon. We can have dinner another time.”

He leaned over to kiss her gently. “We haven’t had an evening alone together in two weeks. Prime rib special at the Farmhouse tonight.”

“Okay, I’m in.”

“Seven o’clock.”

“It’s a date.”

“It is,” he said, a different note in his voice. “We have things to talk about. I’ll pick you up.”

“No, I’ll stop by to deliver something for Jack’s dinner. What do we have to talk about?”

He narrowed his gaze on her, as though looking for something in her eyes he wasn’t finding. “A lot,” he finally replied.

His tone put her on alert. So far, theirs had been just an easy, romantic friendship. Today, though, he looked very serious. She hoped he wasn’t thinking what she suspected he was thinking. He’d make a wonderful husband and father, but while she’d like to have the one, she didn’t intend to ever have the other.

* * *

JACK WALKED INTO the kitchen, doing his best to look well-adjusted despite his earlier freak-out. That was just a small indicator of his serious problem. Behaving in a normal way in the kitchen he’d grown up in since age eight, in the small-town life that had been all about fishing and building and girls, when just two weeks ago he’d carried an M4 carbine and jumped out of helicopters, was harder than it sounded. Bullets had whistled by his ear, people around him had died or suffered unspeakable injuries; he’d exchanged gunfire and felt a time or two as though he might die. And somehow he had to dial down the adrenaline that pulsed into his blood and figure out how to live again in this kitchen, in this life.

“A step at a time, Jack,” his shrink at Fort Polk used to say. “A step at a time.”

Sure. Easily said. But even if he managed to cope with old memories, what did he do about new ones? Like waking up with his brother’s girl straddling him? He could still feel her knees pressed against his hips, smell the floral-vanilla fragrance of her clinging to his T-shirt.

He shook off the sensory image and took the plate of buttered toast from Ben, put it in the middle of the table, then went to get utensils. He smiled reassuringly at his brother and Sarah as he passed them. He took the opportunity to keep thinking.

Why in God’s name had he seen his mother’s face in his dream? Images of his little sisters had haunted him for years, ever since they’d all been separated when their mother had gone to jail for manslaughter after murdering her boyfriend. He’d had nightmares since then of himself running away through a dark, blurry night, the girls screaming and footsteps right behind him, gaining on him. But he’d always been very much alone. What was his mother doing in his dreams? And in Iraq? He scowled fiercely.

“Jack?”

He looked up at the sound of his name and saw Sarah holding up an egg. “You okay?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“Good. Two or three eggs in your omelet?”

He smiled. “Two, please.”

Ben put the jam down in front of him. “You’re starting to scare me, bro. You sure you’re okay?”

Jack kept smiling. “Thanks, I’m good. You know how real dreams can be. I’m just having trouble putting it out of my head.”

“Afghanistan?”

“No, Iraq. For whatever reason, it was the Humvee explosion in the middle of my first tour that keeps coming back to me.”

“You can talk about any of that, you know. I’d be glad to listen. I know I wasn’t there, but I kind of understand war.”

“Thanks.” Jack knew cops saw ugly things all the time. But terrible memories of war entangled with ugly childhood memories made for an awful hybrid.

It would be hard to explain to Ben what was going on in his head. He and Ben had been friends as children, then brothers when the Department of Human Services had allowed Ben’s parents, Gary and Helen Palmer, to adopt Jack. At the same time, his younger half sisters had been sent to live with their respective fathers.

“I’m going to be fine,” Jack insisted. “I just have to get my head together.”

Ben looked him in the eye, clearly trying to read what Jack wasn’t saying. “You know it’s more than that. No one can survive such things without venting it to somebody.”

He’d been doing that to his shrink at the fort, and although being home again was gradually pulling him away from the past six years, the sharply revived memories of his childhood and the big-time return of his dreams were driving him toward the only solution he could think of to get his life on track again.

“Actually,” he said, “I have an idea about how to help myself.”

Ben put down his fork. “What’s that?”

Jack met his waiting gaze and said, as though it was going to be easy, “I’m going to find my sisters.”


CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_37825b7d-ed38-5b6e-a1ae-71ec690f0c8d)

BEN SHOOK HIS head and stabbed his fork into a bite of sausage. “Jack, it’s been too long. You have no idea where they are, and they have different names.”

“Yeah. But technology puts the world at my fingertips. I’m going to find them.”

Sarah saw the zealous light in Jack’s eyes and the defining caution in Ben’s. They were two very different men with one very strong connection. They weren’t brothers by birth but by the courage that brought them together as boys and now defined them as men—the soldier and the cop.

“I hate to see you get hurt, Jack. And you’re kind of...vulnerable right now, don’t you think? You’ve had about all the pain you can deal with.”

Jack shrugged as though he had no control over his need to reconnect with his sisters. “I have to do this.”

“Why can’t it wait until you’re...adjusted?”

“Because ‘it’ has waited so long already. And this is as adjusted as I’m going to get until I find them. I promised our mother that I’d work on the carriage house out back. That’ll help me regain my carpentry skills, hopefully, so I can get Palmer Restorations going again, and in my spare time, I’m going to start looking for Corie. Or Cassie. Whoever I get a lead on first.”

Sarah knew that Helen Palmer had long dreamed of fixing up the old carriage house, now used as a storage shed, to rent it out to writers. For the past ten years Helen had been a freelance editor for a Portland publishing house. Over the years she’d hosted several writers in this home while they’d discussed revisions. She’d often talked about how good it would be for a writer to spend time in a comfortable spot in this country setting with more privacy than the guest bedroom could provide.

“What are you going to do with all the stuff in there now?” Ben asked.

“Rent a Dumpster, throw away the junk, save the good stuff and store it in your room.” Jack spoke with a straight face and spread jam on his toast while Ben looked heavenward.

Since Ben had moved back into his old room, he’d been less than tidy. It had become a family joke.

“I mean, really,” Jack went on with a grin at Sarah. “You could hide an elephant in there. You’ll barely notice lumber and storage boxes.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“I’ll clear a corner of the basement,” Jack said seriously. “You can look over the iffy stuff with me. We’ll save a pile for Mom to check out before I throw it away.”

“Yeah, well, much as I’d love to do that, I’ll be busy busting perps and saving lives. I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

“Does it really come to that in Beggar’s Bay? I mean, isn’t it more directing parking at the fairgrounds and taking runaway dogs to the animal shelter?”

“Just the other day,” Sarah said gravely, “Ben jumped into the bay to catch a drunk driver evading arrest, remember?”

Jack wrinkled his nose. “Hard to forget. He smelled like a salmon for two days.”

“But, still. Heroic.”

Ben made a sound of distress and turned to Sarah, pretending hurt feelings at her dubious defense. “Hey. For better or for worse, in sickness and in health, remember?”

“That’s for married people, Ben.” She gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence, phony but very sweet. It gave Jack a mild case of arrhythmia for a minute. “People just dating get to harass and annoy.”

Ben stopped her, laughing, and leaned toward her for a kiss. Jack had seen enough. As if his life, his recovery from the ugliness of war and his bizarre nightmares weren’t complicated enough already, he had to be attracted to Sarah Reed, his brother’s girlfriend.

He pushed away from the table. He could deal with it. Attraction, after all, was such a small thing as far as love was concerned, and attraction was all he was going to allow himself to feel. He hoped.

Fortunately, neither Sarah nor Ben had noticed.

The table was littered with empty plates. “All right,” Jack said, standing and pointing to Ben. “You go save lives.” He smiled at Sarah. “And you get to work before Vinny and your other clients expire without you. I’ll clean up.”

There was no false reluctance to leave him with the task. They were both gone in an instant. He cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, then grabbed a jacket and went outside to check out the contents of the carriage house.

* * *

SARAH DROVE THROUGH the three-block commercial area. She passed the Episcopal Church and continued up the hill, past the nearly finished retirement village and the elementary school across the road, toward the over-55 development where Vinny lived.

As she drove, Sarah breathed as though she were in a Lamaze class. Since Jack had come home, she and Ben had talked a lot about family, but very little about children, except that he’d asked her once if she liked them. She’d said that she did, just hadn’t mentioned that she didn’t want any of her own. But now that she felt certain marriage was on his mind, she had to tell him that and explain why.

