Queen of Dreams Read Online Free PDF Page A

How could they all be wrong, and I right? Through those restless midnights of doubt, the Chai House gave me something tangible to hold on to, something that was exactly what it appeared to be, nothing more and nothing less. Taking care of it was a way to make at least one part of my life turn out right.
    Perhaps it’s significant that the first thing I managed to sketch after my divorce was a scene of the store’s interior. It took me an excruciating three months and it wasn’t very good, but at least I completed it without throwing it away, like I had done with all the others. I pinned it on my bedroom wall next to a sketch of Jona, and on bad days I drew comfort from its solidity. On those days the only thing that got me out of bed was knowing that without me they might not survive, my store and my daughter.
    T he chime at the door signals my entrance, and Belle whirls around.
    “Oh, there you are, Rikki! Finally! Thank God!” She wipes her hands on her apron and hurries over to grab my arm. “I’m so sorry to disturb you like this—I know mornings are important to your painting—”
    This is not a good sign. The last time Belle apologized to me was when she borrowed my one and only evening dress to go dancing in and ripped it all the way up the side. This had happened the night before my big date with Sonny, the one where he was going to propose to me. And even that wasn’t a true apology. Because later she claimed she’d done it on purpose, in a vain attempt to save me from myself.
    “It’s okay,” I say cautiously. “What’s the problem?”
    In response Belle drags me over to our front window and points. Her finger, tipped with frosted fuchsia nail polish, quivers eloquently.
    I move aside the fronds of the many overly healthy house-plants that live on our windowsill—gifts from customers over the years since we opened—and peer out across the street. There’s Easels, where the owner, Mr. Jamison, gives me a good-neighbor discount on my art supplies. Estrella, the Mexican restaurant run by the Soto family. And Purple Jam, which sells used tapes and CDs and is always overcrowded with young people who are outrageously dressed and coiffed.
    Belle had rolled her eyes when I’d told her that.
    “You’re getting old,” she’d said. “Besides, they probably think you’re the outrageously dressed one. Outrageously old-fashioned, that is.”
    What else could I have expected from someone whose favorite outfit was a red sequined halter-top mini, and who had recently double-pierced her navel?
    On the pavement directly across from us is Marisa’s flower stall, which today has a display of tulips in stunning yellow. Three students, armed with dark blue cups of coffee (ours!) are waiting at the bus stop for the 51 to take them to campus. Two mothers in jogging suits chat as they push strollers. At the crosswalk, a man is handing out pink flyers for some event or other. Marco, the homeless guy who lives over in People’s Park and comes in at the end of the day to buy our leftover Danishes at a discount (he refuses to take them for free), is setting up his guitar case.
    “God’s in His heaven, as far as I can see,” I say. I like the way Marisa’s tulips have formed a lemony wedge against the warm beige of the restaurant wall, the way the early sun has brought out the texture of the bricks, the subtle shadows. I begin to put together a composition in my mind.
    “You aren’t paying attention,” Belle accuses. “You’re thinking about painting something, aren’t you?” She jabs at the glass with her finger. “There, look on that side!”
    This time I see it. The store on the corner—a coveted spot— which had stood empty since Mrs. Levy had closed her deli to retire last month, isn’t empty anymore. The front is still unchanged, but there are people inside—uniformed people, cleaning and setting up. The uniforms—an elegant olive green—tug at my memory. Where have I seen them before? As we