Where Dreams Books 1-3

by M. L. Buchman

  “Local boy?”

  “Yep. Born and raised.” He became fascinated with watching her move about the kitchen. It wasn’t that she was so beautiful. Okay, it wasn’t only that. He liked to think he was above merely prurient fantasies, though Maria’s body could convince him otherwise. But he did enjoy watching how she cooked aside from that. There was a confidence, an assuredness as she mixed flour, yeast, butter and a half-dozen other ingredients. No recipe, no second guessing, rarely any measuring cups.

  “True locals are pretty rare according to Angelo.” Her voice was as rich as her coffee was strong. He liked food metaphors for her, they seemed to fit naturally.

  He shook off the fascination with what she was doing and refocused on the conversation. “We are. I always say that Seattle is forty percent California refugees, forty percent East Coast refugees, ten percent from the Midwest, though no one knows why, and ten percent natives, but we’re hiding.”

  Her laugh was musical. It lit the darkened kitchen far more than the spotlight dangling over her station. He scratched his head and wondered how on earth he could possibly make her laugh again. It was a sound he could never tire of hearing.

  “And you are in hiding? From what?”

  That stopped him. Yes, he certainly was in hiding, but how to explain the darkness inside him to this brilliantly shining woman who stood before him. She’d have no way to understand something so polar opposite to who she was.

  “Myself mostly.” Far too close to the truth. Couldn’t he have just said “Californians” or “lawyers” or “hipsters” or anything else funny? No, he never thought up the punch line until two beats too late. The first beat, when it would have been funny if he’d said it then. The second beat, right after he’d said something far too true.

  Back in his old life someone might say, “The system crashes every time I run your code.”

  He couldn’t think to reply, “Have you tried walking it instead?” No, he had to stammer and apologize and promise to work harder. Though he’d become a hell of a good programmer just so he could stop apologizing for his hard work.

  “Who was she?” Maria took the dough she’d been preparing and put it in a big standup refrigerator, pulling out another large batch she must have started yesterday.

  “My wife.”

  He saw a brief flash of disappointment across Maria’s features. So fleeting that he wondered if even she was aware of it.

  “My ex-wife,” he corrected.

  “And she hurt you so badly?”

  What was it with this conversation? Not only was he several steps too exposed, he couldn’t appear to catch up with it at all.

  “She…” How to describe the impact her vast betrayal had had upon him. Who was he kidding, that it still had upon him.

  No. He couldn’t face the next sentence. It was too hard.

  “Perhaps I should leave you to your cooking. Thank you for—”

  Maria aimed a slender rolling pin at his chest across the table.

  “No. You can’t leave yet. You haven’t finished your breakfast.”

  He looked down. There were still several bruschetta on the plate and his coffee was barely half empty. “If I drink any more of your coffee, I’ll need an FAA license for flying through restricted airspace.”

  Her gentle smile was no less potent than her laugh. “Well,” Maria attacked the dough with a dusting of flour and a great deal of energy. “I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble with the FAA. Perhaps you need a lesson in flying under the radar.”

  “Nowhere low enough to escape Vera’s radar.” Even to himself he sounded pissed and bitter.

  Maria stopped rolling out the dough and studied him for a long moment. Her dark eyes were shadowed by the overhead light. He could feel himself spread as thin as the dough with all his faults clearly visible. Here was where she decided he was too screwed up to bother dealing with and she’d send him on his way.

  “There is now a new rule.”

  “There is?”

  “There is,” she nodded emphatically to herself. “Yes, it is a good rule. Until I tell you otherwise, Mr. Hogan Stanford, you are not allowed to say that name again or talk about her in any way. Not even to yourself if you can help it.”

  All he could do was stare at her. “You’re serious?”

  “You doubt that, you ask my son. Don’t mess with Mama Maria. Proibito! You will not talk about her, refer to her, what is the word I want, alludere?”

  “Allude?”

  “That simple? Yes, you will not even do that. Not until I decide you are cured of whatever cloud she made over your head.”

  “She—”

  Maria cut him off with a sharp gesture of a single finger to her lips. “I will stop you every time you mention her. Who else do you talk to about her? You must tell them also to stop you.”

  “Uh, I don’t talk to anyone else.”

  She turned back to her dough, setting a dinner plate rim-down on the dough. With a quick trace of her knife around the edge, she cut a circle. Lifting the plate, she sliced a dozen lines through the dough with the tip of a sharp knife creating long thin triangles that all met at the center.

  “No one else?” She didn’t look up from her task. It was as if she was giving him a safe space to speak from.

  “Not really.” He sipped his coffee.

  She plopped spoonfuls of a light-yellow custard at the wide ends of the triangles. She rolled them up one by one and the cornetti came into being. Placing them on a baking tray, she gave a practiced flick to shape them as crescents. In moments they were lined up, smeared with butter, and adorned with slivered almonds and lemon zest. He could hardly wait to try one. Unbaked, they already looked beautiful.