Her first job after acquiring her Bachelor of Science in Nursing had been as a pediatric nurse in Seattle. Her dream had been to go on to a Master of Science and work toward becoming a Pediatric Nurse Practitioner.

For several years she’d loved the work. Eventually, however, it became evident that while nothing could compete with the emotional highs of success in children’s care, nothing was as dark and ugly as failure.

At first she’d been philosophical about doing the most that could be done for sick children. Then a five-year-old patient, Jerica Warren, had been admitted with the flu. Despite an underlying asthma issue, she hadn’t been vaccinated against the flu because it was early in the season. Sarah had told Jerica’s worried parents how hard the doctors worked at Puget Sound Children’s Hospital. How they’d used every medical advancement known to man and saved nine out of ten children. “She has to live, Sarah,” Jerica’s father had said. “Because if she doesn’t, we won’t survive, either.”

Jerica had been brave and trusting, held Sarah’s hand while the doctor put a line into her small arm to fill her with antibiotics. But not only had she had Influenza B, but also MRSA, a superbug infection. Sarah had sat with the family as Jerica’s organs began to shut down. She remembered every moment of those awful days.

Jerica died on a sunny day in early October, and the look on her parents’ faces had been like eternal winter. That had been two years ago. Sarah had stayed on the job another month but had been unable to shake the sense of loss and a new lack of faith in a medical system that should be able to save all children. The good work done at the children’s hospital couldn’t make up for Jerica’s loss.

Sarah quit, spent a month with her parents, helping around the house and in the garden, and simply absorbing the comfort of being home. Her sister, Kate, who was married and had beautiful four-year-old twin boys, visited regularly. Sarah had enjoyed them until they coughed or sniffled, whereupon she’d found herself listening for wheezing sounds and checking skin color while unreasonable fears mounted inside her.

“You’re just burned out, sweetheart,” her father had said when she explained her feelings. “You’ll recover. Or maybe you should find some other kind of nursing that isn’t so hard on you.”

Conducting a job search online, Sarah had discovered Coast Care in Beggar’s Bay and had worked for the owner, John Baldrich, for the past year. Most of her clients were seniors. They were sometimes cranky, but for the most part, they appreciated her visits.

Sarah guided her sturdy white Jeep through the maze of homes that made up the community and pulled into Vinny’s driveway. His house was a small two-bedroom with bright colors and a lot of style. Vinny’s wife, who’d died the year before, had had an eye for design.

Vinny met Sarah at the door as he always did, leaning heavily on his cane as he ushered her inside. He wore a bright red flannel shirt with gray sweatpants and had combed his thin gray hair. Horn-rimmed glasses sat on a formidable nose over a bright smile of original teeth.

“How are ya, gorgeous?” he asked.

She gave him a quick hug. Good. One of his cheerful days. “Great, handsome. How are you today?”

“Hungry! What are we having?”

“Vegetarian sausage and cheese omelet, and I brought you a few fat-free brownies for later, but don’t eat them all at once. Like you did the lemon bars, remember? Walgreens ran out of Tums because of you.”

He followed her into a small but well-equipped kitchen. Photos of his wife and children covered the refrigerator. “I had no regrets,” he said. “Those were the best lemon bars I’ve ever binged on. Want to get married?”

She turned the heat on under a frying pan and smiled at him over her shoulder. “Not today, Vinny. I have a meeting later with John Baldrich about you guys buying the Cooper Building to use as a seniors’ center.” She added sausage to the pan.

“What kind of meeting? I thought all we had to do was form a nonprofit corporation and the city would let us have it. We did that.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. There’s another buyer involved.”

He frowned. “Who?”

“Not sure. But I like to think city council will give priority to the seniors.”

“What does city council have to do with it?”

“They make the decision on whom to sell it to, because the city took possession of the building when the owner defaulted on three years’ worth of taxes.”

“What’s the decision based on?”

She turned the sausage and then added the omelet mixture she’d brought in a plastic container. “I think it all depends on how the city’s code is written. John’s checking it out.”

Vinny nodded. “He’s a good guy. I can’t imagine he makes a fortune. His rate for having you come every day during the week for an hour is ridiculously reasonable.” He grinned at her. “And you always do more than you need to. I hope he pays you more than I pay him.”

She made him toast, poured his orange juice and served his breakfast at a small table in a sunny window. While she cleaned the kitchen, she listened to stories she’d already heard about his great-grandchildren and his daughter’s promotion.

After breakfast she drove him to the seniors’ center in a building that the owner had decided to boot the seniors from to refurbish for a tenant who could pay higher rent. She helped him out of her car and walked him to the door. He leaned on his cane and squeezed her hand with his free one. “The omelet was delicious. Thanks, Sarah.”

“Have a great day, Vinny.”

“You too, gorgeous.”

His friends came to greet him and she left him in their care, probably to play pool and solve the world’s political problems. She drove on to Margaret’s.

* * *

AN ELEGANT WOMAN in her early eighties, Margaret Brogan lived in a little apartment in a downtown complex. She used a walker because of a fall that had left her with a painful limp. She dressed in soft, pretty colors, and her carefully tended helmet of white hair looked precisely the same every day. She always wore jewelry and lipstick and smelled of some spicy floral scent.

She always prepared her own breakfast of fruit, granola and yogurt, but loved to have morning coffee with Sarah. Suffering from mild depression, she refused medication, wanting instead to work through the issue herself. Her doctor thought the regular visits of someone who cared might help.

Margaret’s apartment was spotless. It had a blond coffee table with matching end tables, and a comfortable burnt-orange sofa and chairs. The tall, filigreed birdcage that stood by the window had plants in it, tendrils of ivy spiraling out. Three dining stools were lined up in front of a white Formica-topped bar that separated the living room from the white-and-yellow kitchenette. The rooms looked dated but stately, like Margaret herself.

“What did you bring today?” Margaret asked as she led the way to the kitchen.

“Blueberry muffins from the Bountiful Bakery. You got coffee going?”

“Yes. You have a date tonight?”

Margaret was very interested in Sarah’s social life. She, herself, had had a very active one as a young woman. It had resulted in a long marriage, three children scattered across the country and a lonely old age.

“I do, as a matter of fact. Ben and I are going to the Farmhouse.” Sarah put the muffins on plates and retrieved low-fat margarine from the refrigerator. She helped Margaret sit at the table.

“How’s Jack doing now that he’s back? My daughter lived a few houses down from Jack and his biological mother, Charlene Manning, when Jack was a boy. I used to babysit my grandson Marty at my daughter’s while she worked. Marty’s a lawyer now, you know...” She trailed off, then came back to the subject of Jack. “He and Marty often played together. Jack wasn’t wounded, was he?”

Sarah remembered the nightmare that had landed her on top of a very agitated Jack. “No, no serious injuries. I haven’t known him very long. I met Ben after Jack was deployed to Afghanistan and met Jack for the first time a couple of weeks ago.”

Margaret cut her muffin in two. “It’s unfair that a boy should have to go through even more than he did as a child.” Margaret seemed to be looking at an image in her mind and shook her head at what she saw there. “Charlene was a terrible mother, but she was as beautiful as a movie star. She used to sing, you know, but after Jack’s father died, men came and went from that house as though she sold sporting goods.”

Sarah arched an eyebrow at the appropriate simile. “A few of them were not very good to those children. I often heard angry shouting. I called the police several times, but they never took action. I don’t know what she told them, but those children stayed with her till the day she shot and killed that last boyfriend.”

Ben had told her a little about Jack’s childhood and the murder that had resulted in him becoming one of the Palmers. But she didn’t know very much about Jack’s mother. “You wonder how that can be allowed to happen.”

“That family was all over the front page of the newspaper. It doesn’t seem right that a child should witness a murder at eight years old and then have to go to war and see men get killed when he’s an adult.”

“It’s a rotten world sometimes.”

“It is. More for some people than for others.”

Ben had told her Jack had been blown up in a Humvee on two separate occasions, involved in several firefights and nicked in the earlobe by a bullet while he’d been loading a mortar shell on his last deployment. She couldn’t imagine how life altering it must be to come so close to death.

