Where Dreams Begin (31 page)

Rafael shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what Violet’s doing with that asshole, but she’s much too pretty to tack on a witch’s crooked nose to keep Ford from recognizing her.”

“It’s just a thought,” Catherine offered, “but we don’t have signed releases from the kids who’ll be portrayed in the mural, so maybe she really does have the right to object.”

“Whose side are you on?” Luke asked pointedly.

“Lost Angel’s, of course. The other teens are all so proud to be appearing in the mural, but there might be consequences for them as well. Christmas cards are mailed to distant friends and passed around at work. It’s possible some abusive parent might recognize one of the kids from our cards and come after him.”

“It’s just as likely some parent who has been worried sick will at last discover where their child is through the mural or cards,” Luke posed.

“That’s true,” Catherine granted easily. “And now I think about it, if any of the kids are underage, they can’t legally sign a release anyway.”

“You’re just all kinds of help today, aren’t you, Mrs. Brooks?” Luke jabbed the toe of his loafer in the sparse grass. “What you don’t understand,” he softened his tone to explain, “is that if Rafael were to take Violet out of the mural, Ford would just pick something else to rag on her about. That’s why it never pays to give in to bullies, because it just inspires them to increase their demands.”

“Look,” Rafael interjected, “even if I just made up faces rather than used the kids here, someone somewhere would think one of the angels looked exactly like them. I’m using Violet, and if Ford gives her any grief over it, she can send him to me.”

Catherine admired his jaunty walk as he headed toward the porch. He was dressed in bright red polyester pants and a purple T-shirt, both of which clashed with his orange hair. “At least Rafael never lacks for confidence.”

“Frankly,” Luke whispered, “I think we’ve created a monster. He had an attitude problem before, but now he’s become insufferable.”

“Cheer up. He sounds impressed with Art Center, so maybe he’ll attend in the fall.”

“Only if they come through with a full scholarship, but let’s hold that thought. Now, how are you doing over here?”

“Fine really. Toby’s behaving, and so is Dave.” She turned toward the sound of a car horn just as the dark green Ford convertible rolled through the intersection. She had her clipboard and made a quick notation of the license number.

Luke moved to read what she’d written. “What are you doing?”

“That ’50’s car cruises by here rather often. It could be members of a gang, or just a car buff who goes home for lunch, but it can’t hurt to make a note of the license number.”

“You want to keep track of license numbers, what about the tan sedan parked across the street in front of the auto supply?”

There were two people in the car, and while they were too far away to be recognized, she had a good idea who they were. “Garcia and Salzman on patrol?”

“Looks like it to me. I can’t decide whether to ignore them or go over and chat.”

“Let’s not tip our hands,” she whispered, “or they might resort to strange vehicles and bizarre disguises.”

“They could,” he agreed, and there was a twinkle in his eye he usually took care to hide when others were around. “I’ll get back to work without speaking to them, but I wish I could hang out here with you.”

“So do I, but there’s the grave risk I’d be so distracted that I wouldn’t watch the kids properly.”

“Now I really don’t want to leave.” He spent a few more minutes talking with the kids, then surveyed the scaffolding with Dave before he returned to Lost Angel.

Getting back to work, Catherine took a few photos as Toby and Rafael mixed paint. Much of the mural would be done in grays that ranged from a deep charcoal to a pale smoke. On the angels’ robes, the same grays deepened to a rich berry or lightened to sky blue. Some angels would have a peach-toned skin while others would be a burnished bronze.

Catherine still felt uneasy about Violet until it occurred to her that Ford’s absurd objection to the mural might finally inspire the pretty blonde to leave him. “And not a day too soon, either,” she muttered to herself.

“You talking to me?” Dave asked. He’d been helping to carry paint and was walking by with a bucket of sky blue.

“No, but you seem to be enjoying yourself, and the mural is going well.”

Dave left the paint on the porch for the teens to grab and knelt beside Catherine’s chair. “There are several places to eat within walking distance of here. When the kids break for lunch, instead of going to Lost Angel, why don’t we go elsewhere for a change?”

