Where Dreams Begin

by Phoebe Conn

  She doubted it. “He might see it as merely morbid.”

  Dave gestured with the roller. “No, it’s positively transcendent.”

  “You’re the one who suggested angels in the first place,” she reminded him. “You deserve the credit.” She wiped her brush on the edge of the paint can. “There, that’s it for me. Looks like you’ll be finished soon too.”

  “I’ll let it dry and check for holidays, or missed spots, before I clean up. Why don’t you go on home and enjoy what’s left of the day.”

  “I hate to leave you with this mess.”

  “It’s my job to keep the place neat. Besides, I like being busy.”

  “Yes, so do I.” Catherine put the lid on the enamel, then entered the outer office restroom to clean her brush and rinse out the sink. She pulled off her gloves, washed a spot of paint from her cheek and removed her apron. Ready to go, she was still reluctant to leave and looked forward to a mural project which could well provide a need for a great many volunteer hours.

  She couldn’t fault Luke for attempting to do whatever he could for Rafael, but damn it all, she wished the day could have ended differently. She retrieved her purse and, carrying her apron and paint smeared gloves, reentered Luke’s office to place the brush atop the can of white paint.

  “Thank you again, Dave. Good-bye.”

  “Bye. See you again soon, I hope.”

  Dave was always so hugely complimentary that it was difficult not to feel encouraged, and she stopped off on the way home to rent a couple of DVDs. She asked the clerk to recommend something hilarious so that night she and Smoky could munch popcorn and have a rollicking good time.

  Luke had lost count of how many trips he’d made to the LA County Jail, but this was certainly the most ill-timed. Of course, until recently he hadn’t cared where he was or with whom. That day, however, he was deeply frustrated to have to leave Catherine, but at least Rafael had saved them from having to face an awkward good-bye later.

  That was pitifully little consolation, however. Catherine was as emotionally damaged as he, and he meant to go slow, not merely for her benefit, but for his own. At least they could laugh together, and that was a damn good sign. Now all he had to do was find the courage to keep making her laugh.

  Doubts still clouded his mind whenever he thought of her, and he absolutely refused to contemplate the future, but for now, Catherine Brooks brought a glimmer of hope that his emotions weren’t permanently numbed. It was a fleeting glimmer at best, and all too swiftly followed by an icy dread that they were drawn to each other’s sorrow when neither had anything left to give.

  It was a disastrous combination, and yet one even his broken heart longed to risk.

  Chapter Six

  Joyce arrived at Catherine’s early Sunday morning to provide a ride down the hill to the Rose Bowl for the monthly swap meet staged in the parking lot. Vendors hauling a wide variety of wares in their battered vans and trucks had already set up shop for the day. Much of their merchandise was of dubious value, but Joyce occasionally discovered a treasure. Because she insisted the best bargains were to be found early, she and Catherine were always among the first to arrive.

  While Catherine seldom made a purchase, she enjoyed the colorful spectacle and looked forward to spending the morning strolling the crowded aisles. She’d come often enough to recognize several vendors, and understood from their conversation that many spent their other Sundays at similar events scattered throughout Los Angeles and Orange Counties.

  “This is an awfully hard way to make a living, isn’t it?” she whispered to Joyce. “If these people don’t make many sales, it must be tremendously discouraging to have to reload their vans at the end of the day.”

  “Oh, come on. They’re all pack rats who love collecting junk and calling it a business. Now where is that woman with the beautiful old type? I should have bought all of her wood blocks with the italics capital letters. They’ll soon be impossible to find. Do you suppose they’ll stop calling letters upper and lower case now that printing is done by computer rather than hand set?”

  “Frankly, I’ve ever stopped to consider the question, but we’re probably stuck with the old-fashioned terms. What do you think of these leather sandals?”

  Joyce ran her thumb along a wide strap. “They’re good quality leather, but I doubt they’ll have my size.” She glanced through the rows of neatly stacked boxes and shrugged. “Oh well, there are plenty in yours.”

