Dream a Little Dream (Chicago Stars, #4)(78)

“No, you don’t! ”

They clearly weren’t getting anywhere, so Gabe spoke firmly. “Chip, I want you to go to the kitchen and get your mother a big glass of water. She’s very thirsty.”

The child gave him a mulish look.

“Please do what he says, Edward. I really need a drink of water.”

The child reluctantly climbed off the bed, at the same time shooting Gabe a wordless tight-lipped warning that promised annihilation if he threatened his mother.

The moment he disappeared through the doorway, Gabe and Rachel leaped from the bed and began frantically grabbing for their clothes. Gabe yanked on his jeans. Rachel snatched up his T-shirt and jerked it over her head, then searched the floor for her panties. When she couldn’t find them, she pulled on his briefs instead. It should have been funny, but all he cared about was being dressed before the boy returned.


He yanked up his zipper. “I thought you locked the door.”

“No. I thought you did it.”

The boy appeared in record time, running so quickly that water slopped over the sides of the blue plastic Bugs Bunny tumbler.

As Rachel moved forward to take it from him, she stumbled on something. Gabe looked down and recognized a copy of Stellaluna lying on the floor. It took him a moment to figure out why it was there, and then he realized this was what Edward had used to beat him over the head.

He’d been assaulted with a deadly book.





Rachel made a great play out of drinking the water.

When she was done, she cupped the top of Edward’s head. “Let’s tuck you back in bed.”

Gabe stepped forward. He knew this had to be settled before she shuffled him off. He eyed the small boy, remembering the fury of those young fists and, for a fleeting moment, he saw the child as he was and not as a shadow of someone else.

“Chip, I like your mother very much, and I’d never hurt her. I want you to remember that. If you see us touching each other again, you’ll know it’s because we want to touch and not because anything’s wrong.”

Edward gave his mother a look of disbelief. “How could you want to touch him? ”

“I know it’s hard for you to understand, especially since you and Gabe haven’t been getting along very well, but I like being with him.”

The boy regarded her mutinously. “If you got to touch somebody, you touch me! ”

She smiled. “I love touching you. But I’m a grown-up woman, Edward, and sometimes I need to touch a grownup man.”

“Then you can touch Pastor Ethan.”

Rachel had the nerve to laugh. “I don’t think so, pug. Pastor Ethan is your friend, and Gabe is mine.”

“They’re not brothers, no matter what he says.”

“Tomorrow when you see Pastor Ethan at school, why don’t you ask him about it?”

Gabe noticed that his briefs were in imminent danger of sliding off Rachel’s hips. “Come on, Chip. Let’s give Tweety Bird one more feeding before you go back to bed.”

But Edward was too smart to be bought off that easily. “How do I know you won’t start kissing her again?”

“I will kiss her,” he said firmly, “but only when your mother says it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” Edward stomped toward the door. “And I’m going to tell Pastor Ethan on you!”

“Terrific,” Gabe muttered. “That’s just what we need.”



Pastor Ethan, however, had troubles of his own. It was eleven o’clock in the morning, and not even half a cup of coffee remained in the pot he and Kristy shared.

It wasn’t as if he didn’t know how to make coffee. He made it for himself every morning at home. But this wasn’t home. This was the office, and for the past eight years, Kristy had kept the pot full.

He snatched up the glass carafe, stormed past her desk, and made his way to the small kitchen just off the narthex, where he splashed water all over his new Gap polo. He stomped back into the office, pitched out the old grounds, threw some new in without counting the scoops, poured in the water, and punched the switch. There! That ought to show her!

Unfortunately, she was too busy humming an old Whitney Houston tune and tapping away at her computer to notice. He couldn’t decide which was worse: the coffee, that cheerful humming, or the fact that she was wearing her old clothes to work.

Her shapeless khaki dress was driving him even crazier than the empty coffee pot. He’d seen it dozens of times before. It was roomy, comfortable, and utterly devoid of style. Where were the clothes he objected to? Those tight white jeans, the skimpy breast-hugging tops, those silly gold sandals?

And if she’d decided to turn herself back into the old Kristy, why hadn’t she gone all the way? Why hadn’t she tamed that little feathery haircut of hers and left her red lipstick in the drawer at home, along with that killer perfume that made him think of black lace and body heat?

As her hands flew over the keyboard of her computer, the tiny gold and silver rings on her fingers flashed in the sunlight that streamed in from the window behind her, while those fake diamond studs glimmered in her earlobes. His gaze fell on the bodice of her ugly khaki dress. If only he didn’t know what nestled beneath it.

Think of other things, dear, Marion Cunningham advised in her sweet, understanding voice. Concentrate on your sermon. I’m sure if you give it just a little more effort, it will be your best yet.