“I gave them things to eat on more than one occasion,” Margaret said. “If it hadn’t been for that boy, those little girls would have gone hungry. He took care of them all the time. And then that murder happened.” She shook her head despairingly.

No wonder Jack had nightmares, Sarah thought.

“Well, shall I tell him you said hello?” Sarah asked, poking at her half of the muffin. Her appetite was waning. “Would he remember you?”

Margaret nodded and smiled. “I think he would. Tell him I’m the lady with the peanut butter cookies.”

“I will. How come I’ve never had your peanut butter cookies?”

Margaret reached out to pinch her cheek. “Because you’re not a hungry little waif with a world of sadness in your eyes.”

* * *

JOHN BALDRICH, WHO’D been an ER nurse before he’d started Coast Care five years before, welcomed Sarah into his small downtown office at the back of Johnson Medical Supply. He was tall and professional looking with gray hair and glasses. His office, too, with its dark paneling and wall of medical books, looked scholarly and tweedy.

After exchanging pleasantries and asking about her clients, he smiled, his manner becoming paternal.

“Sarah, I know how you feel about your experience in caring for children, but it’s almost criminal that you’ve signed on here as a home-care worker rather than as a licensed nurse. You cook and make beds and do laundry, rather than assess your clients’ conditions, give medications and make more important contributions to their health. You’re like an orchid disguised as a daisy.”

He grew orchids at home and won competitions all around the state for his perfect specimens. She appreciated the sincerity of his compliment. “Thank you, John. But I really like what I’m doing now.” She wanted nothing to do with a more important role in patient care. She liked this one.

He nodded, though the expression in his eyes seemed troubled. “Margaret calls me once a month to tell me how much she likes you. That you’re caring and conscientious and go the extra mile.”

“Good. I’m glad she’s happy.”

He shuffled papers on his desk and shifted position in his chair, clearly preparing to change the subject. “About the Cooper Building,” he said.

“Yes.”

“All the agencies that serve seniors are getting together to put on a fund-raiser to help them buy the building. Each group is sending a representative to form a committee. Will you be ours? I’ll clear you for whatever time you need to make meetings and do whatever you have to do. And I’ll pay you for that time because I know you’re living partly on savings.”

“Goodness, John...”

“I’d like this to work for the seniors,” he went on. “It would be nice if they had a place of their own where they couldn’t be ejected on a landlord’s whim. I’m not sure of the status of plumbing and wiring, but that can always be fixed once they have the building.”

“That’s expensive stuff.”

“It is, but I know a guy...” He grinned. “So, will you do it? Represent Coast Care?”

“I guess. Usually, I’m not much of a meetings person. I like to do what I want to do without a lot of haggling.”

“It’s not haggling, it’s negotiating, compromising. And anyway, a lot of the prep work is already done. Also, somebody knows a thirtyish member of the Cooper family who originally owned the building. Bobby Jay Cooper’s not exactly a country-western star, but he does the state fair circuit and has a few CDs that have sold very well. He’s willing to come to Beggar’s Bay to perform for us. Plus, we’ll have a talent show and he’s agreed to be the judge.”

“A talent show,” she repeated doubtfully.

“Your client Margaret Brogan taught music in the school system for years. She should be able to recommend some participants for you. As well as participate herself.”

“Why do we need that if we have a country-western singer?”

“Just to get more people involved. People love to come out and see their neighbors embarrass themselves.”

She had to smile at that. “Sure. I’ll do it. As long as I don’t have to sing.”

“Great.” He handed her a slip of paper. “First meeting is next Tuesday. Library meeting room.”

* * *

JACK MADE FOUR piles in the backyard to organize the redistribution of the contents of the four rooms in the carriage house. It had a main room with a small fireplace, a small bedroom, a tiny kitchen and a tinier bathroom. He had a pile for lumber his father had saved from various projects—Gary Palmer owned a construction business—and one for empty boxes that could be useful sometime but were in the way right now; he could break those down and tape them together when the need arose. Plastic tubs of Christmas decorations were handier to have in the carriage house than in the basement, where they had to be hauled up and down steep steps, but he or Ben could do that when the time came, and there were a few boxes of childhood toys and games his mother still brought out when friends with children came to visit.

He filled a trash barrel with pieces of wood that had warped. A branch from an old cedar tree had gone through a window at the back during the last windstorm and had apparently not been noticed. The box that had been stored under it was wet.

He pulled the shards of glass out of the window and placed them in an empty box. Then he used the bottom of another box to cover the hole until he could replace the window.

He hauled the barrel and the box of glass outside and surveyed the now almost-empty carriage house. He felt himself drift backward into the memory of hiding out in here when he and Ben were seven, before his mother had killed Brauer and his life, such as it was, had fallen apart. Ben had broken a kitchen window with an awesome but slightly misdirected two-base hit and Jack had been staying out of Roscoe’s way. Roscoe Brauer had been the fourth man in his mother’s life that he recalled, and the worst.

When he was three, his father had died somewhere over the desert when the light plane he was transporting illegal drugs in experienced engine failure and crashed.

After that, his mother had taken up with Miguel Ochoa, who’d kept her supplied with cocaine. Elizabeth Corazon—they’d called her Corie—Ochoa was born when Jack was four. She’d been pretty homely, but had grown a little prettier and been a complete pain in the neck. She’d broken every toy Jack owned.

Miguel, who’d been a relatively nice guy despite his occupation, left a year later after many prolonged arguments with Jack’s mother. That had begun her serious descent into despondency and mindless addiction to methamphetamines.

Cassidy, or Cassie, had been born the following year, the result of his mother’s brief and tragic relationship with a counselor who’d tried to help her and fallen victim instead to her charm and beauty when she was sober. It was brief because she’d lasted less than three months in the rehab program, and tragic because Donald Chapman had left.

His mother had played a game with the Department of Human Services people. She had been sober when they’d visited and able to express sincerely her desire to keep her children, a declaration they’d believed because it had played into their mission of keeping families together. But when they’d left, it was back to life as usual.

A drug dealer named Roscoe Brauer was her next conquest. Or, rather, she’d been his. Roscoe had been big and menacing. Jack had avoided him whenever possible and kept Corie and Cassidy away from him.

Though Brauer had been a nasty piece of work, he’d been a good provider and, unlike the times their mother was without a man, there had been food to eat, oil for the furnace and clothes for school.

Until she’d killed him and the girls had been sent to their fathers. Because Jack had been fatherless and, then, motherless—Charlene had signed away all rights to him—he’d been adopted by the Palmers.

Impatient with himself for thinking about the past instead of going forward—such as spending time looking for his sisters—Jack closed the door behind him and went back to the house.

But it wasn’t easy getting his head out of the past. He didn’t understand why he’d successfully suppressed his childhood most of his life and now, finally, when he was free of the army and able to do what he wanted, all he could think about—and have nightmares about—was his childhood.

He put a mug under the Keurig and went to the refrigerator for the take-out ribs he’d bought for dinner, since Ben and Sarah were going to be out. The self-indulgent rehashing of his past stopped now.

* * *

A LIGHT RAP on the back door was followed by Sarah poking her head around it. A waft of fragrant September air swept in as though she’d brought it.

Jack took a moment to appreciate how pretty she was. Her light brown hair, usually tied up in a knot or caught back in a ponytail when she was on her way to see her clients, was flying free. It highlighted the beautiful shape of her face, her smooth, eggshell-delicate skin and her blue-gray eyes. She smiled, her lips a moist rose color. He experienced that arrhythmia again.

“Ben home yet?” She stepped into the kitchen, her pink dress dropping to a vee just above her breasts, hugging her waist and moving gracefully around her knees. A covered casserole sat on the flat of her hand.

“No. What’s that?” he asked.

“Broccoli, chicken and potatoes in a light cheese sauce.”

He smiled with difficulty. Even cheese sauce couldn’t save broccoli. “Thanks, but I’m having ribs tonight.”

“Jack...”

“Sarah, the army has set me free, and while I appreciate your efforts to make me healthy, I started back to work today—well, I cleared out the carriage house—and think I deserve to spoil myself.”

She shifted her weight and studied him consideringly. He tried not to notice how the fabric of her dress moved with her, clinging here, swirling there. “What are you having with it?”

