Where Dreams Reside

by M. L. Buchman

  “I’m fine. Just need some aspirin. Then I’ll be fine.”

  Jo dug into her gym bag and found her emergency stash and a water bottle.

  Angelo took them gratefully.

  “Thanks, Jo. And again, I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Me too. You sure you’re okay to drive?”

  He nodded and only winced a little at the unwarranted motion. He started to reach for his bag and keys, but she got them before he had to bend over. He’d have a screaming headache by now at the very least.

  “Thanks.” He had his van’s door open.

  “Do you want to work out together sometime this weekend?” Now where had that come from? Was she really so needy for company? No, she was simply that desperate for anything familiar in a world that contained something as crazy as Renée’s offer.

  Angelo looked as surprised as she felt.

  “I, uh, usually go for a bike ride on Saturday morning. My sous chef does lunch and we both do dinner. Do you ride?”

  “Sure. Loop of the lake?”

  “That sounds great.”

  Jo felt a little manipulative. It was her standard training ride, but it was also a long ride. Yes, she had an ulterior motive, that somewhere along the way they’d be able to discuss Renée’s offer to take over the management of Pike Place Market. She needed a sounding board so badly.

  But it wasn’t just an ulterior motive, it would also be nice to have someone to ride with. Cassidy was a runner and Perrin looked at exercise as a disease contracted by the undeserving as punishment for a wicked former life.

  “I’m done shopping for the restaurant by seven.”

  “Perfect. We can start the ride while the day’s still cool. Meet on the trail under the Fremont Bridge at half past?”

  With a shared smile and nod they climbed into their cars.

  Angelo buzzed through the morning shopping.

  Or he tried to.

  But his mother had insisted on coming along. When he was selecting a long side of swordfish from the iced counter at the Pike Place Market fish vendor, his mother was chatting with Henry.

  As he chose only the most perfect avocados and artichokes, she’d found out that Uli had two children and a third one on the way though it wasn’t showing yet. At least not that he could politely see.

  Maria Amelia greeted the bread baker in passable French, and she stopped them for a cup of espresso and to split a morning baklava at Mister D’s Greek Delicacies even though he wasn’t really open and serving yet.

  Angelo barely tasted it and seared his mouth on the hot coffee.

  It was past seven, almost seven thirty by the time he got back to the apartment and changed. Then Russell’s cat, Nutcase, still thinking she was kitten-sized, had decided Angelo’s hand was an invader from deep space resulting in a long bloody scratch that Angelo had wiped on his bike shorts without thinking, so he’d had to change again and get a Band-Aid.

  His mother stopped him in the hallway and he almost exploded with frustration.

  “You go have a nice ride. She must be very pretty.”

  That stopped him cold.

  She patted his cheek. “I am only retired. It does not make me blind, mio figlio. I hope she is as pretty as that nice girl at the wedding. I see you later at the ristorante.” She held the door open and shooed him out with his bike before he could respond.

  Angelo had planned to ride the couple miles to meet Jo, now he tossed his bicycle and helmet into the van and sped through the early-morning streets. His nerves may have made him squeeze a couple of red lights on the way.

  He found a spot only a few blocks away and almost worked up a sweat sprinting down to where the Burke-Gilman Trail cut under the Fremont Bridge. He was worried that she’d have given up and gone without him, but saw her right away.

  He’d thought she looked amazing in workout clothes at the gym. In the warm morning, she wore shorts and a cycling jersey made of the most amazing, brilliant crimson form-fitting Lycra. They covered more, but hid not the least little curve. The dark, wrap-around Oakley shades only served to make her look even more fearsome.

  You will speak to her normally. Like a normal person. Angelo admonished himself as he rolled up to where she was stretching her hamstrings with a heel resting on the back of a park bench. A little park was all that separated the paved bike-and-running trail from the Fremont Cut where Lake Union flowed down to the sea.

