Chasing Rainbows A Novel - By Long, Kathleen Page 0,70

in beads that I’d shoved aside to make room for our impromptu breakfast.

“What are you working on?” She traced a finger over a red piece of round glass, then a turquoise square.

I reached for a second muffin, but pulled my hand back. After the calories I’d inhaled last night, a second muffin was most definitely out of the question if I ever wanted to wear anything other than yoga pants and big shirts again.

“I wanted to make a bracelet.” I shrugged. “But I’m having a difficult time picturing the finished product.”

“Beautiful colors,” she said as she pushed back her chair. “Looks like a rainbow, doesn’t it?”

I stood to give her a thank you hug as she headed for the front door, but I couldn’t help but stare over her shoulder at the placemat full of beads.

A rainbow.

I’d be damned.

Sophie was right.

After she headed back home, I stood over the kitchen table and stared at the piles of colored beads. Reds. Purples. Greens. Blues.

I pulled one bead of each color, lining them into a single row, not worrying about matching sizes or shapes or textures. I poured another cup of coffee then cut a long length of wire, setting the instruction card next to me as I settled down to create my masterpiece.

An hour later, I’d started and stopped and woven and unwoven the bracelet more times than I could count. I wanted to create a masterpiece symbolic of my life--my new life--but all I succeeded in doing was making a mess.

I pushed aside the beads I’d been working with, mixing them with all of the other beads spread out on the placemat. Frustration bubbled up inside me and I slid everything back into the store bag, mixing colors and shapes and sizes. I sealed the bag and dropped the entire mess back into the drawer.

I pictured how Mrs. Cooke’s eyes had brightened at the sight of the beads, thought of how she’d encouraged me to apologize to Number Thirty-Six.

But I knew better.

I slid the drawer shut, drew in a deep breath then sighed.

Sometimes, the best course of action was to walk away. To admit defeat and quit.

Simple. Effective. Painless.

But as I headed for a hot shower, I didn’t feel effective at all.

I felt like a quitter and I didn’t like it.

I didn’t like it one bit.

o0o

“The truth of the matter is that you always know the right thing to do. The hard part is doing it.”

-Gen. Norman Schwarzkoff

TWENTY

“RI FSV PVEFS QY KRIFVD, R YRITMMA MVTDIVP FSTF FSVDV KTU KRFSRI NV TI RIBRIORLMV UJNNVD.”

-TMLVDF OTNJU

A few weeks later, George Clooney fed me grapes, the tips of his fingers brushing my lips as he dropped each juicy morsel into my waiting, hungry mouth.

He reached up and ruffled the top of my hair. “You look cute as a boy.”

Cute.

Even in my dreams, I couldn’t get things right.

Ding dong.

George tipped his head to one side. “Must be Aidan. He’s bringing over the brownies.”

Ding dong.

“Aidan?” I asked lazily.

George nodded. “Number Thirty-Six.”

Oh. Aidan.

With that, George morphed into Number Thirty-Six, all tousled hair and sexy grin.

My nerves simmered to life inside me, but I slapped them away, reminding myself there was no room for nerves in a dream this good.

I focused on relaxing as the doorbell sounded again.

Number Thirty-Six winked and I wondered what kind of brownies he’d brought to the party.

An icy-cold wet nose nudged my cheek, but I swiped it away.

Ding dong.

Another nose nudge. Another swipe.

This time, a paw on my chest.

“Poindexter,” I muttered, willing myself to stay in the dream. “If you could see what I see, you’d let me sleep.”

Ding dong.

I frowned, blinking open my eyes.

That last chime most definitely was not part of the dream.

I blew out a sigh of regret, bid a silent farewell to George, Number Thirty-Six and the brownies, and reached for my robe.

Poindexter gave my cheek a quick lick, and I gave his neck a squeeze as I pushed myself off of the bed. “Good boy.” I think.

I’d just slid my bare feet into my bunny slippers when the doorbell rang yet again.

Whoever this was, they meant business--I squinted at the clock--at sixty-thirty in the morning.

My stomach did a slow sideways roll.

Someone was at my front door, ringing the bell insistently, at six-thirty in the morning.

A phone call this early in the morning meant bad news, but a house call had to mean... I shook my head, refusing to let my thoughts do anything more than focus on making it to the front door.

When I peered through the