Espresso In The Morning. Dorie Graham

Chapter Twenty-Nine

       Chapter Thirty

       Chapter Thirty-One

       Chapter Thirty-Two

       Excerpt

      CHAPTER ONE

      THE TV WEATHERMAN’S smooth, loud tones predicted rain for metropolitan Atlanta, while the computer speakers in the home office blared Iron Maiden and the old DVD player in the kitchen cranked Judas Priest. Claire Murphy pounded again on her ten-year-old son’s door. The ever-present thudding of her heart sounded in her ears.

      They had to leave.

      “Grey, honey, step it up. We’re out of here in twenty minutes,” she said.

      Shuffling sounded through the door, along with a couple of muffled expletives. Claire frowned. “I heard that, mister.”

      The door cracked open and Grey peered at her, his auburn hair sticking out at odd angles. Dark circles ringed his eyes. “I’m up.”

      Concern quickened Claire’s pulse. She lifted his chin. “Honey, you look exhausted. Didn’t you sleep well?”

      He rolled his sweet brown eyes. “You didn’t sleep well.”

      She’d tried, but the night had pressed in around her. She hated that her troubles had such an effect on Grey. She shook her head, fighting the chronic fatigue she’d learned to live with over the past year. She could never explain to him how sleeping only made her feel smothered.

      And gave her nightmares. She didn’t always remember the specifics, but the terror often clung to her well into her waking hours. The nightmares made living without sleep a welcome alternative.

      “I’m so sorry,” she said.

      “I don’t get why you have to always crank your music. Even with your earphones on, I can tell it’s cranked. How can you do that? Normal people sleep in the middle of the night.”

      “Well, normal’s overrated.” She ruffled his hair. “You’d better get in the shower. You’re a mess.”

      “Mom?” He stepped out of his room, looking so grown-up in his too-small pajamas.

      Her gaze fell on a wrinkled image of Abe Lincoln on his left knee. Various presidents dotted the rest of the fabric and Grey could not only name each one, but he could also recite each man’s years in office, as well as highest accomplishments. They’d bought those pajamas on their trip to D.C. almost two years ago, but Grey refused to give them up, even though the sleeves and legs were now far too short. He’d been so thrilled to see the capital, they’d spent an entire day on the Mount Vernon estate alone.

      “Mom?” he asked again.

      Her gaze met his and her throat tightened. The worry in his eyes these days was just one part of what haunted her sleepless nights. He was too young to bear the weight of that concern. “What is it, little man?”

      He sighed in frustration over the pet name, but his expression didn’t change. “Why can’t you sleep?”

      She waved her hand in dismissal, her gaze dropping. Why couldn’t he remain an innocent child, unconcerned for her welfare? “I sleep. Besides, sleep is overrated.”

      “No, it isn’t.” Anger replaced the worry. “That’s what you say about everything you don’t want to talk about.”

      Claire tamped down her own frustration. She had to give him his anger. She’d be angry, too, in his position. She gave him her sternest mom frown. “Are you going to get into the shower?”

      He shook his head, but said, “I’m going.” He shuffled a few steps toward the bathroom, before turning to her. “You think I look bad this morning, you should check out a mirror.”

      She groaned silently. Grey could be brutally honest. She loved that and hated it about him. “I’ll take your word for it. Hurry up. I need my espresso. And don’t forget to keep the curtain in the tub and point the showerhead away from that spot I showed you, where the caulk is peeling.”

      “If we stuck around home more, maybe we could fix stuff like that.”

      “Maybe I’ll get some caulk and we’ll fix it this weekend,” she said, though the thought of hanging around the house sent a shiver through her.

      His only response was another shake of his head as he continued toward the bathroom, his shoulders stooped as if he carried the weight of the world. Claire pressed her lips together as her unease spiked into fear.

      Had she bolted the door last night?

      Though she clearly remembered turning the bolt, she hurried to check, to twist the knob to be sure the door held fast. She pulled aside the curtain in one of the long windows bordering the heavy door. A cat lounged on the hood of her neighbor’s car. Claire scanned the cars in the other driveways, her stomach tight with anticipation, though nothing seemed out of place. A door slammed up the street and she heard the muffled sound of an engine roaring to life.

      She inhaled slowly, trying to stem the racing of her heart as she hurried to the back door to check that bolt, as well. Satisfied that dead bolt remained drawn, she paused to pick up one of the cabinet drawer fronts that had fallen off in the night. The builders of this house hadn’t cared for quality when they’d installed the wooden fronts on the plastic drawers back in the early seventies.

      She tucked the drawer front into the gap between her refrigerator and the wall, along with the other two that had previously broken away from the cracking plastic. The missing fronts made her bottom cabinets resemble a child’s toothless grin, with the gaping holes revealing the contents of her junk drawer, her silverware and now all her cooking utensils. Grey would have one more thing to complain about. She’d have to figure out how to repair them or work new cabinets into their budget.

      As she headed to the living room to check the sliding glass doors, she grabbed her phone from her purse on the entry table. She made a quick note about shopping for new cabinets on her to-do list. Swiping her thumb along the screen, she scanned the long list of notes.

      

      

      Confirm Sunday with Becca.

      Add oil.

      Call car place about noise.

      Research winter break programs.

      

      

      She frowned as she checked the bar that secured the sliding glass doors. What did add oil mean? To a recipe? To the car? Her memory wasn’t what it used to be. If she didn’t write everything down, she’d lose half the thoughts in her head, but sometimes she couldn’t interpret her own notes.

      While the splash of the shower echoed in the bathroom and the music and TV blared, Claire methodically continued her check of each room, each window and each point of entry. Then she rechecked each room, behind each door, inside each closet. Not until she’d completed the circuit did she breathe a sigh of relief.

      They were fine. They were safe, and that was all that mattered. She forced herself to take slow, deep breaths, silently repeating her mantra.

      I am safe. I am strong. No one can hurt me.

      Still, the thudding of her heart contradicted her as she turned to finish getting ready.

      * * *

      LUCAS WILLIAMS, owner of The Coffee Stop, frowned as he reviewed the employee schedule spread across his monitor and his gaze fixed on Friday’s date. September twenty-eighth. Had it been two years already?

      Ken,