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  Paul faded in and out of sleep. Grace was snuggled beside him, her arm around his waist. He pulled damp hair away from her face. She was restless and had been talking to someone in her sleep.

  He checked his watch; it was five o’clock. He tried to close his eyes, but couldn’t wait another minute.

  “Grace? Wake up.”

  “Oh my God. What are you still doing here? I am never drinking again!” Grace spoke through dry, sticky lips. She stood up, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Paul. This had to be one of the worst nights. Did you get any sleep?”

  “I did. Don’t worry about it. Are you okay? You were talking in your sleep. Something startled you. The nightmare again?”

  “I don’t remember what I was dreaming. Would you like coffee? I’m going to get ready for work, take you home, and set you free, French-fry,” she teased.

  Paul had a pleasant laugh. His voice was deep, melodic; he was easy to be around. I, however, am a mess.

  “I’ll get the coffee,” he replied. “Would you like what’s in the pot? Or fresh?”

  “I’m being a terrible hostess.”

  “No worries. I am a trained professional. Ask anyone at the Ambrosia Café.”

  “If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll go shower.”

  Grace wasn’t surprised to see mascara smeared on her face or her hair matted from perspiring. She removed her crumpled clothing and stood under the hot shower, feeling the “night before” wash away. Her head throbbed. She would deal with that later. Right now, she was enjoying the soothing rivulets running down her body. She lathered her skin with body wash, feeling refreshed. But when she opened the cap for the shampoo, the fragrance jogged her memory of the other night.

  She sniffed the shampoo again. No, the scent wasn’t coming from the shampoo. Today she felt sure it came through the window. Masculine. The scent Jess was wearing. She couldn’t prevent the chill that ran up and down her spine. She closed the window. Shivering, she thought, Can’t think about that now. She pushed the unsettling question to the back of her mind.

  She hurried to blow-dry her hair and brushed her teeth. Grabbing a sleeveless blouse and a light summer suit from the closet, she dressed quickly and followed her nose downstairs. She smelled bacon, eggs, melon, toast, and fresh coffee. The smell was divine.

  “Oh, Paul, breakfast?”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I like to start my day with a full tank. You don’t eat breakfast?”

  “Sometimes. Not lately.”

  “Breakfast tastes better when you have someone to share it with,” he said. “How about we eat outside? I fed your dog and let her out. She’s exploring. We can watch the morning sun paint the sky. Do you have time?”

  “Yes.” She smiled. “I have time.”

  Nose to the ground, the dog sniffed the bushes intently.

  “The raccoons must have come back,” Grace said, placing a vase of fresh-picked flowers on the table.

  “Raccoons? Here? Really?” Paul didn’t see any reason for them to hang around and wondered if that’s why Sneaky was acting so strange last night.

  “She’s been barking at something lately,” Grace said, loading a fork full of melon into her mouth. She chewed with satisfaction. “I hope that’s all it is.”

  Paul noticed her concern but didn’t respond. He didn’t want to alarm her unnecessarily. I wonder.

  They finished breakfast and cleaned up the dishes, joking freely with one another. Grace couldn’t remember watching the sun rise with anyone. It had been weeks since she had felt this good. Her stomach felt better. Her headache forgotten, she wanted to feel glorious, but something still nagged at her. That scent, his scent.

  She had smelled it once before, but where? When?

  CHAPTER 7

  NO FOOL

  I t was not a good morning for a hangover. It was Tuesday, Blind-Date Tuesday. Cats Tuesday. Damn. Grace hadn’t begun her day, and already she needed a nap.

  Sal was chipper. She was looking forward to the play.

  “John can’t wait to see me in that outfit. He said it was worth every penny.”

  “I agree. Marc Jacobs is fabulous on you.”

  “The boys are going to John’s sister’s for the night.” Sal was grinning from ear to ear.

  “Would you like to play hooky tomorrow?”

