In My Dreams. Muriel Jensen

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      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.

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