“Potato salad.”

“From the market?”

“Yes.”

“You know that’s as much mayonnaise as potato.”

“I do.” He smiled widely. “And I don’t care.”

“There’s some leftover three-bean salad in the refrigerator. Would you consider having that instead?”

“No. And I’m probably going to add a brownie. You have to deal with it, Sarah.”

She shook her head with disapproval in the face of his unapologetic smile. “If your cardiovascular system is still functioning tomorrow,” she said, “I’d appreciate your help with something. If you don’t mind that it’s Saturday.”

“Sure.” He went to the kitchen table and pulled a chair out for her, then sat across the table. “What do you need?”

She sank smoothly into the chair. “The seniors in Beggar’s Bay have to move their center. They’ve formed a nonprofit and would like to buy a building the city is offering for sale. Would you look at it with me and see what you think?”

He thought a minute. “I’d be happy to, but you should have the building inspected. You’ll want experts to check for mold, pests, whether or not the heating system is sound, the plumbing and electricity are...”

“I think our lawyer’s already arranged for that, but I’d just feel better if someone I know would look at it and talk to me about it in words I understand.”

“Why are you responsible?”

“I’m not, really. I’m just nosy. Thorough. If I’m going to help raise money for the seniors to buy it, I’d like to make sure it isn’t going to collapse around them or make them sick.”

“Sure. What time do you want to go?”

“Sometime in the afternoon...”

“Okay, I’ll pick you up.”

“I have a meeting with my insurance agent and I’m not sure how long it’ll take. Can I come for you?”

“Are you a good driver?” he teased.

“At least as good as you. I’ve never had a vehicle blow up around me.”

“Good. Probably not a lot of IEDs on Main Street.”

She looked immediately apologetic. “Sorry. That’s nothing to joke about.”

Watching her expression, he thought of how she was usually cheerful and kind, though he noticed quick changes of mood sometimes, the sudden dimming of a smile. He’d like to know what was behind that. “It’s all right,” he said gently.

Suddenly he wanted to know more about her. “Working with seniors can be rewarding, I think. Is that why you got into nursing?”

She was silent for a few moments, then, apparently deciding she could trust him with the truth, said, “No. When I graduated I went straight into pediatrics.”

“Wow. That’s the complete opposite.”

She laughed. “My first day at Puget Sound Children’s Hospital, I walked down the corridor and paper airplanes, balls, various missiles were flying about. The children were sick, but not quiet. That gave me a laugh and encouraged me.”

Jack watched as that dimming took place.

“But...caring for children is sometimes worse than there are words for, you know?”

She looked into his eyes. He looked back, knowing exactly what she meant. Different battlefields, but death was death. “I do know.”

The moment stretched. Abruptly the back door burst open and Ben stood there in a dark jacket and slacks, a grin on his face. It was a look Jack remembered from their childhood. Ben had it all and he knew it.

He looked from his girlfriend to his brother, an eyebrow raised in question. “What’s going on? You two are looking grim.”

“I just asked Jack if he’d come with me to look at the Cooper Building. The seniors want to buy it for a new seniors’ center.”

“I thought Ken Forman had it sewed up.”

“Is that the lawyer who also wants to rent the building?”

“Yeah.”

“Not yet. We’re still in the running. And the town’s getting together to raise money so the seniors have more money to offer. City council is split on whether to add to the tax rolls or do something for the common good.”

Ben raised a skeptical eyebrow. “A better offer than Forman, a divorce lawyer, can make?”

“Maybe. This is a generous town.”

He let her have that, but clearly didn’t believe it. “Okay. But let’s shelve all that for now and go have some dinner.” He looked at Jack. “You got everything you need?”

“Ribs and potato salad.”

Ben made a sound of approval. “Heaven on a plate.”

That earned him a scolding glance from Sarah. He turned back to Jack with a theatrically swift change of expression. “What’s wrong with you? Don’t you know that could clog your arteries and...”

Sarah pitched in. “Stop his heart.”

“Yeah. Stop your heart.” Ben looked firm. “I’m sure Sarah brought you something gross and grassy that would be much healthier...”

She smacked Ben’s arm with her purse, fighting a laugh as she headed for the door.

“How’s it going with the carriage house?” Ben asked, backing toward the door.

“Pretty well. Took everything I couldn’t throw away into the basement.”

“Okay.” Ben waved at Jack as he turned and left. “Enjoy the ribs.”


CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_0bc95641-8763-5dae-8878-0aab695bfe8b)

JACK WENT TO the front window to watch his brother and Sarah drive away. Even in the third grade, Ben had been a secure and confident kid. Jack had acted like one, but Ben had really been one. His parents were nice, normal people, and they’d loved him. Jack, on the other hand, had had a mother who was always in a twilight world, somewhere he couldn’t reach, and he’d been scared all the time because there was usually no one around to tell him what to do.

Sometimes a friend of his mother’s would take his sisters for a few days and he’d spend the time at Ben’s without even being missed. He’d dreamed of having the life Ben had.

One day he did, but getting what he’d wanted had taken a terrible toll on everyone else. Ben’s parents had taken him and his sisters in that night and he’d heard Ben campaigning to keep them. They hadn’t been able to, of course, because the girls still had fathers who wanted them, but Ben had been eloquent.

“It’s been just me all this time,” Ben had said vehemently. “Well, I could really use a brother. So, you know, I learn to share and stuff. So I don’t get spoiled. ’Cause I could use help with taking out the garbage and the errands.”

Jack had heard Gary reply, given with a trace of humor. “All right, then. We’ll make Jack your brother.”

There’d been a moment’s silence. Then he’d heard Ben’s voice, high with thrilled disbelief. “Really?”

“Really. But you have to be quiet about it until the girls are gone.”

Until the girls are gone. Jack had felt elated at the prospect of living with the Palmers, but the elation had drained from him at the knowledge that his sisters would have to go to their fathers.

He found it odd as an adult that children would be sent to live with a parent who’d abandoned them, but knew the Department of Human Services’ optimum solution with disrupted families was to put them back together. And both Miguel and Donald had wanted their daughters. In all fairness to them, his mother had had the DHS caseworker convinced she would do better—as she probably believed herself—so they’d probably believed a prolonged custody battle wouldn’t have been in anyone’s best interest. Which was why the girls had stayed with their mother.

Since his mother had been put in prison, however, that had all changed. Ben and Jack, living under the same roof, had loved each other, barely tolerated each other sometimes, wanted to beat each other to a pulp often and actually tried a few times, had each the other’s back against the Duffy boys, bullies in middle school, and as they’d matured and begun to appreciate the value of a brother who is chosen, supported each other in every way they could.

Jack went back into the kitchen. As he carried his dinner to the table and turned on the news, he remembered that for all he’d lost in his childhood, he’d gained so much.

* * *

BEN PARKED HIS classic red Mustang on a knoll overlooking the bay. A few lights picked out boats bobbing on the water; otherwise the night was dark and cold. Sarah hadn’t eaten very much, a little worried about what Ben had to say. He’d been the perfect companion all evening, bright and funny, all his attention focused on her. Now he was subdued.

He turned in his seat to smile at her and then reached across the gearshift to kiss her. His eyes were shadowed in the dark car and he pulled back to look into hers. He took her hand. “So, what are you doing for the next sixty years?” he asked. “Want to spend them with me?”

She’d always thought that proposing to someone took a lot of courage. You could presume you knew the answer, but it was impossible to be absolutely certain. It was brave to put your heart out there like that.

She’d worried about this moment all day and still hadn’t found a painless way to explain to Ben what she felt. She opened her mouth to try, but he pulled a small box out of his breast pocket. He opened it to reveal a round-cut diamond ring that sparkled brilliantly, even in the darkness. “My dream is to marry you and do my best to make all your dreams come true.”

She expelled a breath that sounded as anguished as she felt. She couldn’t imagine a more perfect proposal.

Ben was a good cop, commended on more than one occasion for defusing domestic disputes or calming an angry mob. He straightened, apparently reading her well, his expression a combination of hurt and confusion. “Why did that sigh sound distressed rather than happy?”

She was silent a long moment, struggling to find the right words to explain. Finally deciding there weren’t any, she just spoke directly.