  “Maybe. I might not be able to walk!” Sal thrust her hips to and fro, then side to side. “I’m warming up,” she boasted.

  “Guess who I ran into last night at the Park?” Grace blurted out. It was so unlike her to share personal details.

  Sal stopped dancing. “Who?”

  “That French waiter, who’s not French at all, although he does speak a little French.”

  “I remember him. He was cute.”

  “He is.”

  “And?”

  “He’ll be a veterinarian in two weeks.”

  “And?”

  “I got drunk. He took me home.”

  “This I gotta hear!”

  “Don’t go all perky on me now,” warned Grace. “Nothing happened. He made me breakfast.”

  “You ate breakfast?”

  “Yes, it was already made by the time I finished my shower. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’m a Krispy-Kreme girl.

  “If you took a shower with him, the two of you could have discussed that.”

  “And then what?”

  “Well, you could have told him that you can be very creative when it comes to donuts. He may have asked you to marry him or something!”

  “You’re impossible!” Grace tossed crumpled paper at Sal. They enjoyed the girl talk until Tyne Burton walked through the door.

  “Damn, I always miss the party. You ladies makin’ Tiny feel left out.”

  “You haven’t missed a thing, Tiny. I’ll be right with you.” Tiny lumbered into the waiting room.

  “Do I need to give you pointers?” Sal asked, her hands on her skinny hips.

  “We’ll talk later. Right now, I have to be a therapist.” Grace shot Sal a serious look.

  “Dang, and here I was beginning to think there was hope!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Grace’s tone dripped insult.

  “I was just kidding. Whatever you’re doing Grace, it’s helping. You’ve loosened up a bit in these past couple of weeks.” Sal patted Grace’s hand before handing her Tiny’s file.

  Grace rolled her eyes. Must be the therapy.

  “Come with me, Tiny,” Grace said, leading him into her office. She watched the cushions sink as he sat down. He looked bigger than she remembered.

  “What’s going on. How are those dreams of yours?”

  “They still there. I been smokin’ a little reefer…to get me gone.”

  “You’re still on parole, am I correct?”

  “You tol’ me I could tell you anythin’.” He sat tall, defensive.

  “I did. I didn’t say that I wouldn’t do the same.” She looked “big” right back. “It’s my understanding that smoking marijuana can land you back in jail; you’re on parole. It didn’t sound to me when we spoke the first time that prison was someplace you enjoyed being, so…let’s be real here, shall we?”

  “I can’t sleep. Whad I suppose ta do?” he complained.

  “What do you do before you go to bed?”

  “Like wha?”

  “Do you watch TV? Do you putter around the house? What is your daily routine? Sometimes a person can become overly stimulated before going to bed. The body doesn’t wind down like it should so your activities may have something to do with it.”

  “I dunno. I watch a little TV. Talk ta my girls.”

  “On the phone? In person?”

  “Da phone mos’ly.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “Stuff. I dunno. Wha’ da fuck you gitten at?”

  “Your mind is a magnificent thing. When you have something buried deep inside, all it takes is one word, and your mind will process a whole thought. If you are talking to
your girls about sex, for instance, your mind may be subconsciously playing the tape of your rape. When you go to bed, those thoughts can filter into your dreams. Our thoughts don’t always make sense to us, so the best approach is to talk about what is going on with you before you go to bed.”

  “I think I gotcha.”

  “Good. Tell me about your dream.”

  “It’s like I said, dis girl wit dese eyes, they keep fuckin’ lookin’ at me, and I keep hittin’ her.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “She’s fuckin’ small. Like a li’l girl, but her eyes are old.”

  “What is around you when you’re hitting her?”

  “I dunno.” He sat with his face in his hands for a minute, wiped his brow, and then stared at Grace. “I was so messed up. Dat’s all I remember.”

  “What color is her hair?”

  “I dunno, brown or somethin’.”

  “What color are the eyes that are looking at you?”