  Already, pleasure boats were working their way along the cut. They were heading for the Chittenden Locks which would let them out onto Puget Sound. He and Jo would be heading the other way. Along north Lake Union, through the University of Washington, and then north beside Lake Washington they’d follow the Burke-Gilman for fifteen miles before turning south.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Angelo managed against a dry throat. Too glad that he hadn’t missed her, which would just give him a new offense to worry about. “My mother…” He cut himself off.

  “Is she okay?”

  “Sure.” She was fine. He was the one going quietly mad.

  Jo faced him with those power glasses. “You ready to ride or do you need to warm up a bit?”

  “I’m good to go.” He’d take his morning shopping at Pike Place Market as his warm up. A slow start and he’d be fine.

  Then he looked at her bike and whistled in appreciation. It was an electric-red Rodriguez custom-built road bike with Dura-ace shifters and a lay-down bar. There was no way he was going to keep up with her. The machine was almost as hot as its owner.

  “I know. I know. The bike is ridiculous for a rider like me, but it feels amazing. I feel fast just looking at it, even if I’m not. A friend told me it was the best, so Cassidy insisted that’s what I should buy. I don’t like buying things twice.”

  After the first mile or so of weaving among the local joggers, they rode clear of the city foot traffic. Okay, I can do this without making a complete idiot of myself.

  Jo had led the first half mile which had given him a chance to get his legs warmed up and his heart rate under control. Following just a bike length behind Jo was immensely distracting. Her hair flew behind her like a banner from underneath her helmet. Her fine figure was only accentuated by the cycling position and her long legs spun quickly with the evidence of long practice and training. It was enough to make him overheated even without the exercise.

  There was the steadiness of a practiced rider about her. Clean strokes, fast spin, and a quiet body position on the long flats of the Burke-Gilman.

  At the half-mile mark, she swung to the center of the trail, letting him zip past her on the right side. In his peripheral vision he could see her tuck in close behind him. Now it was his turn to take on the extra work of blocking the wind, letting her rest in the slipstream of his draft. It wasn’t a skill for beginners, but she held her position perfectly, her own front tire perhaps a foot behind his rear one. He thought about taking a full mile, but that could look as if he was trying to impress her. He thought of it as being gentlemanly but decided that discretion was the better part of valor and swung aside and let her pass after he’d led a half-mile matching hers.

  They rapidly fell into an easy rhythm of alternating lead and draft, spinning along the shore of Lake Washington and its stately homes. The trail, dappled with cool shade and warm sun passed by more easily than it ever had before.

  Past Juanita Park, Jo had the lead when they hit the hill. She downshifted and began the grind up the hill. It was a long slog. At this speed there was no advantage to drafting, this was just about low gears and a lot of spinning. Angelo dropped back a bit and they each focused on their own climb.

  She’d woken so sore this morning that she’d almost called Angelo to cancel. Might have, if she’d had his number. She’d arrived only moments before he did, and she half hoped she’d missed him. But now with the miles rolling beneath them, she was glad she’d come. The ride had loosened her muscles and been beautiful so far.

  Though, her muscles reminded her as sh
e climbed, the ride was barely half over. A loop around Lake Washington ran forty-five to fifty miles depending on which exact route you took.

  And now, for the two miles of the longest climb in the route, she’d just hunker down and think of something else while her legs earned their keep and knocked off the excess calories from yesterday’s lunch, and the cheese, salami, and wine dinner she’d fixed from the depths of the Pike Place Market basket.

  Her mind had shifted to a place of denial. Even if she had heard the unstated offer correctly and Renée was offering her the position at Pike Place Market, why on Earth would Jo be interested? The last big Alaska case had made her partner in one of the country’s elite maritime law firms. That had earned her not only a very nice salary, but also a significant share of the law firm’s yearly profits. She wasn’t the most junior partner in some thousand-attorney firm, she was the fourth partner in a very elite, very specialized, very highly paid boutique firm. And the North Slope case could easily set her up for many years to come, assuming she won and didn’t go off buying jet planes or something equally stupid.