“Ben, we’ve never talked about children.”

He waited a beat. “True. You’re not going to tell me you want a dozen, are you?” he joked, still looking worried.

“No,” she replied. “I’m telling you I don’t want any.”

He stared at her, his confusion deepening. “You said you liked children,” he reminded her gently. “And I’ve witnessed it. When you helped with the department’s Christmas party, you seemed to enjoy watching and helping the kids.”

“I did.” She inhaled to steady herself. “I love kids. And I love them most when they belong to somebody else.” She was about to go on to explain when he turned on the car’s ceiling light.

“You’re saying...” He paused, as though not quite believing what he was about to say. “That...you don’t want your own? Ever?”

“Yes,” she replied, looking directly into his eyes so there’d be no misunderstanding her conviction.

He looked away, shook his head, then turned back to her. “Okay. You’re very serious. I see that. But...why?”

“Remember that I told you I used to be a pediatric nurse?”

“Yes.”

She reeled out the whole long story about Jerica. “The average person,” she said, her voice growing raspy, “has no idea how vulnerable children are to what appear to be the most innocuous things, or things that one child can survive, hardly noticing it, while it takes another child’s life. I dealt with it for years and accepted that working with children was just going to beat me up every day, but the successes made it worth it. Until Jerica died and then...well, it feels like nothing’s worth it.”

He listened quietly, clearly affected by her story. “I’m so sorry, Sarah,” he said, holding both her hands.

“I led her parents to believe that if anyone could save Jerri, we could. But we couldn’t. Anyway, in the end, I could no longer deal with the death of children day after day. I know someone has to, but it doesn’t have to be me.”

“I understand that. I wouldn’t want to work with dying children every day. It’s hard enough to see them at risk from abuse or neglect.” He put a gentle hand to the back of her head. “But, Sarah, all you saw was sick children. Most children’s lives are never threatened by serious disease or injury. I don’t know what the odds are, but I don’t imagine they’re that high. We could have perfectly healthy children who grow up to have perfectly healthy children of their own.”

“Or we could have one who has problems.” She caught his wrist and pulled his hand down to hold it in her own. “I do know the odds. Between fifteen and eighteen percent of children live with chronic disease. I can’t accept the ring, Ben. I’m too messed up about children.”

Ben squeezed her hand and looked out the windshield. “You’re not messed up. You’ve just been...hurt, wounded.”

She tugged at his hand so that he’d turn back to her. She asked into his eyes, “Can you live without having kids?”

He considered, and then shook his head regretfully. “I don’t think so. But I don’t like the thought of living without you, either.”

“I’m sorry, Ben.”

“Look, let’s not do anything hasty. Let’s just give it a little time. That’s what dating is for, isn’t it? To learn about each other and discover what you can deal with and what you can’t?”

That was a tolerant attitude, even enlightened, but she had to make her position clear. “I wouldn’t hurt you for anything, Ben. But I’m not having children. Ever.”

He didn’t seem to want to believe her. “There might be some magical solution out there we’re just not thinking of.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the finger that he’d hoped would wear his ring. “I’ll take you home. I’m leaving early in the morning for the conference.”

“I picked up two night shifts over the weekend,” she said, “because I’ve arranged for lighter duty next week so I can work on the fund-raiser. But I’m still going to make dinner for you guys Monday.”

He looked sunken. She hated that. “Okay,” he said.

Ben kissed her good-night in front of the fourplex where she rented an apartment. His manner was warm and affectionate, as it always was, but she caught an undercurrent of sadness he did his best to hide.

She gave him an extra hug.

As he held her to him, he said, “It’s okay. I know you can’t help how you feel. See you Monday.” Pushing her gently away, he headed back to his car.

She’d left the drum-shaded lamp lit on her desk on the far side of her small living room. She checked for messages on her phone and heard her mother’s cheerful voice.

“Sarah!” she said excitedly. “I know you don’t need a formal invitation for Thanksgiving, but I thought I’d extend one anyway. It seems so long since we’ve seen you. It’ll just be us and Kate and Randy and the kids. Hope all’s well. Love from both of us.” Her mother said goodbye and her father chimed in, shouting, “Love ya, Sarah!” in the background.

She put the light on in her kitchen, filled the kettle and gave the new stove her landlord had provided an affectionate pat. Then she stopped and looked around her at the tiny pink-and-white room. She’d thought pink an unusual color for a kitchen, but she’d grown to like it. In the dark of the Oregon winter, it was warm and cheerful. A lace valance decorated the top of the window over the sink, and pink woven place mats were ready for guests—or, one guest—at the two-person round table in the corner.

Was this all she would ever have? she wondered. It wasn’t that she wanted things, but she longed for room to have friends over, a large dining table that could accommodate ten, a hall tree for hanging hats and coats, room to line up boots and umbrellas. She felt a stab of pain when she realized what she wanted was...a family.

She just didn’t have the courage to have one. She’d seen what families of sick children went through and she couldn’t do it. She didn’t want to do it.

She folded her arms and turned to look out at her nine-by-twelve living room decorated in pale blue with burgundy accents. The place was perfectly adequate for her needs. Maybe there was no point in wanting a bigger apartment if she was never going to have a husband and children. She couldn’t imagine there were a lot of men out there willing to give up fatherhood for a woman. Despite Ben’s insistence that they not do anything hasty, she feared for the future of their relationship.

The kettle boiled. She turned off the burner and made a cup of Yorkshire Gold tea. Above her stove was a plaque that read, “A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she’s in hot water.”

So here she was. In hot water. Her relationship with Ben probably suspended, her hard-earned skills as a pediatric nurse abandoned in favor of cooking and housekeeping duties because she wanted to be safe.

Was anyone ever safe from the vagaries of life? she wondered. She didn’t know, but if she could be the first, she’d like to try.

* * *

JACK HAD SET up his computer in the kitchen because the light was better than in his bedroom. He’d put Corie’s and Cassie’s names in Facebook to see if finding them could possibly be that simple. He’d had to start somewhere. And, of course, it had not been that simple; he’d got nothing. He’d put in their fathers’ names. Nothing. He refused to be discouraged. He’d try other social media and follow the first lead. If the girls were in touch with each other, finding one could bring him both.

The kitchen door opened and Ben walked in. Jack glanced at the clock, noting the early hour, then back at Ben’s grim expression. He concluded that something had gone wrong with his evening. The confident lift of his shoulders he’d left with was now a slouch. Ben poured himself a cup of coffee and turned to Jack. “Want one?”

Jack held up the mug he was already working on. “Everything okay?”

Coming to sit at a right angle to him, Ben pulled off his jacket and yanked at his tie. “No. You working on something important?”

“Some preliminary research looking for Corie and Cassidy. But I’m finished for now. What happened?”

Ben put down his mug and said, “This’ll probably seem like nothing to you because you’ve been dealing with life and death.”

“You deal with life and death every day,” Jack said with a grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, fairground parking and animal relocation, but still.” He sobered when Ben didn’t smile. “If it’s important to you, I’m happy to listen. Something with Sarah?”

Ben turned in his chair to pull a ring box out of his coat pocket and place it in the middle of the table.

“Oh, man.” Jack looked into Ben’s face and figured it out. “You proposed and she said no.”

After staring moodily into his coffee, Ben finally looked up. “She said, ‘I don’t want to have children.’”

Whoa. “Really. Why not?”

“She was a pediatric nurse before she went to work for Coast Care. Watching children die was hard...understandably. But then she lost a child she’d grown attached to, and that did it for her.”

“Grief’s a bugger.” Sarah had explained some of that to him just today, though she hadn’t told him the loss had led her to make such a decision. Poor Ben. “Takes a while to get your brain back in working order.”

Ben nodded. His voice seemed to come from far away. “I understand. Who wouldn’t? But that means I have to either live without children or live without Sarah.”

Jack said, “You know, it’s entirely possible she could change her mind a couple of years down the road.”

“I don’t know. And what if she doesn’t?”

“I guess if you can’t live with that possibility, then make sure you think it through before you go any further.”

Ben shrugged. “I’m thinking...you know...maybe it’ll somehow resolve itself.” He ran a hand over his face and groaned. “Yeah. Like that’ll happen.”

