Where Dreams Begin (3 page)

An all too familiar ache touched her heart, but becoming a volunteer was an important first step away from that lingering anguish. She grabbed the chambray as Sam’s choice and scolded herself as she dressed, because the day had never been about clothes. The chance to help out at Lost Angel was what counted, and she was ashamed of herself for losing sight of her goal.

The training session was set for ten o’clock, and after the heavy morning commuter traffic had thinned, Catherine made good time. She pulled into the center’s parking lot, and after Luke’s mention of a surge in volunteers, she was surprised not to find more cars. She started toward the office, but then a couple in an RV drove into the lot, and she waited for them on the walk.

The gray-haired pair were dressed in matching khaki slacks and bright blue shirts, but only the woman’s breast pocket was embroidered with brilliantly hued tropical birds. Her hair was gathered atop her head in a gently poofed knot, while a mere hint of downy fringe ringed the man’s ears. Both wore broad smiles and greeted Catherine warmly.

“Hello, dear. I’m Rita Tubergen, and this is my husband, Joe. I was certain I understood the directions when I telephoned last week, but we got lost as soon as we left the freeway. I sure hope we’re not late for the training. Although if we are, you’ll be late too, won’t you?” she added with a girlish giggle. “Unless, of course, you’re the instructor.”

“No, I’m another new volunteer.”

Catherine thought the couple charming, but as soon as she’d introduced herself, Rita slowed their progress toward the office with an involved description of how they’d recently sold their dry cleaning business. After a leisurely trip through the southwest, they were eager to donate their time to Lost Angel.

“And what about you, dear?” Rita asked.

Catherine had always made friends easily, but the Tubergens were the first couple she’d met since being widowed, and she couldn’t bring herself to blurt out such tragic news. She wished she’d anticipated the need to supply more than her name, but for the moment, her mind was a frustrating blank. Unwilling to burden strangers with her sorrow, she simply hurried them on down the walk and was relieved when Pam Strobble met them at the office door.

The secretary’s flared black dress was splashed with bold white graphics, and her black espadrilles tied at the ankle with huge bows. As she led Catherine and the Tubergens through the office and out across the courtyard to the annex, her silver bracelets chimed in time with her bouncy steps.

“This building was constructed to house the Sunday school,” Pam explained as they entered. “So it’s divided into a lot of little rooms. We’ve kept the largest for staff meetings and treat the rest as storage lockers for donations.

“Sorting those can be more trouble than they’re worth, but I’ll let Luke tell you what needs to be done. He’ll be with you in a minute. Help yourself to the coffee. This is the only day it’ll be free,” she added in a teasing aside and then left them at the entrance of a long, narrow room.

Windows facing the courtyard let in the bright spring sunshine, but the room was as starkly furnished as Luke’s office. There was a small table near the door with a freshly brewed pot of coffee, and Rita and Joe stopped to help themselves. A large, rolling chalkboard sat at the far end of the room, and folding chairs were arranged around a conference table where a red-haired young man and three middle-aged women were already seated.

“Come sit with us, dear,” Rita urged. She and Joe edged by the young man and took the seats nearest the chalkboard.

Catherine assumed Luke Starns would stand at the front of the room and cautiously slipped into the chair at the opposite end of the table. “There’s no need to be crowded,” she explained. “I’ll be fine here.”

As friendly as she’d been earlier, Rita introduced herself and Joe to the others and again recounted the sale of their business and recent travels. Spurred by her example, the young man gave his name as Ron Flanders. Almost painfully thin, his loose-fitting green polo shirt and Dockers would have looked equally handsome left on their hangers.

“I’m working part-time in the math department at Cal State LA. How about you?” he asked the woman seated opposite him.

Her hair was dyed to the blue-black sheen of patent leather and gathered at her nape in a bright red bow that matched her long, acrylic nails. Her red dress was trimmed with black piping, and before she replied, she rose up to straighten the skirt with a nervous tug.

“I’m Beverly Snodgrass, and I was a receptionist until our firm was bought out, and the new owner laid off everyone over forty. I’ve been looking for a job, but they’re impossible to find if you don’t even know how to turn on a computer; and I can’t just sit home and cry.”

