Where Dreams Begin

by Phoebe Conn

  Catherine knew Joyce too well to overlook her preoccupied frown. “There must be more to the story,” she prompted.

  Joyce paused to take a deep breath, and her glance again swept the colorful array of pansies bordering the lawn. “The office is in an impressive new building, and I’d hoped to meet a younger attorney, or perhaps a physician, at any rate, someone substantial. Then yesterday, as I was hanging the last of the paintings in the attorney’s office, in comes this gorgeous young man with a cart loaded with plants. He explained he had the contract for the building and was delivering the plants to improve the office’s feng shui.”

  Catherine ran her fingers through her hair to catch the sun’s warmth and smiled. “Feng shui is popular, and I happen to agree that surrounding ourselves with beautiful living things does promote serenity.”

  “You didn’t see the guy.” Joyce fanned her face with her hand. “He had the most beautiful blue eyes and dark, curly hair. He also had a tight, toned body like the men on the UPS calendar. I didn’t hear half of what he said about feng shui. Fortunately, we agreed on the placement of the plants.”

  “Which were?”

  “A ficus tree, a philodendron, something else I didn’t recognize. They were all big, healthy plants, so he must be a hell of a gardener.”

  She pulled his card from her blouse pocket and handed it to Catherine. “A nurseryman, he called himself.”

  “Shane Shephard. What a nice name,” Catherine responded.

  “Everything about him was nice,” Joyce replied. “He probably has a kid brother named Sean and a sister Sharon.”

  Catherine noted the address on his card. “Oxnard is a prime agricultural region. I visited an orchid grower’s greenhouse there once. But clearly your interest wasn’t in horticulture.”

  “Damn right, but I doubt Shane was more than thirty.”

  “Would a thirty-seven-year-old man balk at dating a thirty-year-old woman?” Catherine asked pointedly.

  “Never, but I can’t see myself living in the back of a greenhouse in Oxnard with a nurseryman. I’d probably get a striped tan from the building’s little slats.”

  It was an image that made Catherine laugh. “Oxnard is on the coast, and it has a beautiful marina.” She was delighted Joyce had been so captivated by Shane Shephard that she hadn’t pried into her work at Lost Angel. A scrub jay swooped down to sit on the back wall, and she made a mental note to purchase a new bird feeder.

  “Oh, like a nurseryman would own a yacht,” Joyce scoffed.

  “Stop making excuses. Did he ask you out?”

  Joyce brushed a crumb from her blouse and waved her beautifully manicured nails. “Just for coffee, but I told him I was late for an appointment.”

  “Which you now regret?”

  Joyce shook her head. “Regret is too strong a word, but I’m definitely ambivalent.”

  “I can appreciate ambivalence,” Catherine mused quietly without confiding her own dilemma. She handed over Shane’s card. “Why not call him?”

  Joyce slid the card back into her pocket and gave it a light pat. “I’d be too embarrassed to make any sense.”

  Catherine shot her a skeptical glance. “Your field is interior design. Tell him you need a variety of plants for a new job.”

  Joyce took a moment to consider the suggestion. “While it’s not very original, I suppose it would work. But still, he’s too young and scarcely what I’d call substantial.”

  “So what? You can provide for yourself, and he might surprise you,” Catherine chided.

  “Oh, I’m surprised all the time, but it’s never good.” Joyce sat back in her chair, but she gripped the arms tightly. “Here I am trying to avoid trouble, like Shane Shephard surely is, and you’re out looking for it at Lost Angel. One of us has to be misguided.”

  Catherine considered Joyce a dear friend. She’d been there for her when Sam had died, even slept at her house that first terrible week so she wouldn’t have to wake up alone. But there were times, like today, when Catherine wondered if the only thing they truly had in common was an address on the same street.

  “Please don’t misunderstand me,” Catherine warned softly. “I had such a marvelous life with Sam, but now I need to do something that matters on my own. Lost Angel provides that opportunity.”