  Yes, it would be several years of every waking minute, but she could do that. Her father had just cruised through life, the perfect counterexample. The weather was rough, he stayed in his shack, at least until the bar opened. If he didn’t feel like fishing that week, he left the boat tied up. Yes, it had probably extended his existence, but was it worth extending? He was lazy, his wife had left him before Jo’s first memory, and his daughter had been gone by sixteen, too young emotionally for college but with the grades and scholarship to get out and not care one whit about the consequences.

  Executive Director of Pike Place Market couldn’t pay a quarter of what she was making now, or a tenth of what she would make. It wasn’t even a reasonable offer. It made no sense.

  So clearly, she shifted down another gear as her legs tired, she had misunderstood Renée Linden’s unspoken message. Perhaps she was asking Jo to help her select the next Executive Director, maybe head up the search committee which would have good prestige and connections in its own right. Or maybe Renée wanted to make sure she’d be willing to work for the new director on legal issues despite her high profile cases. She’d be glad to, if she had the time. Her offices were at the edge of the Market, she ate most lunches there, and enjoyed doing part of her shopping in the various stalls.

  She heard Angelo puffing up beside her. She shifted to the right edge of the shoulder, if he wanted to pass her on a hill climb she had no ego about it. At least not until the moment his wheel edged one inch past even, then she’d upshift and dust his behind if she could find the reserves.

  Jo glanced over as he pulled up beside her. She knew she was perspiring, the band inside her helmet was barely holding back the tidal wave of sweat from her eyes.

  Angelo looked positively fresh, as if they’d just spent the ten minutes on the flat, or coasting downhill. He’d be very easy to hate in this moment.

  “I’ll meet you in the park at the foot of the hill. I’ll catch up with you.”

  Before she could even nod, he dropped back and was gone. She twisted her head and saw him turn into the parking lot of a grocery store right before the crest of the hill.

  She considered circling back, but then she’d be stopping with the last hundred yards uphill still to go. Forget that. She wasn’t going to intimate that she needed a rest in order to beat this hill.

  Jo rolled over the highest point of the whole ride and began adding back gears.

  She hit the downhill slope going fifteen miles an hour. By mid-descent, she was in a high gear, spinning hard in a full racing tuck, and going fifteen over the twenty-five mile-an-hour speed limit. Praying for no police, she hammered down the hill. Fifteen minutes of grinding work uphill, turned into a three-minute flash down into the heart of Kirkland and straight on into the park.

  At nine on a Saturday morning the waterfront park was already busy with professionals and families. The small park jutted out into Lake Washington so that it was surrounded on three sides by water. Early cyclists and joggers packed the park. The shoppers at the boutique shops which wrapped around the bay wouldn’t be hitting for another couple of hours.

  She rolled out to the very point, past the gazebo, and dropped to the grass.

  A quick check on her cycle computer made her do a double-take. They’d chopped fifteen minutes off her best previous time. She wouldn’t admit it to Angelo, but she’d driven herself up the climb from Juanita Beach like never before. The cardio settings said that she’d killed off the worst of yesterday’s excesses and was making a good dent in whatever ones she’d find for today.

  “Chocolate or vanilla?”

  She looked up at Angelo as he pulled two supermarket-freezer ice cream cones from the back pocket of his shirt and presented them with a flourish for her consideration. She didn’t ask, she just snatched the chocolate one.

  He settled beside her as they both peeled the paper wrappers.

  When she sank her teeth into it, the cold smacked her overheated body. This wasn’t some healthy, demure dish of frozen yogurt. This was a high calorie, fat-turbocharged treat of chocolate and nuts on cheap chocolate ice cream in a really crappy wafer cone, just like all good pre-wrapped freezer cones.

  It tasted sooo good.

  “Oh... My!” Her mouth still half full of ice cream. She turned and kissed Angelo right on the lips. “This is wonderful.”

  It was only as she faced back out over the lake and took a second bite, despite the possible risk of serious brain freeze from eating it too fast, that she realized what she’d done.

