In Plain Sight. Tara Quinn Taylor

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      “Did you play here?” she asked, glancing around the room, which was neat and spotlessly clean—except for the blanket and pillow.

      “Yeah, it was my turn. Sara couldn’t make it, but Belle had a friend staying with her who wanted to come. And Jean was here.”

      Jean lived in the modular next door—about twelve feet away from the aluminum side of her mother’s two-year-old home.

      “Have you seen her since then?”

      “We had lunch on Friday. And she stopped by last night, on her way to bingo. We were going to ride up to the clubhouse together.”

      So…maybe her mother really had just had a stomachache. At sixty-two and with Crohn’s disease, she was certainly entitled. Settling back into the reclining chair adjacent to the couch, Jan kicked off her clogs and pulled her feet up, cross-legged, on jean-clad thighs.

      “How are you feeling now?”

      “My stomach’s fine,” Grace said with a chuckle. “My pride would’ve preferred that I slept in my bed last night rather than in my clothes on the couch. Or at least to have woken with enough time to shower and change before you got here.”

      Jan released a long breath. Grinned. Everything was normal.

      “What do you want to do for dinner?” she asked. Her mother hadn’t sunk back into the darkness of depression that had almost killed her ten years ago and again more recently.

      But that had been before Sedona. Before her mother had daily activities and friends to keep her mind occupied.

      Since the move, the anti-depressants had been more successful.

      Jan really needed to learn to quit worrying so much. To relax.

      “I thought I’d make a meat loaf, since it’s your favorite, and I bought fresh peaches to make cobbler…”

      Jan was lucky her mother put up with her. She probably would’ve lost patience with such nagging years ago.

      “I had one of my nightmares the other night,” Jan told her mother later that day, as she finished off the last bite of peach cobbler. They’d already talked about Johnny, who’d called, but hadn’t come by yet. And Hailey— Grace was anxious to meet the troubled eight-year-old Jan was trying to adopt, completely supporting Jan’s need to start her own family in this untraditional way.

      Grace, who’d showered, put on makeup and was now wearing a soft green pantsuit, scraped her spoon across her plate, cleaning up every remaining morsel of dessert. “Tell me about the dream,” she said.

      Jan did. In all the vivid detail she could remember. “I’m afraid I’m going crazy,” she said softly, as she glanced at her mother.

      “Of course you aren’t,” Grace replied, rising to stack their plates. She carried them over to the small dishwasher on the other side of the half wall that separated the living and dining area from the kitchen. “How many professionals have to reassure you before you start believing, girl?”

      A million and one, Jan supposed. Since she’d already seen what seemed like a million.

      “The nightmares are so real. And the feelings stay long after I’m awake. It scares me, Ma.”

      Drying her hands on her apron, Grace returned with a pot of coffee and filled both their cups. “I know they do, sweetie,” she said, covering Jan’s hand.

      Jan soaked up the closeness. The security found in the touch of her mother’s hands.

      “The fear is what makes them nightmares,” Grace continued. “But that’s all they are, honey. Bad dreams. They simply mean that you have an active imagination.”

      She’d heard the words so many times before. And still she listened intently.

      “They’re nothing to worry about. You know that. If I thought differently, I would’ve scoured the country years ago, paid whatever it cost, to rid you of them.”

      “I know.”

      “And being upset by them is natural, too,” Grace added. “Just like watching a horror movie that sticks with you for days afterward.”

      Yeah, only her horror movies were private—and homemade.

      She glanced up at Grace, finding strength and comfort in her mother’s gaze. “Thank you,” she said, letting go of the fear. Once again.

      “I love you, my dear,” Grace said, giving her hand a squeeze.

      “I love you, too, Ma.”

      “I’ll have the barbecue chicken sandwich with coleslaw.” Bobby Donahue, founder of the Ivory Nation, said, smiling at the young Mama’s Café waitress on Sunday evening. “And a Diet Coke, please.”

      And then, the Ivory Nation brochures he’d commissioned tucked neatly in the zipped folder beside him, he made a mental note as his dinner guest ordered a burger and fries. The kid was seventeen, the nerdy type, but he had the power of his convictions. It would’ve been a strike against him to tell the waitress that he’d have the same thing Bobby had ordered. He needed spiritual followers, not copycats.

      “Tell me about yourself,” he said, holding the young man’s gaze. Tony Littleton maintained eye contact. Another mental check in the “go” column.

      “Not much to tell,” the high school senior said. “Dad took off when I was a kid. I don’t remember much about him. No brothers or sisters. Mom works a lot—has a boyfriend, nice guy, but he’s into sports.”

      No close family ties. It all fit.

      “What about friends?” Bobby expected that he knew the answer to this one. He’d figured out the basics of Tony’s existence, if not the details, from his chats with him online.

      “I’ve never been the most popular guy in school,” Tony said with a shrug. “I’m no good at sports, not that great looking, I get good grades even when I don’t particularly try. I’m a science whiz, and I write for the school paper. Mostly all stuff the cool kids avoid.”

      No close friends. Just as Bobby had suspected.

      “What kind of stuff do you write?” Tony hadn’t mentioned that particular talent in their previous conversations.

      “Mostly editorials.” Tony took a deep sip of the lemonade that had arrived while he was talking. “I see something that bugs me, and I write about it.”

      Bobby leaned back, his hand resting against his mouth. “What bugs you, Tony?”

      “Injustice.” The boy’s response was strong, his expression firm.

      Bobby smiled and unzipped his portfolio.

      “All rise.”

      Pushing the heavy wooden chair back from a scarred table, Jan stood at the bailiff’s direction, along with the fifteen or so other people in Judge Matthew Warren’s court, just after lunchtime on Monday.

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