  She maintained her silence until she had completed several trays and slid them into the large ovens ranging along the wall. With a quick swipe, she cleaned off the prep table, then sat on the stool across from him. Taking a bruschetta and her coffee, she finally looked up at him.

  It wasn’t a look he’d expected. There was no judgment, that he was too much of a loner or what was wrong with him that he didn’t have any friends. It was a look of sorrow.

  “I talk to everybody.” Then she studied the darkness above the worktable lights for a long time before facing him again.

  There was just the two of them and the single light. They both sat in the shadows on opposite sides of the table. Mostly what was visible was her hands and her white porcelain cup shining beneath the light.

  “But other than three woman I know, I think I too may be as alone.”

  Hogan couldn’t imagine how that could be possible, but he didn’t question it either. She was clearly a thoughtful woman. She had noticed what he had not, that he had let his life be defined by his past.

  “I’m going to return the favor,” he raised his coffee mug as if proposing a toast.

  “What favor is that?” Though she raised her mug to share the toast.

  “I will agree to not speak about, well, you know who. And you will agree to call on me any time you need someone to really talk to. It doesn’t have to be about anything, and it can be at three in the morning.”

  “A new friend?”

  He shrugged, “We all have to start somewhere.”

  After a long moment, that smile lit her face. Really lit it, her eyes shining from the shadows.

  “Have to start somewhere? But where does that mean you are heading?”

  Huh! He didn’t have an answer to that one. He was still surprised that for the first time in a long time, he was really looking forward to spending time with someone.

  “I guess we’ll have to find that out along the way.”

  Chapter 6

  Hogan’s door buzzer snapped him out of his morose contemplation of the terrible programming on television for the night. He’d been at a loss all day. His
attempts to follow Maria’s directive not to think about Vera only seemed to have thrown his past into the forefront of his mind. By now it was making him totally crazy. At least he hadn’t scorched the chowder pot at the shelter again. Of course, they were having minestrone tonight which didn’t burn unless you did something too stupid for even his present state of mind.

  He opened the door and almost fell back in shock. There stood Maria Parrano, lovely in a dark blue dress and the same red woolen coat as this morning. Muted with the contrasting blue, she appeared mysterious rather than as a flame under this morning’s streetlight. Mysterious was certainly appropriate, as it was a complete mystery as to why she was tolerating him, never mind seeking him out.

  “May I come in?” Her voice teased him for his gawking and fumbling, but did it with a kindness.

  “Of course.” It was only as she entered, that he noticed the two flattened moving boxes under one arm.

  “What are those for?”

  “Hogan Stanford,” she stopped and looked up at him. “There are several things you need to learn for us to be friends. The first is to greet me, the second is to be a gentleman and offer to take my coat.”

  He fumbled his way through that. She set aside the boxes without explanation.

  “Do I get a tour? Or do we remain standing in your entry hall?”

  He slapped his forehead with a loud smack. Get your act together, Stanford. He took a deep breath to calm himself and then offered her his arm. She took it lightly as he led her in.

  # # #

  The short hall opened onto a living room that took Maria’s breath away. It wasn’t the furnishing, which was nice enough, if a little sparse. It was the view. Hogan’s home was far lower than Jo and Angelo’s condominium with its magnificent view from high above Seattle. Hogan’s view was no less stunning, but it was also intimate in its closeness to the scenery. The ice-capped Olympic Mountains towered in the dark orange of the evening sky. Elliot Bay was spread before them as not even Cutter’s Bar had shown it off last night. And, as they came up to the glass, she could see Pike Place Market spread at her feet. It made the world look like it was the inside of a jewel box.

  “Why Hogan, this is fantastico.”

  “Uh, thanks. Why are you here?”

  She could hear that he hadn’t intended it to sound offensive. Maria considered teasing him about it, but decided that a man so unaware of how he was communicating perhaps cared very much about what he was communicating. So, rather than skewering him like a kebab, she answered his question honestly.

  “I’m here to help. Why don’t you fetch those two boxes while I admire the view a bit more?”

  He moved to comply and she turned to inspect the room. The living room had a soft brown leather sofa and matching chair that looked well lived in. That would be his preferred spot. They faced the view more than the television, which she would take as a good sign. There was a neatness that was surprising for a man so casual about his attire.

  The low coffee table sported only the television remotes, a book, and a couple of magazines, Wired and Cook’s Illustrated. Leave it to a computer guy to enjoy the terribly quantitative approach to cooking. She herself had few written recipes, primarily following her instincts and her taste buds.

  Another amusing observation that she’d keep to herself were those two magazines. The first was heavily thumbed, a dozen different pages with the corners folded down; clearly topics Hogan wanted to think about and consider more at a later time. Cook’s was almost pristine. A small crease indicated that it had probably been read, but it didn’t inspire.

  Beyond the sofa, a long oak table and formal chairs defined a dining space, but looked not just unused, but wholly uninhabited. It should be crowded with friends and family. A jovial gathering place for coming together each week and remembering life’s joys in the company of others. Well, it was not her place to suggest such things in another’s life, but if she lived here, it would look as well used as Hogan’s chair, not like a museum piece.