  Joyce rose and stretched her arms above her head. “Well, what I need is a man who’ll take care of me because I’m sick to death of making ends meet on my own. Why don’t we go into Pasadena’s Old Town tonight? It’ll be noisy and crowded, but it sure beats staying home alone. We can just walk around, eat at one of the new restaurants, maybe go to a movie.”

  Catherine stood to walk her friend to the side gate. She actually enjoyed being home alone, but her nights were simply a comfortable blur. Perhaps it was time to make some changes in her weekends.

  “I remember a place filled with scented candles. Could we go by there?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Joyce exclaimed. “I didn’t mean we wouldn’t shop. Walk up to my house at seven and I’ll drive.”

  “I’ll see you later,” Catherine promised, but as she bathed and dressed that night, she wondered if Luke Starns ever dated any of Lost Angel’s volunteers. If so, she sure hoped Beverly Snodgrass wasn’t among them.

  Monday morning, Luke was back at his desk to tackle a fresh batch of grant applications. At noon, he left his office and purposely ignored the giant calendar where volunteers penciled in their time. While he’d struggled all weekend to suppress thoughts of Catherine Brooks, he’d eventually come to the depressing conclusion that she would probably not be coming back. He just didn’t want to verify the fact by searching for her name.

  None of their conversations had gone well, and even worse, he’d begun to suspect he might be to blame for discouraging some of the other sophisticated women who’d failed to honor their initial commitment to Lost Angel. It was an uncomfortable supposition, and he did his best to shake it off as he crossed the courtyard and joined the lunch line in the hall.

  He ate with the kids several times a week. Mabel usually served spaghetti with a fresh green salad and garlic bread on Monday, and it was one of his favorite meals. As he approached the counter, he joked easily with the kids in line, and then Catherine Brooks handed him a plate and, shocked, he nearly dropped it.

  “Mrs. Brooks? I had no idea you possessed any culinary skills,” he exclaimed in surprise. With a bright yellow oilcloth apron over a pale green shirt and matching jeans, he thought she looked not merely efficient, but awfully cute as well.

  “I can dice fresh vegetables with the best of them,” Catherine responded playfully. “Apparently I failed to check that box on my application. Would you please add it for me?”

  “Be glad to,” Luke replied. Rather than slow the line any further, he hurried away, but as soon as he’d taken a chair at the nearest long table, Nick Bohler dropped down beside him.

  “Man, she was flirting with you!” Nick exclaimed. “What’ll you do if her husband shows up here looking for you?”

  Luke feigned a rapt interest in his spaghetti and twirled it around his fork. “She’s a widow, so there’s no danger of that.”

  Nick snorted. “Then you’re in more danger than you think. Want to talk about it this afternoon in our group?”

  Luke readily grasped Nick’s warning, but laughed it off. “No thanks. How’s the job search going?”

  “Please,” Nick groaned, “I’m trying to eat. Everything is especially tasty today, isn’t it? Must be the new cook.”

  Luke could barely contain his smile. “Yeah, I’m sure it is.”

  Upon her arrival that morning, Catherine had been asked to take the place of a loyal kitchen volunteer who’d called in sick. So it wasn’t until after everyone had eaten and the kitchen had been thoroughly cleaned that she went out to her car to bring in books. She’d stopped by Target to buy two sturdy folding bookshelves, and she asked Rafael and Max, a couple of brawny boys, to carry them inside.


  “I sorted my books into categories,” she explained, “but it looks as though what you have here was simply shoved onto the shelves wherever the books would fit.”

  Rafael was a Latino who had bleached his jet black hair to a pale orange and wore it teased into spikes. “What’s the use of sorting them when most of the kids who borrow them don’t bring them back?”

  “As long as they’re read and passed along, I doubt it matters if they aren’t returned,” Catherine argued. “They can be replaced easily enough.”

  “Yeah, like everybody here can read,” Rafael muttered under his breath.

  “Cut it out,” Max emphasized with a shove. “She’s trying to do something good here.”