“My thoughts exactly,” the woman beside her agreed. Her wavy brown hair was cut short, and her ample figure was disguised by a loose-fitting tunic and slacks. “I’m Alice Waggoner. My husband just retired, and he’s driving me nuts.

“I need an excuse to get out of the house and Lost Angel is a damn good one. This is my friend, Betty Murray. I talked her into coming here with me.” Betty looked enough like Alice for them to have been sisters, and she merely smiled and shrugged.

It was now Catherine’s turn, but Luke Starns entered as soon as she’d given her name. She hadn’t expected to be happy to see him, but his arrival excused her from having to provide any personal information, and for that unexpected favor, she was deeply grateful.

On his way toward the front of the room, Luke glanced at Catherine a moment longer than the others, and she wondered whether he was merely surprised to find her there or, perhaps, badly disappointed. Whatever his reaction, she was intent upon being cooperative and greeted him warmly.

“Good morning, Dr. Starns,” she said.

“Please, just make it Luke. Good morning, everyone.” He referred to a roll sheet on a clipboard as he greeted them by name. Then he tossed the LATEXTRA section of the
Times
on the table.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, but we expected several others, and I didn’t want to begin without them. Apparently they’ve had second thoughts, and this story might be the reason. If any of you missed it, here’s a quick recap.

“A man named Felix Mendoza was murdered near here the other night, and it appears to have been a particularly vicious crime. He’d served time, most recently for pandering, and was carrying a bottle of Rohypnol.” When the name brought mystified stares from several in his audience, Luke offered more detail.

“It’s known as the date-rape drug, or ‘roofies’. It’s not available in the United States as a sleeping pill, but it’s sold in a great many other countries, including Mexico. The drug not only renders a person unconscious, but also causes short-term memory loss, so when they awaken, they aren’t certain what’s happened to them, unless, of course, it’s painfully obvious that they’ve been raped.

“Felix was last seen with two pretty girls, and it doesn’t take much in the way of imagination to guess he planned to take them home, slip the Rohypnol into their Cokes, and then slip them something else entirely.”

He paused to allow everyone to paint an appropriately disgusting scene in their minds. “A few days with Felix would convince any girl she’d been born to be a whore.”

That ugly prediction brought a gasp and deep blush from Alice, Betty and Rita Tubergen, while Joe gave more of a strangled gulp, but Luke had meant to shock them. “The teens who come to Lost Angel haven’t had pretty lives, folks, and the men they meet aren’t passing out milk and cookies. The
Times
article makes no mention of witnesses or suspects, but rather than raise the crime rate, I’d say Felix’s death has actually improved the quality of our neighborhood.”

Rita raised her hand. “But, Dr. Starns, Luke, surely you don’t condone murder.”

“You might be surprised by what I’ve learned to condone since taking over Lost Angel,” Luke replied drily, “but it’s nothing compared to what some of the kids have done to survive. Los Angeles has approximately 5,000 homeless teens, and only 200 beds available in shelters. You do the math. It wouldn’t hurt any of you to spend a few nights out on the street to gain a real appreciation of why our needs are so great.”

Joe Tubergen shifted uneasily in his chair. “I think maybe we’ve made a mistake in coming here.”

“Did you expect volunteering to be as enjoyable as coaching Little League?” Luke responded.

“Well, yeah, maybe a little bit,” Joe admitted sheepishly. “At any rate, I didn’t think we’d have to step over dead pimps to reach the door.”

“Felix died several blocks from here,” Luke corrected. “But that doesn’t mean you won’t trip over a corpse tomorrow, and it could be one of the kids. Every year we’ve lost a few to one type of violence or another.”

He gave them a moment to consider that fact, then cleared his throat and continued in a more matter-of-fact manner. “Lost Angel is supported by private grants as well as public donations, and we track every penny. It’s time-consuming but well worth the effort to maintain our donors’ trust.

“We furnish hot showers, clean clothes and nutritious meals. We also offer group and individual counseling, and provide referrals for medical and dental care. We do our damnedest to help kids find jobs and safe places to live. Until they have both, they can pick up their mail here, and that service means a lot to them. Runaways quickly discover that being on their own is no adventure, but if they’re too ashamed to call their parents and beg for money to return home, we’ll take the first step and contact their family.

