Jan Burke - Sweet Dreams, Irene

“You have a point. Aren’t you worried about nightmares?”

“Lately I’ve been able to wake up from them a little more quietly.”

“I’ve noticed. But I don’t like the idea of not being there for you. I’ll be in the room across from yours. Call me if you need me for anything – Mom or no Mom, okay?”

“Okay. Are you still going to undress me?”

“You really know how to torture a guy, you know that?”

BUT WHEN IT CAME time to get ready for bed, Bea shooed him out of my room and helped me instead. Even though she was another woman, it was embarrassing to me to have her do it. Frank knew all my tender spots and was able to avoid causing any additional discomfort when he helped. Bea tried, and I bore with it, but by the time I got into the bed I was sore in a couple of places; my blasted shoulder was already throbbing from when the boys had gotten overly enthusiastic about their artwork.

She tucked me in and sat on the edge of the bed. “I owe you an apology,” she said after a while.

“I’d prefer we just forget about it and go on from here, if that’s all right with you.”

She nodded. “Frank’s a man now. I guess I have to learn to let him make his own mistakes.”

I laughed and she quickly said, “Oh dear, I didn’t mean that to sound quite like that.”

“It’s okay. Good night.”

“Good night, Irene.” She smiled, adding, “It’s like the song.”

She left humming it.

I heard her open Frank’s door and say good night to him as well. “And you stay on your side of the hallway, you young goat, or I’ll tan your hide.”

I lay in the darkness, feeling restless without Frank beside me. Finally I fell asleep.

I SUPPOSE IT WAS crazy to imagine that the pain and tension of the day, the new surroundings, and whatever else was playing at my mind would not lead to nightmares. What happened between the images of Devon and Raney stabbing me over and over with deer-foot knives and when I was fully awake is lost to me. All I know is that the light was on and I was sitting up in bed, sweating. Frank sat facing me, looking at me in a worried way. I was breathing hard and still feeling scared. I became aware that Bea was in the doorway, looking nearly as worried as Frank.

“I’ll take care of her,” she was saying.

“No. Go back to bed.” No ifs, ands, or buts would have worked against that tone. She must have realized that, since she left.

“Good morning, Irene. It’s about three o’clock. You’re at my mom’s house.” He saw me getting things in focus and gently lowered me back on to the pillows. Somehow, lying down again made me feel closer to the dream and I felt the terror of it again.

“Shhh,” he was saying, and softly stroking my forehead and hair. The dream and the fear retreated. He leaned over and trailed kisses from my forehead to my lips, where he lingered a while. What dream?

He smiled a self-satisfied smile when he looked back into my eyes. He looked me over. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to leave.”

“What about your mother?”

“I haven’t signed your cast yet,” he said, ignoring me while he went over to the desk and brought back the marker. He pulled off the few covers that were still on me and turned his back to me, blocking my view of what he had started to do with the marker.

“What about your mother?” I repeated.

“Don’t you like her?”

“Yes, I do, now that we’re getting to know one another. What are you doing?”

Even without seeing his face, I knew he was grinning. “I think she likes you, too. In fact, I know she does.”

“Are you glad we stayed?”

“Very glad. Are you?”

“Yes. What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.”

“Nothing too lewd, I hope. I don’t want your mother to hate me again.”

“I don’t think she ever did. I certainly hope you won’t think of this as lewd. Well, not too lewd,” he laughed.

I groaned.

He was concentrating now. I could hear the squeaking of the marker.

“Almost finished,” he said, obviously quite pleased with himself.

Bea chose this time to re-enter. Oh God, I thought. What is Frank drawing down there?

She was saying, “Listen, Frank, if you two were at least engaged-”

She broke off, staring at my right foot. Frank turned around and took my hand.

“Am I engaged, Irene?” he asked, grinning. He moved to one side.

There they were, in large black letters, each carefully colored in. Three words that would look up at me every day the cast was on:

Marry me, Irene.

James Horner, former member of the U.S. Coast Guard, thirty-year veteran of sail racing and first winner of the Cabo San Lucas Race, graciously met another major challenge when I asked for his help with this book.

I am especially grateful to Dr. Ed Dohring, orthopedic surgeon, and kelly Dohring, R.N., who answered all of my weird medical questions; to Sharon Weissman, Jenny Oropeza, and Tom Mullins for insights into political campaigns; to Detective Dennis Payne, Robbery-Homicide Division, Los Angeles Polic Department; Debbie Arrington, Long Beach Press Telegram; Bob Flynn, retired political reporter for the Evansville Press; to Danny Coburn and John G. Fischer for answering a host of inquiries; to Gaetano Di Lisio (Tante grazie!) for helping Rachel and Pete speak Italian.

Once again, I thank a long list of librarians, especially Eleanor Newhard of the Long Beach Public Library.

The individuals named above have helped with the research for this book, but I claim sole credit for errors.

My friends and family have given me unfailing support. Tim, I’m contacting the Pope about canonizing you.

Wendy Hornsby, Linda Grant, Beth Caswell, and Nancy Yost have kept me from going over the edge, and at times were too polite to point out the fact that I was over the edge. And like it or not, this time I thank She Who Will Not Be Thanked.

Jan Burke is an award winning author of novels and short stories. Burke was born in Texas, but has lived in Southern California most of her life. She is a winner of the Edgar Award for Best Novel.