  “You go on and help her spread sunshine. I’ll be outside.” Rafael slung his backpack over his shoulder and left Max to deal with the books.

  “He’s just being a jerk,” Max complained. “He only reads comics.”

  After lunch, the crowd in the hall had thinned, but Nick ambled up to join them, followed by Polly, again wearing her purple high-tops and a print dress. “Need some help?” Nick asked.

  Catherine hoped that if she stepped out of the way, they would take the initiative and organize the center’s small library. “I brought some new shelves,” she said, “but I’m not sure how best to go about using them.”

  “Why don’t we take all the books off the old shelves and make sections for science fiction, true crime and chicks’ books,” Nick suggested.

  “I like science fiction, and I’m a chick,” Polly announced proudly.

  “Whatever.” Max sighed, but he began removing the books from the shelves and scattering them into piles on the floor.

  Luke walked up behind Catherine so quietly that she jumped when he spoke her name. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. Where did you get the new bookcases?”

  “Target. They’re inexpensive and sturdy, and there wasn’t room on the old shelves for the books I brought in.”

  “Get a form from Pam so you can list the donation on your taxes.”

  “Thank you, I will.” Catherine folded her arms across her waist and watched Max, Nick and Polly sort the books into several categories she would never have even considered.

  Luke turned his back toward the teens. “It’s clever of you to get them to do the work,” he whispered.

  “It’s a technique I found useful as a teacher,” Catherine confided softly. “If an adult appears perplexed by a problem, kids will leap in to solve it. Besides, they’re the ones who’ll be using the books, so they ought to put them where they can find them.”

  Luke’s voice was still low, but his meaning clear. “I won’t argue with your strategy, but in the future, make sure you have my approval before you purchase anything for use here at Lost Angel.”

  Catherine had expected him to thank her for not only keeping her promise about the books, but for providing additional shelves. It would have been the courteous thing to do, but clearly he preferred protocol to manners. She dropped her hands to her sides and turned to face him squarely.

  “As I’m sure you’ll recall, I received your approval to donate books last Thursday. They couldn’t be left on the floor.” Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Max, Nick and Polly pretending to sort books while they strained to listen.

  “I recall that conversation vividly,” Luke replied, “but, Mrs. Brooks—”

  “I understand your concern,” Catherine interrupted, “but now I have a question about something else.”

  Luke turned back toward the scattered heaps of books and jammed his hands into his pockets. “I’m almost afraid to ask what it is.”

  Catherine ignored his sarcasm. “I hadn’t stopped to consider this, and I should have, but Rafael just made a crack about some of the kids not being able to read. Is anyone doing any tutoring here to enhance the kids’ chances of getting good jobs or a GED?”

  “Education isn’t our focus. The city libraries sponsor literacy programs, and they’re readily available through adult education in many schools.”

  Catherine watched the muscles tighten along his jaw in a clear warning that she was treading on dangerous ground, but the idea was too good to abandon. “If they aren’t filling out job applications, the kids are sitting here all day rapping with their friends and playing games. Wouldn’t an opportunity to improve their reading skills be a worthwhile alternative?”

  “What about math?” Luke countered. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that their academic skills are lousy across the board?”

  Before Catherine could respond, Rafael flung open the door and yelled, “Fight!”

  Nick, Max and Polly bolted for the door, as did the other teens in the hall, but Luke still managed to sprint by them. Catherine was reluctant to follow, but then, believing the situation might call for a cooler head than Luke possessed, she forced herself to go on out into the courtyard.

  Dave Curtis was already there, but he was too busy struggling to keep the fight from escalating into a brawl to break it up. Kids who had been sitting out front on the sanctuary steps were streaming into the courtyard, but the shouts and cries echoing against the stone buildings were already deafening.