  Two ways to deal with it. Ignore it or risk a sly look from behind her dark sunglasses to gauge his reaction.

  Her brain chose a third. She turned and shot him a chocolate-laced grin, then stuck her tongue out at him.

  He laughed and, much to her relief, did the same through vanilla-covered lips.

  Chapter 6

  Angelo’s legs were shaking by the time he got back to his condo in Pioneer Square. A hot shower, a high-carb lunch, and then he’d have some chance of surviving Saturday night service. He’d never ridden the Loop of the Lake so fast, or had so much fun doing it. He felt simultaneously exhausted and supercharged.

  They’d barely spoken during the three-hour ride, no way to really do it while riding. But it was as if they didn’t need to. He never knew what to say to someone so smart and beautiful as Jo Thompson anyway, but doing the ride together had been easy and fun.

  In the park they had eaten their cones and laughed about the Thursday night disaster. Who knew he’d ever be able to find the least morsel of humor in the situation, but Jo somehow made the impossible possible.

  His mother wasn’t at the condo, maybe she was out exploring Seattle. He’d have to remember to take fresh clothes into the bathroom with him. Thankfully his new place had two baths, so they could each have their own. There’d be at last some privacy.

  He was halfway through his shower when he remembered where his van was parked. At the Fremont Bridge.

  Angelo stuck his head out of shower to check the clock on the bathroom counter.

  Great. Just great.

  Not only did it mean getting back on his bike, but by the time he got there, if the Seattle Police were operating at their usual level of efficiency, he’d have a parking ticket as well.

  Forty-seven dollars.

  Angelo was out the cost of a good bottle of wine and now, as he tried to park behind his restaurant, the one space reserved for his own use had been taken by some useless tourist. Well, he was going to get their behind towed and cost them a serious chunk of change and irritation. Perhaps it would mitigate some of his own.

  But it wasn’t some tourist. It was his own car, parked in the van’s space.

  This was Pike Place Market on a Saturday afternoon. There’d be nowhere to park for blocks around that didn’t cost at least half as much as his parking ticket. The traffic was suicidal and it took him forever to es
cape.

  He drove down to Pioneer Square and pulled into the secure garage, hauled his bike upstairs, and then set out on his usual walk back up the hill. By the time he was done, it had taken him almost two hours to reach his own restaurant just six blocks from his condo.

  Okay, the bike ride had been good. He’d stay focused on that. He had finally found an interest in common with Jo and they’d had a good time. That ranked as a good date. Didn’t it?

  He’d like to have discussed his mother descending on him. It would be nice to talk it through with her. The thought surprised him a little. He would have liked to hear Jo’s opinion. Angelo wagered that it would have been well considered and thoughtful. But the subject hadn’t come up and then she’d blanked his brain.

  He’d been too surprised to react to the chocolaty kiss, and was glad she’d given him an excuse to not do so by sticking out her tongue at him. If he’d had a moment to think about it, he’d have found some way to mess it up. Instead, he’d laughed at the momentary image of the ever so proper attorney Ms. Thompson sticking her tongue out at a jury if she didn’t like their decision.

  Angelo walked down the half block of Pike Street that led from First Avenue into the heart of the Market. The uneven brick was as packed with people as the sidewalks. Woe to a tourist stupid enough to attempt to drive on this street. He ignored the fact that he’d fallen into just that trap an hour before while attempting to park his van.

  It was warm and sunny. The gelato merchant’s success was evident in dozens of people’s hands, bright globes of pure, glistening color perched on thin cones stood out among the kaleidoscope of summer attire. Bags held everything from fish and produce to soaps and trinkets. A woman wearing strike-you-dead-with-lust perfume brushed by him, her arm full of dahlias, her hair a bright chop of blond and chartreuse.

  Left Hand Books was so crowded that people were visible through the window, doing the very slow shuffle step among the shelves. Henry shot him a friendly salute from the big fish stall right before flinging a twelve-pound salmon through the air toward the cashier for wrapping and sale.