Free California Dreaming: Four Contemporary Romances by Casey Dawes Page A

images from every prison movie she’d ever seen haunting her. What would David get as a first offense? Realistically, he’d probably get community service.
    The coffee pot gurgled as she pulled two cereal bowls and a box of cereal from the cupboard and a carton of milk from the refrigerator. Would David have a record? Weren’t juvenile records sealed? Too many questions. She needed to call the public defender.
    Grabbing a cup of coffee, she added Number 12 to the list: Call public defender. Her eyes traveled back up to the second item: Call Fred.
    Ugh.
    She looked at the clock again. Good. He was already at work so she could put that off until later. Everything else, except Numbers 11 and 12, needed to wait until she heard from Jim. She’d call the lawyer later.
    Although if she was going to have a garage sale, she’d better clean the garage. Carefully, she added Number 13, “Clean garage.”
    A mockingbird jabbered on a tree outside her window. Maybe she’d have time to take a walk today, enjoy nature. A horseback ride might be even better. She flipped her list to the blank side, drew a line down the middle of the paper and wrote PROS on one side of the line and CONS on the other.
    Under PROS she wrote: get exercise, admire a good-looking man, have fun.
    Under CONS: don’t want to lead him on, might not like him if I get to know him.
    The fantasy was always better than reality, wasn’t it?
    On the other hand, John would be someone to discuss David’s problem with. She added that to the PROS side.
    She took a sip of coffee and stared at the chart, knowing she wasn’t being entirely honest with herself because she’d left off the biggest CON of all.
    She was afraid.
    The downstairs shower went on. David was up — good. Time to get moving. She’d get him off to school, and start to work on the presentation for the project wrap-up.
    Four hours later she was tired of trying to get graphs, statistics, and bullet points to behave. Her son was easier to control. And she still hadn’t gotten a return e-mail from New Jersey.
    She needed a break.
    You could clean the garage , the puritanical voice from her chorus said.
    Leave one ugly chore for another? No thanks.
    Bread. She’d bake bread. Rye bread would be perfect — sticky and difficult to work with — like the rest of her life. The pungent combination of yeast and caraway seeds would clear her head.
    She looked in the freezer for her stash of rarely used flour. Packages of whole wheat, spelt and kamut stared back at her. No rye. The spice drawer revealed a lack of caraway seeds. A dilemma.
    Five minutes later she was speeding north on Highway 1 toward Grenaldi’s Market. She flicked on the classical station and thought of the curried chicken salad she planned to buy for lunch. Traffic was light, the sun was shining, and the tension left her body.
    As soon as she walked through the old-fashioned market door, the distinctive scent hit her. Chain groceries smelled sterile. Here, ripening fruit and yeasty flour tantalized her nose. Sweet and spicy odors wafted from the other end of the store from the deli and bakery sections.
    She filled plastic bags with rye flour and caraway seeds and strolled toward the deli counter, her mouth watering in anticipation of sharp curry and succulent raisins. When she was close she recognized the tall figure placing an order.
    John.
    Drat! She wasn’t ready to give him an answer. She considered going somewhere else.
    As if sensing her presence, John turned and smiled. “You look nice today, ma’am.”
    Liar. I look terrible and you know it. “Could you stop calling me that?”
    “Ma’am?”
    “Yes. It makes me feel older than dirt.”
    His grin deepened. “You don’t look old.” A shiver went up Annie’s spine as John studied her. “Nope, not old at all. Not a day over twenty-five. I was thinking about a picnic. Care to join me?”
    Annie moved to the counter to order her chicken curry salad, her lips turning up at the