  “Are you saying I should be grateful to have big feet?” Catherine lifted a pair of black sandals from their box.

  “You don’t have big feet,” Joyce exclaimed. “You wear an average size, so there’re always bargains available, while I’ve even stooped to shopping in the children’s department.”

  “Clothes and shoes are cheaper there, aren’t they?”

  “Definitely,” Joyce admitted with a satisfied smirk.

  “Then there’s no reason to complain.” Catherine sat on the child’s step stool the booth’s owner provided for customers and tried on the sandals. They were both stylish and comfortable, and she paid for them quickly so that she and Joyce could move on.

  A few minutes later, Joyce plucked an aluminum hair roller from a table filled with knickknacks. “My mother actually had some of these. Do you remember them?”

  “Yes, I do. Those are in remarkably good shape. They even have the little rubber disks on the clasps, but would anyone want them?”

  Joyce gestured with the little roller. “Movie studio costume departments might, but I sure don’t. Now where is that woman with the type? I hope she hasn’t sold everything and moved to Florida.”

  “We’ll find her.”

  As they turned to enter a new aisle, Catherine paused to study some hand-woven rugs. They were colorful and well-made, but she had no use for one. Unless…

  “Wait a minute, Joyce, I want to look at these rugs.”

  “Do you need one?” Joyce raised her hand to shade her eyes and scanned the surrounding vendors for the woman with the type.

  “I took some books into Lost Angel, and kids were just sitting on the floor to read them. There’s a carpet store next door, but remnants would be difficult to keep clean, and these are small enough to go into the large washers at a Laundromat.”

  “Good lord, when was the last time you visited a Laundromat?”

  “College, I suppose,” Catherine replied. “Do you like this one with the rust and black bands?”

  “Now you’re buying rugs for Lost Angel? Can’t you just write them a check if you’re in a generous mood?”

  A Latino clad in western apparel complete with cowboy boots and a wide straw hat approached them. “You like the rugs? I give you a bargain price on two.”

  “How about three?” Joyce asked. “Or four?”

  The man broke into a wide grin. “Six, eight, whatever you want, pretty lady. Make me an offer.”

  With no interest in the striking area rugs, Joyce turned her back and scanned the crowd while Catherine debated which to select and then purchased three. “Oh, great,” Joyce grumbled, “now we’ll have to lug those things out to my car.”

  “May I leave the rugs with you until we’re ready to go home?” Catherine asked the friendly vendor.

  “I will be happy to watch them,” he replied. He rolled each rug separately, then ripped masking tape from a large roll, slapped it around the rugs, and wrote sold in black marker. “Be sure to come back by three.”

  “We’ll be back before noon,” Joyce assured him. She hurried Catherine through the crowd. “Is there anything else Lost Angel needs? What about big pillows to make lounging on the rugs more comfortable? Someone must be selling them here.”

  Catherine tried to imagine Luke’s objection to pillows and immediately found one. “No, I’m afraid they’d be seen as an invitation to lie down and sleep rather than a comfortable place to choose a book.”

  “Do those kids actually know how to read?”

  While Cather
ine frequently made allowances for Joyce, she was fast becoming annoyed with her relentlessly negative attitude. “Is there a reason you’re in such a bad mood today? If so, I’d like to hear it rather than more biting sarcasm.”

  “Me, a bad mood? What other kind is there?” Joyce protested, but she swiftly gave in. “Oh hell, if you insist. I meant to tell you about it after we got home, but we might as well talk while we walk.”

  Catherine shifted the shoebox containing her new sandals to her other arm, then had to dodge a woman barreling down the aisle pulling a cardboard box filled with antique iron toys strapped to a set of luggage wheels.

  “If it’s something serious,” Catherine cautioned, “perhaps you should wait until we’re not surrounded by a noisy crowd.”

  “No, it’s the same old problem. I went out with a new guy last night, but he bored me witless. He was nice enough, but all we had in common was a love of movies, so I won’t date him again.