He had glanced back toward the mural as he spoke and merely made a casual suggestion rather than ask for a date, but she doubted that was his true intention. “The WWE doesn’t frighten you?” she teased.

“Not when the guy isn’t real.” Dave rose with an easy stretch. “What do you say? It’s just lunch.”

She would have twisted her wedding band had she still been wearing it, but it struck her as ridiculous to retreat behind her widow’s pose now that she was seeing Luke. “That’s sweet, Dave, but I really need to keep my focus here. If we were ten minutes late getting back and someone starting throwing paint, I’d never forgive myself.”

“Maybe when it’s finished, then,” Dave replied, his gaze again averted.

“Maybe,” she responded playfully, but she knew it was a lie and that hurt. “Say, are you any good with algebra?”

“Sure, but I don’t think we’ll need it here.” Dave shoved his hands into his hip pockets and regarded her with an amused smile.

Catherine had finally mastered the art of rising from the low chair smoothly and did so. “No, not here, but I want to take the CBEST test so that I can teach again, and I don’t remember enough about algebra to work the problems in the book I bought to help me prepare.”

“We could do algebra problems over lunch,” Dave offered, his grin spreading wide.

“I’m so slow we’d never get back on time, but if I brought the book tomorrow, could you give me a couple of tips while we’re here?”

Dave appeared intrigued, but still a bit puzzled by her request. “You’re serious. You really want help with your algebra?”

She’d been hoping for a way to be friendly without offering anything more, but now thought perhaps the whole idea had been stupid and began to back away. “I taught English, Dave, and I’ve never needed algebra to balance my checkbook.”

“Hey, that’s all right. I’ll be glad to help you. Let’s get everyone working in the morning, and then we can hit the math. If it looks like we’re having fun, it might even interest the kids.”

“The Tom Sawyer approach,” she mused, but if she were going back to teaching, someone else would have to set up the tutoring program at Lost Angel.

She angled her hat to better shade her face as she studied the mural. The big bold patches of color were going up today, and each day the design would become more refined until it reached the perfection of Rafael’s drawing. She could hardly wait to see it.

Joyce urged Catherine to try a brownie. “I added some peanut butter. How do they taste?”

Catherine took a bite and responded with a contented sigh. “Heavenly. What are you doing, whipping up treats for Shane?”

Joyce responded with a sassy shrug. “They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and Shane’s coming here for dinner Saturday night. I don’t want to obsess over the menu, but a crisp roasted rosemary chicken followed by a damn good brownie ought to help my cause.”

“Do you have a frilly apron?”

“Battenberg lace, and I look adorable in it, if I do say so myself.” She refilled their iced tea glasses and then sat opposite Catherine.

“Now, it’s been days since we’ve talked, and I’m dying to hear your news. Did you buy the pregnancy test, or is there no longer any need for one?”

Catherine scrunched down in her chair. They were in Joyce’s breakfast room, and the late afternoon sun lent the pale gray walls a pearly luster. She took another bite of brownie rather than reply. “These really are extraordinarily good.”

“Catherine,” Joyce coaxed. “What’s up?”

“I’m only a couple days late. Give me another week.”

Joyce leaned back and fixed her friend with a decidedly skeptical gaze. “Rather than stall, you ought to make an appointment with your gynecologist. If it turns out you don’t need one, then cancel it, but if you do, you’ll have plenty of options. The French pill is supposed to be relatively painless.”

Catherine understood Joyce’s line of thinking, but still had to wash down her last bite of brownie with a long swallow of tea before she found her voice. “I really don’t want to think about this now.”

Joyce slapped her palm on the table. “You’re acting like some naïve teenager who believes if she refuses to think about babies, they’ll just go away. Well, if you’re pregnant, girl, you’ll have to deal with it like an adult, and you better get used to that idea right now.”

Catherine didn’t appreciate being lectured to, but she couldn’t deny Joyce had a valid point. “It’s just that I didn’t expect this to happen.”

“Didn’t your mother warn you it only takes once?”

“Oh yes, when we had the birds-and-bees talk, I believe she threw in every single warning her mother had given her, but knowing how sperm and egg meet doesn’t mean I expected to conceive the first time I slept with Luke.”