  Catherine had seen fights at school, but this wasn’t a pair of surly boys who had gotten into a scuffle, these were girls. Sheila was a tall, thin African American whose dreadlocks bounced wildly about her head like Medusa’s snakes. Frankie was short, but the blonde sporting a buzz cut was solidly built. Both girls wore overalls, and each used the other’s straps to haul her opponent close for a vicious slap and then hurl her away.

  As the girls pummeled and kicked each other, a red-haired boy near the office building took bets. Other kids were screaming encouragement to their favorite, while some just shouted colorful curses. Volunteers, who had been sorting clothing in the Sunday school building, ran for the parking lot, while Pam Strobble stood on the office steps writing down names in a notebook.

  “Break it up!” Luke shouted as he shoved his way through the crowd. He took an elbow to the eye as he grabbed for the back of Frankie’s overalls, but he managed to push her away and form a muscular wall between her and Sheila.

  “There’s to be absolutely no fighting here at Lost Angel,” Luke announced in a voice loud enough to carry clear down the block. “Both of you know that.”

  Sheila raised her fists and danced around like a boxer ready to go another round. “We weren’t fighting. I’m just teaching the bitch not to hit on my man, Jamal.”

  “Liar. Who’d want that creep?” Frankie screamed back.

  Polly moved close to Catherine. “We have fights here all the time, but those two are scary. I just keep clear of them.”

  “Smart girl,” Catherine responded. Dave Curtis was on the opposite side of the crowd. He caught her eye and smiled, but she could do no more than nod in return.

  Luke called over to Pam. “How many fights does that make for these two?”

  “This is the second in two weeks,” Pam replied, “and they know our rules.”

  Luke still looked ready to bite off the girls’ heads, but he waited a long moment for the crowd to hush before he spoke. “You go on in and shower, Frankie, then get out of here. I’m suspending you until Thursday, and if you’re ever in another fight, you’ll be banned from here for good.”

  Frankie flung an accusing hand toward Sheila. “She started it!”

  “I don’t care who started it. We have a zero tolerance for fights. Now hit the showers. As for you, Sheila, you’ll sit there on the steps and keep Pam company until Frankie leaves. Then you shower and go until Thursday. I don’t see Jamal. Where is he?”

  “I ain’t seen him for days,” Sheila replied with an insolent shrug.

  “But he’s worth fighting over and losing your privileges here?” Luke asked.

  “Yeah, he’s my man,” Sheila insisted. “You keep away from him, you hear me?” she called after Frankie, who ignored her and entered the hall.

  “Go on and s
it down,” Luke ordered. “The rest of you better scatter before I ask Pam to take your names.”

  “She’s already taking names!” the red-haired boy cried.

  “Then don’t give her the chance to write yours down twice. Can you handle this, Dave?”

  “No problem, boss,” Dave swore. “Come on kids, let’s try out the new soccer field.”

  With the excitement over, the teenagers left the courtyard in twos and threes. Max, Nick and Polly went back inside the hall to continue sorting the books, while Catherine waited for Luke by the door. As he approached, she could see his left eye had already begun to swell.

  “We ought to put some ice on your eye,” she offered.

  Luke paused on the step below hers and their eyes were level. “Now you’re an expert at first aid? I swear our application isn’t long enough to list all your skills. I doubt it will help much, but let’s go on into the kitchen.”

  Catherine followed him to the freezer’s double doors, then had to wait while he unlocked one. “I hadn’t thought about working in the kitchen when you brought us here on the tour, but it was fun.”

  She turned away to get a bowl from under the counter to hold the ice and then grabbed a clean dish towel from off the stack by the sink. “Mabel has everything so beautifully organized that anyone can walk in and go right to work.”

  “I’ll have to remember that if I’m ever left with time on my hands,” Luke replied, his tone teasing.

  She waved Luke toward a tall stool next to the kitchen’s long preparation island and filled the small aluminum bowl with ice. She wrapped the towel around several cubes, stepped close and leaned her hip against the island as she held it to his eye.

  “You just rest a minute,” she urged. “I feel shaky, and no one was throwing punches at me.”