In My Dreams. Muriel Jensen

surprised, then asked, “Will I have a teleprompter?”

      “Jasper. Didn’t I just ask you to be serious?”

      “You did,” he replied, smiling. “But did you expect that I would? I guess I could recite something.”

      “Great. What do you think, Margaret?”

      She seemed surprised to be consulted. “I think he’d do well. He always does well.”

      “Thank you,” Jasper said. “So are you going to sing, Margaret?”

      Sarah read the retreat in her face. She wanted to refuse. “I’m counting on you, Margaret,” Sarah said. “You and Vinny are both adults. You don’t have to perform together, but you can coexist in the interest of ownership of a new building for the seniors’ center.”

      “I don’t know, Sarah.”

      “I do. I’d like you to sing ‘Among My Souvenirs’ just like you sang it for me for my birthday in June.”

      Margaret made a face at her. “No one wants to hear that but you. It’s sentimental and there’s no electric guitar.”

      “It was beautiful. I’m signing you up for that.”

      “Sarah...”

      “I think you’d have a good chance at winning. We’ll talk about it while I drive you home.”

      * * *

      THE AFTERNOON WAS a Northwest fall postcard as Sarah followed the coast road across town. Sunlight embroidered the ocean and seagulls called loudly as they circled and dove in search of lunch.

      “I apologize,” Margaret said, “for being less than enthusiastic. But Vinny annoys me.”

      “He knows that and likes to push your buttons.”

      Margaret puffed up a little. “I wouldn’t date him when we were kids because he was just the way he is now.”

      Sarah turned up Margaret’s street and parked in front of her apartment building, interested to finally know what the problem was between them. “Really,” she said. “He’s a nice man at heart, Margaret. Do you think you can work with us if you’ll have to see Vinny regularly?”

      “I’m not sure.”

      Sarah stepped out of the car and walked around to help Margaret out. “That’s a pretty old grudge to hold on to. Maybe it’s time you two talked it out. You probably hurt his pride. He’s kind of a peacock, you know.”

      “Yes,” the old woman agreed. “All feathers and no bird. We simply avoid each other. Now, if you’re going to be throwing us together...”

      “You don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”

      “Maybe Vincent shouldn’t be helping.”

      Sarah saw her chance. “But he’s getting his old band together, and you seem reluctant to...”

      “Fine, I’ll do it. But I’ll perform alone.”

      “Got it. So were there any stars in your music class that would make good competition for the show?”

      Margaret suddenly brightened as they reached her back door. “Actually, Jack and Ben Palmer. Jack inherited a little of his mother’s singing talent, and Ben’s just a good showman with decent pitch.”

      “Really.”

      “Really. They and the De Angelis boys used to sing for the neighborhood when they needed spending money. One time...” Her smiled widened as she thought back. “They’d outgrown their bikes and wanted new ones. So they built a stage and set up chairs in my backyard. They charged admission and sang songs from those boy bands. They were great.”

      “So they got their bikes?”

      Margaret’s smile dimmed. “Ben and Mario and Rico did. Jack bought shoes for his sisters and a couple of new bike tires for himself.”

      “Geez.”

      “Yes. Thank you for the treats, Sarah.” Margaret held up the leftovers Sarah had packed for her in a plastic bag. “It was a nice afternoon, despite Vinny. Before you sign me up for the song, let me work on it and see if I can still do it.”

      Sarah hugged her. “Thanks, Margaret. See you Monday.”

      Sarah drove home, thinking that Jack must have been a remarkable boy. Maybe that was why he’d matured into such an interesting man. Margaret was right. One person shouldn’t have to deal with so much.

      She stopped at the grocery store for ingredients for the dinner she wanted to make—chicken couscous—as well as a few things for breakfast at the Palmers’. If only she could transplant their kitchen into her apartment! But at least she did have a new stove—only two burners had worked on the old one.

      Finally home, Sarah decided to cook the couscous dish here. As she cut up the chicken and preheated the oven, she made a mental note to call her mother back about the Thanksgiving invitation.

      Working in the cramped little room, Sarah imagined what it would be like to have yards of counter space, enough cupboards that she didn’t have to store canned goods in the bottom shelf of the small linen closet in her bedroom, and room to put a KitchenAid, a Keurig coffeemaker and a dishwasher. How she’d love a dishwasher!

      Reminding herself not to waste energy on what she couldn’t have, at least at the moment, she focused her attention on slicing lemons, then browning the chicken pieces in a large frying pan.

      When they seemed done, she glanced out the kitchen window and noticed the play of sunlight through the gnarled oak tree in the backyard. She pushed the window open. The air was cool, but its fragrance could have been imported from an island that grew spices and exotic flowers. She took a deep breath and let the aroma fill her being.

      She blamed the sudden acrid smell in the kitchen to preheating an oven that was brand-new. She’d had it only a few days, not even long enough for an errant spill. All thought stopped when a line of flame flared out of the wall just above the stove. She stared at it, unable to believe what her eyes were seeing. The flame was just an inch tall for about a second, like the flame from a candle, then it ate its way up the wall while she watched, openmouthed, until it was halfway up, then angled left, toward the window, obviously following a line of electrical wiring. The curtains ignited, terrifying her.

      Spurred into action, she ran to the narrow utility closet for the fire extinguisher. She scanned the instructions and then, with shaky hands, aimed the nozzle at the flames. Her filmy curtains were already gone and the flames were dancing along the row of tea towels and pot holders hung on a rack there.

      She gasped in alarm as the foamy stuff seemed to be drawn out the window, rather than to extinguishing the flames. Even worse, the line of flame was still running along the wall, perforating the living-room wallpaper as it went. It passed behind a glass-covered photo of her parents’ wedding, the heat of it bursting the glass from behind and knocking it off the wall.

      Mouth agape, she stared, then aimed the extinguisher at it. The tank fizzled.

      She fought panic as heat and smoke quickly made the room uninhabitable. She snatched her purse off the table and ran out the door.

      She dialed 9-1-1 on her cell and gave a shaky but clear account to the dispatcher, who told her to get her neighbors and go across the street, that the fire department was coming. “There’s no one in the building but me right now,” she said, breathless.

      “All right. Wait across the street.”

      David Lester, who lived next door to her, was in his second year at Coast Community College and seldom came home until late, but she pounded on his door anyway. No answer.

      The Moffits, the young couple who lived next to the empty apartment upstairs, were on vacation.

      Sarah hurried across the street. A crowd had begun to