“I want to make it clear right now that we never make promises we can’t keep, nor do we allow volunteers to take any of the kids home, because none of us can care for them all, and it wouldn’t be fair to the ones left behind. Most of them support themselves panhandling, but if you come here with your pockets or purse bulging with dollar bills, you’ll probably be robbed before you can pass out more than one or two.”

Catherine thought the others looked a mite green, but she was curious about a point Luke had not mentioned and raised her hand.

Luke responded with an impatient nod. “Do you have a question, Mrs. Brooks?”

“What about condoms, do you supply those?” she asked.

“Oh, my goodness,” Rita cried. “We’re on church property, so surely that isn’t allowed.”

Luke reached into his pants pocket for a handful of condoms and, with an easy toss, splattered them down the table. “We have no religious affiliation, Mrs. Tubergen, and not only do we allow it, it’s imperative. We’re fighting to keep these kids alive and well, and we can’t ignore the spread of HIV.”

Joe and Rita exchanged a frantic glance and, after an uncomfortably long pause, Joe rose to help his wife from her seat. “Maybe it was the angel name that confused us, but we just don’t belong here. Will you excuse us, please?”

“Of course.” Luke waited until the Tubergens had passed through the door, then pulled Rita’s chair around to the front of the table and sat. “If anyone else is squeamish about remaining, please speak up now so we don’t waste any more of my valuable time or yours.”

Ron just shrugged, and the women across from him shook their heads. Catherine nodded to encourage him to continue. He leaned back in his chair, but despite his relaxed pose, he punched out every word.

“Our goal isn’t to become a homeless shelter, but to provide a safe environment as a drop-in center, as much comfort as possible, and the constant reassurance that somebody cares. For some kids, that’s more than they’ve ever had.”

As Luke continued to define Lost Angel’s mission, Catherine refrained from asking how he kept from being overwhelmed by the enormity of the problems the center addressed, but clearly something drove him, and she doubted it was mere altruism. There was a real pride in his voice as he described several kids who had succeeded in getting off the streets, but his sorrow was just as keen when he cited more than one tragic failure.

Catherine swiftly realized she’d made a tactical error in taking the chair at the far end of the table, for it placed her directly opposite Luke. Seated along the side, she could have more easily avoided his often piercing gaze. She’d never met anyone with such a challenging nature and wondered what had possessed him to go into psychology, where he must surely be misplaced.

His dark brown hair was laced with gray, and he’d obviously been too busy the past weekend to get a haircut, but now that she’d seen him a second time, she had to admit his hair was no longer than many men wore theirs. Had she not had a stinging sample of his prickly personality, she would have considered him attractive, but she found it difficult to imagine him showing a woman any tenderness or relaxing long enough to make love.

“Mrs. Brooks?” Luke called.

Catherine feared her expression must have betrayed the wildly inappropriate directions of her thoughts. She promptly forced a pleasant smile. “Yes?”

“You were frowning slightly, and I wondered if perhaps you had an objection to our strict drug-free policy?”

“Why, no, absolutely none,” Catherine assured him.

“Good, because I won’t compromise on it.”

“Nor should you,” Ron Flanders concurred.

Catherine didn’t draw a deep breath until Luke resumed his lecture on the center, but it took awhile longer for her incriminating blush to subside. When they finally left the room to tour the rest of the facility, she moved to the back of the small group to again stay as far away from Luke as possible. He actually laughed a time or two as he showed them the rooms heaped with donated clothing, but there was no real mirth in the sound.

When they reached the kitchen, Luke introduced Mabel Shultz, the full-time cook, and stepped back to allow her to describe the type of volunteers she required. Alice Waggoner and Betty Murray immediately asked if they could stay to help with the lunch preparations.

“Of course, you may,” Luke assured them. “Just come by the office before you go home and set up your schedule with Pam.”

He led the way out of the kitchen and through the church hall. Long tables filled the room, and perhaps two dozen teens were clustered about in small groups playing board games while several others sat by themselves reading dog-eared paperbacks.