  “Black. Like da pupils are huge. Dey don’t look real.”

  “Are they scared? Accusing? Angry?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Are you alone? Anyone else in the room?”

  “I may look like a dumbshit, but I ain’t no fool.

  “Okay. Do you want to tell me what happened in prison?”

  “Na. Ain’t gonna make it, so it didn’ happen.”

  “Remember what I said about your mind. It’s like a storage bin.”

  “Yessim.”

  “When you talk about the things that are bothering you, you change the order of the bin your thoughts go back into. Sometimes you are able to resolve issues you’re having with what happened. For instance, if you were afraid of water, we would talk about all the reasons you would have to be scared of water. Like, maybe you slipped in the bathtub when you were little, or maybe you almost drowned in a lake…”

  “I don’ think gettin’ fucked in the ass by a big muthafucka is something that happened when I was a kid.”

  “No, but if you did that to someone else, your mind might be trying to tell you something.”

  “Like wha’?”

  “Like maybe you are feeling some guilt, some remorse. You can relate to what it’s like to be violated.”

  Tiny wasn’t moved by her explanation. She was waiting for him to tell her how he felt. When he was tired of staring at her, he stared at the wall.

  “What are you thinking about, Tiny?”

  “I wanted to kill the muthafucka. I still do. If I ever see his sorry ass, I’m gonna fuck ’im up but good.”

  “Which will land you back in jail, and then you stand a good chance to be raped again.”

  “Huh.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Whaddaya, fuckin’ nuts?”

  “Do you see my point, Tiny?” Her voice was gentle, empathetic. “I would hate for that to happen again to you. You have worked so hard to redeem yourself, make a better life for yourself. Why would you want to give that up for revenge?”

  “He’s the muthafucka that gave my brother AIDS.”

  “Have you been checked?”

  “Yessim.” Tears welled in Tiny’s eyes.

  “And?”

  “I’m HIV positive.”

  “Have you started on the cocktail yet?”

  “I’m suppos’ ta start next week.”

  “I’m sorry, Tiny. I really am.” Grace put her hand over his. He pulled away.

  “I don’ need no babyin’.”

  “Of course not.” She rose, went to her bookshelf, and pulled a book from one of the neat rows. She sat back down and began to thumb through the pages. When she found the information she wanted, she wrote it down on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

  “This is a group that meets once a week near the hospital. It’s very confidential, and it’s facilitated by an extremely gifted therapist. I think you’ll like him.”

  “What’s wrong wit you? I gotta start this shit all over ’gin someplace else?”

  “You can do both. You can see me, and if you want, you can check out this group and talk to other men who are dealing with the same issues. It’s nice to have support from others who have had the same or similar experiences. Plus, you can discuss different treatments that work or don’t work and get feedback. It’s worth a try.”

  “So wha’d I do ’bout da dreams?”

  “I had a client who dreamt he was going to die. He started writing his dreams down before he went to bed, only he would change the ending.” Grace chuckled, thinking about Wilde Defoe. “He wrote that he was lying in his grave, but instead of dirt being shoveled in his face, as in his dream, he wrote that it was money pouring on top of him.”

  “Wha’d he do? Di’ da dreams stop?”

  “He told me it worked, and he won $7,000 in Atlanta, Georgia!”

  “You fuckin’ wit me?”

  “True story.” Grace held up her hand in earnest. “Now I’m not saying that he won the money because he changed his dream, but what is important is that he changed the storage bin, so to speak.” Tiny was amused.

  “I don’ write so good.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s all about the storage bins.”

  “Miz Simms?” he said, his hand turning the knob on the door. “I do feel bad ’bout da girl.”

  Grace’s smile faded.

  CHAPTER 8

  NEW ENDINGS

  W ilde Defoe encountered Tiny Burton on his way in. Both men were in a hurry—one to leave, one to enter the office. Wilde practically bounced off the door frame when the large man passed by. Wilde didn’t get confrontational; he let the rude behavior slide.