“Stand up guy that he is, he used condoms, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but you’re entirely too curious about this, Joyce.”

“I am not, but cut me some slack. Until I can get Shane into bed, I need a vicarious thrill from your romance. When do you plan to tell Luke he might become a father?”

“Oh lord.” Catherine sat forward to prop her elbows on the table and rest her head in her hands. “I’m not going to torture him with that possibility until I absolutely have to.”

“So, despite my suggestion, you never had that little abstract chat about marriage and children?”

“No, and I’m not going to, either.” She sat back and swept brownie crumbs onto her plate. “I’m not refusing to think about being pregnant, Joyce, in fact, I’ve thought of little else since waking up sick Sunday morning. Sam and I missed our chance to have children, and if I have a chance this time, I’m going to grab for it.”

“What if Luke says no? Men insist they have rights too, you know.”

“Which they do,” Catherine agreed, “but if Luke can’t face fatherhood again—”

“Again? You mean the guy has other children?”

Catherine licked her lips. She could hear Luke yelling about her lack of respect for his privacy, but when she was so closely involved, she thought she deserved some consideration too. Believing it was time Joyce learned the truth, she provided what few facts she knew about Marcy’s death.

“Oh my God! Why didn’t you tell me that sooner? That’s awful. No wonder you’re so reticent to confide in Luke, but you can’t wait to tell him the truth until it’s too late for him to have any input.”

Catherine knew that too. “That’s what you don’t understand. He doesn’t have any choice. If it turns out I really am pregnant, and I might not be, then he can either be thrilled and be a real father to our child, or walk. I can raise a baby alone, and I’ll tell anyone who’s rude enough to ask about the father that I used a sperm bank.”

“Well, if Luke walks, then that’s all he was.” Joyce shook her head sadly. “Now that you’ve told me his story, I feel just sick over this, so I can imagine how you must feel.”

“Please, I don’t even want to go there.”

Joyce nodded thoughtfully. “You’re slender. A pregnancy might not show on you for four months, but you won’t make it past five without Luke wondering what’s happened to your svelte figure. Of course, if he’s as great a lover as you say, he’ll notice that first sweet swell of your belly, and if the baby shows before he knows, I sure wouldn’t want to be there.”

“Nor would I. I know I’ll have to tell him, but if I were to lose him and then miscarry—”

Unable to sit still another second, Joyce stood and began to wrap up the remaining brownies. “You can’t hedge your bets on something like this. A couple is either a team or they’re not. I’ve always thought you had it together, unlike me, who can’t seem to cook up anything worthwhile outside of the kitchen, but keeping secrets from a man you care about, a man who has every right to know, is so damn stupid I can’t even believe you’d seriously consider it.”

“Neither can I,” Catherine admitted, “but thinking of Luke’s feelings makes this so much more difficult.”

Catherine left without giving her friend a hug, but she felt sick too, and every choice she had seemed to be the wrong one.

Dave had gotten a haircut, and when Catherine first saw him Friday morning, she failed to recognize him. Then she noticed the Phish T-shirt that was one of his favorites and realized who he was.

“You look completely different, Dave. Really good too, by the way.”

No longer pulled back in a ponytail, his light brown hair dipped over his forehead in soft waves that enhanced the blue of his eyes. The stylish cut had made such a dramatic difference in his appearance that he’d gone from looking like a handyman who loved the outdoors to a model for
GQ
between wardrobe changes.

“Thank you, but I’ve been working on my résumé and don’t want to waste any time getting a haircut should I actually receive a request for an interview.”

“It’s always good to plan ahead,” she complimented, “although I hope you won’t be disappointed in the response you receive.”

“Oh, I’m sure to be disappointed. I know guys who’ve sent out hundreds of résumés and not received a single reply. The postage alone can be heartbreaking, but I’m going to do as much as I possibly can through the Internet. Luke’s been cool about letting me log on after Lost Angel closes.”

When Catherine found herself unable to offer a coherent comment about Luke’s generosity, she excused herself to make certain the necessary supplies were on hand. She’d had to make a couple of extra runs to the paint store earlier in the week, but everyone had what he or she needed that morning.