  “The problem is, I’ve been invited to the opening of a spectacular new art gallery on Main Street in Santa Monica next weekend. The invitation includes a guest, and if things had gone well last night, I would have asked the guy. But I won’t lead him on just to have an escort for a party and then dump him.”

  “That’s very considerate of you.”

  “Thanks, but I’ve already considered every other man I know who’s even a remote possibility. I finally remembered an artist who’s kind of fun. He’s a little old for me and certainly not the man of my dreams, but at least he’d enjoy the party.”

  Catherine nodded. “Sure, you’d go as friends.”

  “Precisely, but I couldn’t bring myself to give him a call. The funny thing is, I ran into him in Trader Joe’s on Friday. As soon as he’d said hello, he flashed a photo of this dimpled twenty-something and announced they were getting married this summer.”

  “So you were right not to call him,” Catherine complimented. “I’ve found it’s wise to trust my instincts.”

  “True, but here I was afraid of looking pathetic, and sure enough, had I called him, I would have. I just can’t imagine why such a young woman would want to marry a man nearly old enough to be her father.”

  “Maturity appeals to some women, but why didn’t you call the gorgeous nurseryman if you need a date?”

  “Shane Shephard?” Joyce gazed toward the foothills. The morning was so clear the craggy mountains looked close enough to reach out and touch. “Because if he’d said no, it would’ve been worse than pathetic. It would’ve been humiliating.”

  “Then call him about plants,” Catherine urged.

  “He’d see through it.”

  “So what? The object is to connect with him. What does it matter how you do it?”

  Joyce glanced away. “Please. I still have a smattering of pride.”

  “Well, Shane risked his pride and took the initiative to ask you out for coffee.”

  “Maybe he just needed a caffeine fix.”

  Catherine studied her friend’s downcast expression with sudden insight. “I do believe I’ve just been hit by a blinding glimpse of the obvious. You’re afraid you’ll hit it off with Shane, aren’t you? Your fear isn’t of being rejected but of being loved.”

  “When did you start writing an advice column? I don’t see you dating any handsome young men,” Joyce shot back at her.

  When Luke chose to, he had a very charming grin, and before Catherine could suppress it, an incriminating smile brightened her expression.

  “Are you holding out on me?” Joyce gasped. “If you’ve met someone, why haven’t you mentioned him?”

  “I’m not dating anyone,” Catherine replied truthfully. “I was home last night cuddling with the cat.”

  “That was a guilty grin if I ever saw one. You’ve met someone,” Joyce persisted. “Now spill it.”

  “Sorry, but the subject under discussion is you and Shane.”

  “Is not,” Joyce cried.

  Catherine took her friend’s arm to direct her toward the right at the intersecting aisle. “There’s a white van. Could it belong to the woman with the type?”

  “Yes!” Joyce exclaimed, “But you’re going to tell me all about this mystery man just as soon as we get home.”

  “I won’t say a word until you call Shane,” Catherine promised, and she meant it.

  Catherine went into Lost Angel on Monday morning. Pam was away from her desk, but Luke’s door was open, and he waved her on in. With the furniture back in place, the freshly painted office looked quite handsome, but Luke wore the same guarded expression she’d seen on their initial interview.

  “The office is beautiful, but clearly something’s wrong,” she greeted him. “What happened with Rafael, or aren’t you at liberty to say?”

  “That’s what I like about you, Mrs. Brooks. You never waste a moment in idle chatter. Please sit down, and forgive me, but I haven’t the energy to rise.”

  Catherine chose her usual chair. There was a coffee container on his desk, but she thought he would be better off sipping Celestial Seasonings’ Tension Tamer Tea. She didn’t make the suggestion aloud, however.

  “Since you’re so curious, let me begin where we left off.” Luke leaned back in his chair. “That Rafael was arrested for shoplifting was the least of his problems. The police found a few candy bars in his backpack, which he swore he’d purchased earlier in the day.