“Having kids is a tough choice for some people. If you think disease is hard on children, you should see what war does to them.”

Jack understood Sarah, he just didn’t agree with her. He wanted children—an SUV full. Yeah, kids were very vulnerable to all of life’s evils, but he’d survived a childhood at least as toxic as a horrible disease.

He’d decided in Afghanistan that the best way to save the warring world was to populate it with peaceful people who were loving and tolerant. They would become that way by being loved and tolerated themselves. He imagined all the things he’d longed for as a child... Someone to smile at him, not just once in a great while but every day. Someone to put a loving hand on him, to offer him security and comfort and love him just because he existed. He’d decided to give all that to his own children so they wouldn’t be haunted by bad memories and old fears. So that, one day, they could change the world.

All he had to do was find a woman who agreed with him.

He understood Sarah, but she was wrong.

* * *

SARAH PULLED UP in front of the Cooper Building on Saturday afternoon. The string of sunny days continued, and shoppers were wandering around downtown, determined to enjoy the weather before it turned to the usual Oregon coastal wind and rain of mid-fall and winter.

Jack stepped out of the passenger side and looked up at the two-story Italianate structure built of brick and stone. Arched windows on the second floor softened the line and empty window boxes on the first floor begged for a gardener’s touch.

He stood for a long time. Sarah looked up at his pleated brow. “You don’t like it?”

“No, I do.” He came out of his thoughts to catch her arm and lead her toward the door. “It’s just that I know this place.”

She redirected him toward the rear door. “I don’t have a key,” she said. “But the cleaning crew usually leaves it open. If you’ve lived here all your life, I’m not surprised you know it. It started out as a bank at the turn of the twentieth century, but it’s had all kinds of incarnations since then.”

“When I was a kid,” he said, opening the door for her, “it was a nightclub called Cubby’s. My mother sang here.”

Sarah stopped just inside, the large main room to their right dim and quiet. “You were allowed in?” she asked in surprise.

“Only in the back.” He turned left instead of right into a smaller, windowless room, twelve by twelve, according to the building specs she’d printed out for herself. He shone the flashlight he’d brought around the room. A built-in bookcase stood against the opposite wall. “In those days,” he said, walking in, “I used to play in this room while my mother worked. Somebody from the kitchen would bring us something to eat. I remember liking the crème brûlée.”

Sarah smiled in the dark, happy he had some good memories of that time. “Pretty sophisticated palate for a little kid.”

“No. It’s just really good custard.” He walked up to the bookcase and put a hand on it. “This was a storeroom then, but the guy who owned the place used to keep games and books in here for us.”

“Us?”

“Yeah. Corie was just a toddler, but she came when Donald wasn’t home to watch her, and there was another kid. Can’t remember his name right now. His mother played guitar. He had red hair and freckles and his front teeth were missing. I used to feel sorry for him, but he was always cheerful. He liked to play with a red Tonka dump truck Mrs. Brogan—I think she’s one of your clients—had given me. She’d filled it with cookies—I ate all of them—but he filled it with gum balls. There was a machine by the back door and for twenty-five cents in pennies, he could almost fill it.”

Sarah laughed at that picture. “Good times, huh?”

“Yeah.” He turned off the flashlight. “I’d forgotten there’d been any.”

Together, they walked through the main room. Tall windows let in the bright afternoon. Two Ionic columns flanked an arch at the back of the room that had once separated teller windows from the vault when it had been a bank, the sales floor from the cash registers when it was a clothing store and the dining area from the kitchen when it was a nightclub. The restaurant that had most recently occupied the building had put in a large kitchen at the back, on the right.

Jack looked up at the stains on the ceiling.

Sarah looked up with him. “The city assures us the roof was fixed when the restaurant was here,” she said. “They also rewired, but there’s still a problem in the room where you played. They’re not sure what happened, but the power was fried in there and still doesn’t work. Plumbing’s a little old, but functional.”

Jack glanced around at the walls that had once been a soft gold but were now dull with age. “No cracks,” he said. “That’s good.” He turned his gaze down to the pockmarked fir floor. “This flooring will be beautiful once it’s sanded and restained.”

“That’s what I thought.” She was happy with his observations so far. “Come see the kitchen.”

The walls were white and the floor and backsplash were black-and-white tiles. “It’s institutional looking,” she said, “but the appliances are big because of the restaurant, and the specs say they work.” The window looked out onto the green wall of the fabric store next door.

“Is the water on?”

“Yes.”

Jack went to the double sink and turned on the hot faucet. The pressure was strong and steam rose almost immediately.

“That’s good,” he said. “If anything, you might want to turn the water heater down a notch. There’s an elevator, as I recall.”

“Yes. At the back, just beyond the kitchen.”

The slightly musty-smelling car was small and a little rickety, but there was a new inspection sticker near the controls. Sarah and Jack stood side by side while the car rose.

* * *

JACK PUT HIS hands in his pockets. Awareness of her closed in on him, applying more pressure on his body than the rising elevator. It was difficult to see her pretty profile and the soft roundness of her and know she didn’t want children. She seemed so perfect a vessel! But he did want kids and he wasn’t a perfect prospect for fatherhood at all. He guessed everyone put limits on themselves that greatly underestimated what they were capable of.

Still, in her case it seemed a shame. And Ben had gone off to work that morning looking as though someone had hammered him into his clothes. Jack was determined not to mention her refusal of Ben’s proposal unless she brought it up.

The elevator doors parted on a big room, empty except for two men wearing ventilators, who were putting a pile of trash into black plastic bags.

“What was up here?” Jack asked.

“Living quarters for the people who owned the restaurant. They moved out in the middle of the night a couple of years ago to escape their creditors. Their furniture’s been given to Goodwill.”

Suddenly she smiled brightly. “Can’t you see this with three or four sofas, lots of comfortable chairs, craft tables to work on, a couple of televisions and earphones, and a small library in one corner?”

“The real one is right across the street.”

“True, but it might not have Crochet Monthly magazine and all the history books Vinny loves.”

It always surprised him how well she knew her clients. And how much she cared.

“I’d say if the inspection your attorney is arranging comes out well—” Jack turned slowly in a circle, looking the room over again “—this seems ideal for the seniors’ center.”

Her smile widened further. “Great! That’s what I thought. Maybe you’ll want to bid on the work if we get to move in. We’ll have to repair, do the floors, put in new light fixtures, all kinds of stuff.”

He nodded. He needed work.

In the elevator on the way down, she seemed to lose some of her sparkle. “How was Ben this morning?” she asked.

“Brokenhearted,” he replied truthfully.

Arms folded, she leaned against the wall of the car. “He told you about it?”

“Some. About children.”

“You think that’s awful?”

“Of course not. Misguided, maybe. But everybody has to do what works for them. It’s just hard to deal with when the same things don’t work for the person you love.”

She smiled faintly as the doors parted. “Thank you for understanding,” she said.

Their footsteps rang on the floor as they walked to the back door.


CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_93cfdf0f-a868-5ebe-9ed4-695c180edcf5)

ON MONDAY, SARAH hosted her favorite clients in the community room in the building where Jasper, her blind client, lived. She’d done a circuit of town to pick up Vinny and Margaret and they now all sat together in a large room with a wall of windows that looked out onto the ocean. A mountain ash on the back lawn had lost its bright red berries and was just beginning to turn from green to gold. There was a discernible bite in the air that said October.

She carried a plate of oatmeal-raisin bars she’d brought along from the small kitchen area to the coffee table. “I apologize for sounding like a page of an Agatha Christie novel, but I’ve gathered you all here to tell you about the talent show fund-raiser for the Cooper Building, hopefully the new home of your seniors’ center.”

Jasper, whose head was perpetually tilted in an attitude of listening, frowned in the direction of her voice.

“Talent show?” he repeated ominously. “You mean like singing and dancing?”

“Yes. Or acrobatics and juggling.” She waited for a smile from anyone. None came. “Dramatic readings,” she went on in a teasing tone. “Wild animal taming. Darts.”

“I’m good at darts,” Jasper said. He was average height and white-haired, though only in his late fifties. Then he grinned. “But one of you will have to stand in front of the bull’s-eye, talking so I can throw at the sound of your voice.”