  The space itself was interesting: the view to the front, a long wall of books to the side, a somewhat barren wall backed the dining table, that should be covered with photos of friends and adventures, but perhaps he didn’t have any to hang. The doors to the other side wall must lead to kitchen and bedroom.

  Hogan returned with the boxes, and Maria fished a roll of packing tape out of her purse. In moments they were assembled.

  He was clearly restraining his questions. Perhaps he had learned that she would only answer them as she saw fit. Meant he was smart about people, whether he communicated that graciously or not.

  “Now, my friend Mr. Stanford. You are going to go through your apartment. Everything that was a gift from, or reminds you in any bad way about the woman, who you still aren’t allowed to speak of, you will hand to me, and I will pack it away.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then we will put these boxes into storage somewhere. Later you may decide if you ever want to open them again. I’m hoping that you have enough good sense that two boxes will be enough. If you have held onto too much, we can get more boxes. You should also feel free to simply throw things out as well.” She went back to the coat rack by the front door and retrieved a couple of black plastic garbage bags from her coat pocket. “You don’t even have to touch anything. You can just point and tell me box or bag.”

  Then she began to wonder again about the magazines. She walked over and picked up the issue of Cook’s Illustrated. Maria held it up as a question.

  # # #

  Hogan stood frozen, riveted in place in his own living room by the steady gaze of a woman half-a-head shorter than he was. How had she known? He was interested in cooking, enjoyed the editor’s opening story and the science behind what they did.

  It hadn’t been Vera’s magazine, but rather one she kept gifting him year in and year out even though he never cooked anything from it. Yet another little guilt trip he hadn’t recognized? Perhaps.

  Then he eyed the woman holding the magazine for his decision.

  His first instinct was that Maria was trying to be controlling, as Vera had been. Then he winced, knowing he wasn’t supposed to be thinking of her, an almost impossible mandate. Contradictory. How do you stop thinking about someone you’ve been told specifically to be aware of every time you thought about her? A tautological conundrum at best, at worst…bloody impossible.

  It was also a depressing shock quite how easily Vera entered his thoughts though the last of the divorce-related tasks was over six months past.

  Knowing his first instincts were not to be trusted in anything to do with Vera, he decided that there were two other primary possibilities as to what Maria was up to. First, Maria could be trying to clear any Vera remnants out of his condo to make way for herself. Since she’d thought he was a bum until this morning and he’d not told her how well off he truly was, he thought that unlikely. Second, maybe he should take her statement at face value. Perhaps she was simply that kind.

  A feeling ran through him that he was having trouble identifying. A part of him wanted to wrap his arms around her and simply weep.

  She didn’t wait for him to respond. Reading his expression, she tossed it into the garbage bag. He’d have to remember to cancel the subscription. If he renewed it later, it would be at a later time on his own for his own reasons.

  Maria turned once more to await him patiently. Now he had an image of doing something other than weeping on her shoulder.

  Not trusting himself to speak, he turned to the bookcase and took down a small brass elephant bookend. It was nice work, but every time he looked at it he could see Vera cooing to the French merchant in Lyons. Bent forward, cleavage very much on show, “her best bargaining position” she always called it. Had she slept with him too? He cast the thought aside and handed the elephant to Maria.

  No longer supported, several books fel
l over. He flopped the first six books on their side and shoved them over as an impromptu bookend.

  “What’s next?” She returned to stand stalwartly at his elbow.

  It was a slow process at first, but one that picked up pace quickly. Box and bag. A lot of bag. A small oil painting in hideous colors that had matched only the hideous price tag. Book gifts he’d never wanted to read to begin with started the “to sell without waiting” box. The runner on the oak table. Knick knacks. Where had all of the knick knacks come from?

  Then he started at the front door and began working his way toward the picture windows along the other side of his condo. The office was purely his, no, there was that stupid picture. He was the only one in it, but he could feel her behind the camera. In the bathroom, the toothbrush mug.

  How had she insinuated herself so far into his life? Fifteen years of marriage, the last three apparently rife with adultery, was how.

  The bedroom, with its view of Queen Anne Hill to the north, was fairly clean. Some old hangers, some ties that he’d never wear again if his life depended on it, and a girlie lamp on the other side of the bed, all pink and fake Victorian.

  Each item he identified was whisked from his hands before it could burn his fingers, gone.

  He was hardly aware of Maria anymore. She had become an extension of his own thoughts, and a focus for them. With her beside him, he felt strong, able to deal. And with each item they removed, he felt a layer stripped clear. As if Maria were paring him down, peeling off the hard rind to expose…something. The question of what might remain after the last Vera layers were gone was one he wouldn’t contemplate at the moment.

  Last was the kitchen. The only part of Vera that was here, other than a few more mugs he could hardly bear to handle, was the espresso machine. A good one. It had been a Christmas gift, in a good year. He used it every day.

  He turned to Maria and she must have seen the confusion on his face.