  “The real problem lay in the hunting knife he’d stowed in the bottom of his pack. He claimed it’s a dangerous world and that he owned it for protection. The police had a different view and regarded him as a likely suspect in a string of unsolved stabbings.”

  Alarmed, Catherine sat forward in her chair. “Do they believe that he killed Felix Mendoza?”

  “No, apparently not, but there are plenty of other crimes.”

  “Then he’ll need an attorney. There are several at my husband’s firm who do excellent pro bono work. Would you like me to call one?”

  Luke cocked his head slightly. “You don’t know Rafael. Why are you so eager to come to his defense?”

  “Well, someone has to,” Catherine responded.

  Weary, Luke rubbed his right eye. His left was no longer swollen, and the deep bruising had begun to fade. “Have you always just jumped right into things?”

  “If they’re important, yes. Granted there’s a time to be thoughtful, reserved, deliberate, but not when some poor kid is accused of multiple stabbings. You thought so too last Saturday, or you wouldn’t have left here to run down to the County Jail.”

  “True. You’ve made your point, but you needn’t worry about Rafael. Lost Angel has all manner of volunteers, from those you might meet here at the center, to those who pick up food from supermarkets and restaurants that would otherwise be discarded, to several highly skilled attorneys. They’re taking care of Rafael and assure me the police don’t have enough evidence to hold him for shoplifting, let alone murder.”

  Despite his earlier protest, he hauled himself to his feet. “I’m late for a community resources meeting that might last the whole day, so I probably won’t see you before you leave.”

  When he paused, Catherine tried not to stare, but he sounded as though he was working up his courage to ask her out, and she wanted to savor every second of it. She licked her lips and offered an encouraging smile.

  “From what Dave told me,” Luke continued, “you two are running with the mural project. I don’t want to discourage you, but let me line up a suitable building before you begin any preliminary drawings.”

  That wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. No, she corrected herself silently, what she’d hoped he would say. She made an attempt to shrug off her disappointment and rose to precede him into the outer office where Pam was now working at her computer.

  They exchanged quick greetings, and then Catherine turned toward Luke. “You needn’t worry, I understand that you make the decisions here,” she assured him.

  “That I do, but please don’t look so unh
appy. I didn’t forbid you to do a mural, but we need to take our time and do it right.”

  “Of course,” Catherine agreed, but she wished he was referring to something more personal than an art project.

  Luke had left the center before Catherine realized that she’d neglected to ask his permission to place the new rugs in the hall, but when she again found kids seated on the cold floor by the bookcases, she felt justified in acting on her own. With so many hanging around idle, she easily enlisted some help.

  Nick was performing tricks on his skateboard out front when Catherine went by with Polly and a tall boy with a wild mop of red curls who called himself Spike. Nick grabbed up his skateboard and followed.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Just to my car,” Catherine explained. “I found a good buy on some rugs, and they aren’t too heavy.”

  Nick flexed his biceps. “So what if they are? I’ve got muscles.”

  “Yeah, in your head,” Spike scoffed.

  “You think you’re so smart? What’s fifty-six times twenty-eight?” Nick challenged.

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “It’s 1568,” Nick announced proudly.

  “What is that, the one answer you know?”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Catherine scolded softly. “If you can’t get along, Polly and I will carry the rugs ourselves, won’t we, Polly?”

  “We sure will.” Polly twisted around to make a face at Nick, but he just laughed at her.

  Catherine unlocked the back of her Volvo, and Nick slipped past Spike to grab the first of the rugs. He took a step back and rolled it up on his shoulder. “These going to Luke’s office?”

  “No, the hall, but his office floor could sure use some help, couldn’t it?” Catherine glanced toward the nearby carpet warehouse. Luke’s office was a neat rectangle, so it wouldn’t be much of a challenge to purchase and install a remnant while he was away. She wondered if they had anything in a deep russet that would complement the walls.