Sarah laughed, but neither Vinny nor Margaret even cracked a smile. She had this problem with them every time they got together as a group. They liked her visits as long as she didn’t ask them to do anything outside of their comfort zones or at a time that interfered with their favorite television shows. They were happy in their apartments, at the seniors’ center and at the supermarket, but trips out of town were out, as was anything that disturbed their routines.

“Sure,” she said to Jasper. “If you give me a minute to duck first. Vinny, you played in a band on weekends before your wife died, didn’t you? Margaret sang with a traveling choir in her twenties and taught music in the school here in Beggar’s Bay. Maybe the two of you could pair up to do a song together.”

The look the two exchanged should have been accompanied by the heavy, threatening music that announced the arrival of Darth Vader.

“No,” Vinny said simply.

Sarah didn’t mind putting him on the spot. “Why not?”

“Because he knows I wouldn’t want to do it, either,” Margaret replied for him. “Vinny’s kind of...”

Sarah understood her hesitation. Vinny was difficult to describe.

“Jazzy,” she finally said. And it was no secret that they didn’t particularly like each other. Vinny was often outrageous, and Margaret tended to be stiff and formal. “My approach to music is more serious.”

“Guys.” Sarah let them see her disappointment. “I need your help. We need all of us—seniors and all of us who work with you—to support this project so that you’ll have this great place to meet. Have you been in the Cooper Building? It’s wonderful.”

“I was in it,” Vinny said, “when it was still a bank. It would be nice to have a place that was ours, a place we couldn’t be kicked out of with little warning.”

“Right. So what if you each did something individually?”

“I might be able to get some of my old band together.” Vinny picked up one of her oatmeal-raisin bars and smiled in anticipation before taking a big bite. “My drummer is still in town,” he said after a moment, “and Boseman, my guitarist, lives in Newport. I’ll bet I could get him to come down. Mmm. Delicious.”

“Excellent.” Delighted to have a positive word spoken, Sarah steered the conversation back to the general plan. “The fliers I gave you explain that all the proceeds go to your nonprofit’s bid on the building.”

Margaret looked skeptical. “Could that make us enough money? That lawyer who wants it, too, has to have more money than we do.”

“Someone on the school board knows a country-western performer whose family once owned the building.” Sarah ramped up her enthusiasm, hoping it was contagious. “That should draw a lot of people. And he’ll judge the talent show. My boss seems to think people will be happy to support something that allows their friends to stand up in public and...be brave enough to perform. Of course, you two are so good you don’t have to be brave. You’re professionals.” She touched Jasper’s arm so he’d know she was talking to him. “What do you want to do? I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with the dart thing, after all.”

Jasper rolled unseeing blue eyes at the ceiling. “Well, let’s see. I could juggle knives, leap through a ring of fire, saw a lady in half...”

“I volunteer Sarah.” Vinny passed her the plate of treats. “Have one.”

“Cute, Vinny,” Sarah said. “I’ll be working just as hard as you are, but behind the scenes. We’re here to work as a team.”

“Okay.” Vinny picked up another bar and wrapped it in a napkin. “Thank you for the treats. I’ll get in touch with my guys and see what we can do. When do I have to let you know?”

“As soon as possible. Everyone involved will rehearse together twice—once the week before and once for the dress rehearsal the Friday night before our performance. That’ll be the Saturday before Thanksgiving in the high-school auditorium. Where are you going, Vinny? Don’t you want me to drive you home?”

“No, thanks.” Vinny checked his watch, pulled on a dark blue cotton jacket, put the napkin-wrapped bar in a pocket and grinned at her. “Jasper’s driving me home.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Actually, I have a friend on the third floor and I arranged to spend a little time with him, then my son’s picking me up for dinner.” He punched Jasper in the arm, code for wanting to shake hands. “Want to come, Jazz? It’s Nick Crawford. You know him from the seniors’ bus that takes us shopping.”

Jasper shook his head. “Thanks, but I’ll stay to hear the entire plan.”

Sarah looked from Vinny’s eager-to-leave face to Margaret’s obvious reluctance, but refused to let them stop her plans. Getting them to participate in this would be good for them.

“I’m not finished, Vinny. But if you have other things to do, I can catch you up later.”

“Okay.” Vinny headed for the door. “Thank you, Sarah,” he said stiffly. “Good day, Margaret. Bye, Jasper.” And he disappeared into the hallway.

“Okay, Jasper.” Sarah cleared her throat, wondering for a moment what made her think dealing with senior citizens would be easier than dealing with children. “No knives, no ring of fire, no saws. I know you were kidding, but I’d like you to get serious for a minute.” Jasper had been sighted for thirty years until an industrial accident caused a toxic adhesive to be thrown into his face. Of the three men standing with him at the time, he was the only one to survive. Now, at fifty-eight, he was determined to do everything he’d done in his youth. His courage alarmed Sarah and everyone else around him, and he seemed to delight in that.

“What about doing a recitation?” Sarah asked. Jasper had a deep, resonant voice. “You have such a good memory.”

He seemed surprised, then asked, “Will I have a teleprompter?”

“Jasper. Didn’t I just ask you to be serious?”

“You did,” he replied, smiling. “But did you expect that I would? I guess I could recite something.”

“Great. What do you think, Margaret?”

She seemed surprised to be consulted. “I think he’d do well. He always does well.”

“Thank you,” Jasper said. “So are you going to sing, Margaret?”

Sarah read the retreat in her face. She wanted to refuse. “I’m counting on you, Margaret,” Sarah said. “You and Vinny are both adults. You don’t have to perform together, but you can coexist in the interest of ownership of a new building for the seniors’ center.”

“I don’t know, Sarah.”

“I do. I’d like you to sing ‘Among My Souvenirs’ just like you sang it for me for my birthday in June.”

Margaret made a face at her. “No one wants to hear that but you. It’s sentimental and there’s no electric guitar.”

“It was beautiful. I’m signing you up for that.”

“Sarah...”

“I think you’d have a good chance at winning. We’ll talk about it while I drive you home.”

* * *

THE AFTERNOON WAS a Northwest fall postcard as Sarah followed the coast road across town. Sunlight embroidered the ocean and seagulls called loudly as they circled and dove in search of lunch.

“I apologize,” Margaret said, “for being less than enthusiastic. But Vinny annoys me.”

“He knows that and likes to push your buttons.”

Margaret puffed up a little. “I wouldn’t date him when we were kids because he was just the way he is now.”

Sarah turned up Margaret’s street and parked in front of her apartment building, interested to finally know what the problem was between them. “Really,” she said. “He’s a nice man at heart, Margaret. Do you think you can work with us if you’ll have to see Vinny regularly?”

“I’m not sure.”

Sarah stepped out of the car and walked around to help Margaret out. “That’s a pretty old grudge to hold on to. Maybe it’s time you two talked it out. You probably hurt his pride. He’s kind of a peacock, you know.”

“Yes,” the old woman agreed. “All feathers and no bird. We simply avoid each other. Now, if you’re going to be throwing us together...”

“You don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”

“Maybe Vincent shouldn’t be helping.”

Sarah saw her chance. “But he’s getting his old band together, and you seem reluctant to...”

“Fine, I’ll do it. But I’ll perform alone.”

“Got it. So were there any stars in your music class that would make good competition for the show?”

Margaret suddenly brightened as they reached her back door. “Actually, Jack and Ben Palmer. Jack inherited a little of his mother’s singing talent, and Ben’s just a good showman with decent pitch.”

“Really.”

“Really. They and the De Angelis boys used to sing for the neighborhood when they needed spending money. One time...” Her smiled widened as she thought back. “They’d outgrown their bikes and wanted new ones. So they built a stage and set up chairs in my backyard. They charged admission and sang songs from those boy bands. They were great.”

“So they got their bikes?”

Margaret’s smile dimmed. “Ben and Mario and Rico did. Jack bought shoes for his sisters and a couple of new bike tires for himself.”

“Geez.”

“Yes. Thank you for the treats, Sarah.” Margaret held up the leftovers Sarah had packed for her in a plastic bag. “It was a nice afternoon, despite Vinny. Before you sign me up for the song, let me work on it and see if I can still do it.”