  “Hey ladies,” he said, lounging on the front counter. “Big dude!” He thumbed in the direction of the door.

  Sal gave Wilde a peak of her pepper spray. He snickered, his hand covering his mouth.

  “Behave you two,” Grace warned. She tried to smile but was still struck by what Tiny had just revealed to her on his way out. She couldn’t piece the puzzle together just yet. She had to let it go and concentrate on Wilde.

  “Come on down.” She took the file from the counter and began walking toward her office. She could smell her client walking behind her. It was a clean scent. Similar to my shampoo? No, don’t go there either.

  “Still having the dreams, Wilde?” She closed the door.

  “They’re not as vivid, but I still have this feeling of foreboding. I don’t exactly know how to explain it.”

  “Give it a try. Let’s see if we can’t figure it out together.”

  Wilde was silent for a moment, sensuality exuding his panther-like stretch. His hair was pulled back. Damp curls clung to his neck. The weather was hot, too hot for thick hair to be long and loose. His tank fit tightly across his rippling body. A picture of the Dave Matthews Band stood out against the black. His linen pants and sandals gave him a Cosmopolitan look. Grace noticed his feet were nicely shaped, well cared for. He wiped away the bead of sweat about to roll down his temple with the silk handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.

  Grace was beginning to perspire herself. She rose to check the thermostat.

  “Is it warm in here or is it just me?” She turned the dial to the left, lowering the temperature. The fan kicked in.

  “This is going to sound stupid,” he said, “but I’m going to put it there. You decide. Maybe you’re cool with it.” His voice was silky. Grace wondered what he sounded like when he sang. Steven Tyler maybe?

  “Let’s hear it.” She crossed her legs. The heat made her feel sticky.

  “Have you ever felt that something was going to happen before it happened?”

  “Are you asking me if I’ve ever had premonitions?”

  “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  “Hmmm. You feel something is going to happen?”

  “Exactly.” The word slid from his full lips like frosting on warm cake.

  “Talk to me.” Grace sat back, relaxed, and gave him her full att
ention.

  “When I was two, there were these ladies who visited my grandma. They were sisters. They were rich. I remember my grandma telling me to mind my manners. They were that rich.” He delighted in the memory. “I always knew when they were coming.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I would get an image of them in my head.”

  “And you were only two?”

  “I must’ve been. I have pictures of me on a red tricycle, and I was two. They bought the bike for me. That was the first time it happened.”

  “Do you have these premonitions often?”

  “Pretty often. Let’s just say often enough to take notice when they happen.”

  “So these dreams of dying, are you telling me they’re premonitions?”

  “Exactly.”

  Wilde pulled his long outstretched leg inward and crossed it over the other. He chewed on his thumbnail, looked at it, and chewed some more. His smirk became a scowl.

  “What is the time frame? How soon after the visions do these things happen?” Grace was intrigued.

  “It varies. This psychic friend of Derek’s—Derek’s in the band—told me I should keep a journal. I told her I would, but I have to be honest: I’m just too freakin’ lazy to do it.” He went back to his nail biting.

  “What other kind of experiences have you had?”

  “My dad made a deal once. I was about six or seven…” Wilde closed his eyes to summon the information, “Actually, I was eight. It was the first summer I was allowed to play baseball. My dad was telling my mom that he had acquired this client. The guy was brilliant, and he was going to make my dad a lot of money. My dad went out and bought a new car. My mom was livid until he came home with it and took her to Spudwerk along the river for dinner. I kept having this dream that the guy was getting on an airplane and going somewhere, and I got the same feeling of excitement as I did when I would look for a good hiding place.”

  “Interesting. Did you know where he was going?”

  “That I didn’t find out until I heard my dad fuming about the guy leaving the country. He had embezzled three million dollars from the company he worked for. My dad got ripped off and had to sell the car. Adios!”