Sarah hugged her. “Thanks, Margaret. See you Monday.”

Sarah drove home, thinking that Jack must have been a remarkable boy. Maybe that was why he’d matured into such an interesting man. Margaret was right. One person shouldn’t have to deal with so much.

She stopped at the grocery store for ingredients for the dinner she wanted to make—chicken couscous—as well as a few things for breakfast at the Palmers’. If only she could transplant their kitchen into her apartment! But at least she did have a new stove—only two burners had worked on the old one.

Finally home, Sarah decided to cook the couscous dish here. As she cut up the chicken and preheated the oven, she made a mental note to call her mother back about the Thanksgiving invitation.

Working in the cramped little room, Sarah imagined what it would be like to have yards of counter space, enough cupboards that she didn’t have to store canned goods in the bottom shelf of the small linen closet in her bedroom, and room to put a KitchenAid, a Keurig coffeemaker and a dishwasher. How she’d love a dishwasher!

Reminding herself not to waste energy on what she couldn’t have, at least at the moment, she focused her attention on slicing lemons, then browning the chicken pieces in a large frying pan.

When they seemed done, she glanced out the kitchen window and noticed the play of sunlight through the gnarled oak tree in the backyard. She pushed the window open. The air was cool, but its fragrance could have been imported from an island that grew spices and exotic flowers. She took a deep breath and let the aroma fill her being.

She blamed the sudden acrid smell in the kitchen to preheating an oven that was brand-new. She’d had it only a few days, not even long enough for an errant spill. All thought stopped when a line of flame flared out of the wall just above the stove. She stared at it, unable to believe what her eyes were seeing. The flame was just an inch tall for about a second, like the flame from a candle, then it ate its way up the wall while she watched, openmouthed, until it was halfway up, then angled left, toward the window, obviously following a line of electrical wiring. The curtains ignited, terrifying her.

Spurred into action, she ran to the narrow utility closet for the fire extinguisher. She scanned the instructions and then, with shaky hands, aimed the nozzle at the flames. Her filmy curtains were already gone and the flames were dancing along the row of tea towels and pot holders hung on a rack there.

She gasped in alarm as the foamy stuff seemed to be drawn out the window, rather than to extinguishing the flames. Even worse, the line of flame was still running along the wall, perforating the living-room wallpaper as it went. It passed behind a glass-covered photo of her parents’ wedding, the heat of it bursting the glass from behind and knocking it off the wall.

Mouth agape, she stared, then aimed the extinguisher at it. The tank fizzled.

She fought panic as heat and smoke quickly made the room uninhabitable. She snatched her purse off the table and ran out the door.

She dialed 9-1-1 on her cell and gave a shaky but clear account to the dispatcher, who told her to get her neighbors and go across the street, that the fire department was coming. “There’s no one in the building but me right now,” she said, breathless.

“All right. Wait across the street.”

David Lester, who lived next door to her, was in his second year at Coast Community College and seldom came home until late, but she pounded on his door anyway. No answer.

The Moffits, the young couple who lived next to the empty apartment upstairs, were on vacation.

Sarah hurried across the street. A crowd had begun to gather as dark smoke billowed out of her windows and flame was visible in the upper floor.

She was losing everything, she thought with an odd disconnection that probably had something to do with shock. It didn’t look as though there would be anything left. Her clothes. Her computer. Jerica’s bear! Sarah had bought it for her and the child had loved it. Her parents had given it to Sarah when Jerica died.

The whine of a siren announced the arrival of a police car. Ben and his partner, Grady Nelson, leaped out. Sarah ran across the street toward them, a dark SUV screeching to a halt as she crossed its path. She waved a distracted apology and continued to run.

Ben had already disappeared into the fourplex. As a fire truck screamed its arrival, she raced into the building. She heard Ben shouting her name from inside her apartment. She followed the sound.

“I’m here!” she screamed, trying to find the tiny hallway to her bedroom so she could retrieve Jerica’s bear from its spot on the bed.

She reached a hand out in the blinding smoke, sure she was at the hallway, when another strong hand caught it.

“Sarah!” Ben shouted. “What are you doing? Get out!”

“Okay, but I have to—”

“Get out, Sarah! Now!”

“No, I have to get the bear!”

“What? No!”

She yanked away from him. “Please, Ben...”

He pushed her bodily ahead of him and out the front door. He pointed across the street when she tried to push around him to get back inside. His face was smudged with smoke and his eyes hard with determination. This wasn’t the sweet man she’d been dating. This was the cop doing his job.

She tried to explain.

“No!” he interrupted, pushing her toward the sidewalk. “You can’t go back inside. Whatever’s in there isn’t anymore. Is there anyone upstairs?”

“No.”

“Pets?”

“Not allowed.”

He led her across the street, shouted, “Stay here!” then raced back to join Grady as he emerged from the building.

She stood across the street with her neighbors in silent disbelief. All around them, onlookers were talking about old buildings, smoke alarms, homeowner’s insurance, but she wasn’t following any of it. As they watched, the side window blew out and flames caught the grass that led to the concrete pad where residents of the apartment parked their cars. Her Jeep, the closest to the building, caught fire.

“No!” she cried, taking several steps toward it, but an onlooker stopped her.

“Not smart, ma’am,” the man said. “Look. That fireman’s going to get it.”

A fireman working that side of the building aimed his hose at the car. By the time he was able to extinguish the fire, the tires were gone. The car listed sadly, like a big, broken toy.

She was homeless. And she was probably afoot for a while, too. A weird calm overtook her as she realized that now she had no possessions. She began to pace, watching Ben and Grady run back down the front steps. Grady was on the radio attached to his collar, probably reporting in to Dispatch, and Ben was on his cell phone.

Sarah imagined tomorrow’s Beggar’s Bay Bugle headline: “Bay Apartments Burn to the Ground. Residents Unhurt But Lose Everything.”

What was she going to do? She’d think of something, but at the moment, her brain didn’t seem to be operating.

“Sarah.”

Sarah turned at the sound of her name and was surprised to see Jack standing there in the paint-smeared jeans and sweatshirt he wore to work in the carriage house. On his head was a pale denim baseball cap with the insignia of the Cavalry Scouts—crossed swords in gold—and the words US Cavalry. His eyes, under the bill of the cap, were dark with worry.

Emotion swelled in her and threatened to rise in her throat in a sob. She inhaled a breath and forced it down.

“Hi,” she said, her voice shaky and a little thin. “What are you doing here?”

“Ben called me.” He placed his hands gently on her arms as he looked into her eyes. “Are you okay?”

Before she could answer, he shook his head. “Forget that. Stupid question. Of course, you’re not okay.” He turned his head in the direction of the fire and swore under his breath. Then he refocused on her. “What I meant to ask was, are you hurt?”

She had to take another breath to keep the sob at bay. “I’m not hurt. Just sort of...” What? Shocked? Scared? Alone?

The sob erupted anyway. She tried to swallow it and that somehow made it louder.

“Yeah,” he said and wrapped an arm around her. “Come on. You’re going to stay with us. Ben said he has to ask you some questions about the fire, but he can do that later.”

How could she move into the same house as the man whose proposal she’d just thwarted? “What? No. I can’t just...”

“Sure you can.” Ignoring her attempt to argue, Jack pointed to his battered SUV parked at the curb down the street. “Why don’t you go sit in the car? I want to let Ben know that I’ve got you. I’ll be right back.”

She did as he suggested. As she sat in the front passenger seat, she caught a glimpse of Ben and Jack in conversation. Jack pointed toward his SUV and Ben looked in that direction. She waved.

Behind Ben she saw the blackened shell that had been her side of the fourplex: a smoky ruin in the middle of a grove of oaks dressed for fall. The outside of the apartment above hers was charred, all the windows were blown out and there was a hole in the roof.

That’s a picture of my life, she thought. Windows blown out. A hole in the roof.

She put her fingertips to her throbbing forehead, refocusing her thoughts. Other people were involved here besides her. It was hard to assess the damage to the two apartments on the other side, but they looked far less affected. She hoped that was true for the sakes of David and the Moffits.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/muriel-jensen/in-my-dreams/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.