Dream Home

By J.J. DiBenedetto

Dr. Sara Alderson thought she was securing her and her family’s future when she moved them to a small town in New York and took a job as Chief of Pediatrics at the local hospital. Unfortunately, things aren’t going quite according to plan. For one thing, she has enemies at work who resent her from the moment she sets foot in the hospital.

For another, she’s visiting the dreams of an old man who’s seeing nightly visions of a storm that will wipe out the entire town. He’s convinced that the visions are true – and as winter closes in, Sara is starting to think he might be right.

Dream Home is the sixth book of the Dream Doctor Mysteries.

Other Books By JJ Dibenedetto:
The Dream Doctor Mysteries (all ten books!)

Betty and Howard's Excellent Adventure

The Jane Barnaby Adventures (all three books to date!)

Mr. Smith and the Roach (coming soon!)

Finding Dori (Welcome to Romance)

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.J. DiBenedetto
• Release date: May 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310515972

Book preview

Mutiny on the Bounty

(March 2, 2003)

Mom! It’s not even on the map!

Grace is brandishing the road atlas, stabbing her finger at the page and then slamming the book down onto the kitchen table with all the indignation that a thirteen-year-old can muster. Which is a heck of a lot.

My father tries logic, which I already know isn’t going to do any good. Yes, it is, he says in his calmest, most reasonable voice. He flips forward to the more detailed maps, until he finds Aisling, New York. There you go, he points out.

Yeah, on the street by street pages, sure! I was right. The sheer force of Grace’s teenage frustration drives Dad back from the table. "But you can’t even see it on the big map. It’s not even a town! They probably don’t even have a McDonald’s!"

Steffy picks this moment to chime in. She can’t match Grace’s hormone-driven anger, but she makes up for it with wounded disbelief. "I’ll never see Jeremy ever again! Or Miranda! Or Mrs. Bramley! Or anybody! I don’t want to go!"

Ben remains silent, but he’s at his twin sister’s side, his arm around her in solidarity. As for Lizzie, I can see that she’s torn. She’s already been through a move once, when we came down to Washington five years ago, and she survived it. She remembers making new friends, getting used to her new school and everything else. But she doesn’t want to be disloyal to her siblings. For the moment, she’s quiet as well.

I know it’s a lot to think about, I say, trying to keep frustration out of my voice. Brian and I have spent the last six months thinking about this, talking it out, going over every aspect of our upcoming move a hundred times. We can’t pass it up. Brian’s father spent nearly a year and called in favors we’ll never be able to repay, in order to create this opportunity for us. And we’ve known for a year and a half that we can’t continue the way things are. Brian is more and more miserable every day at his job, and while I’ve gotten slightly better with the business aspects of my practice, I’m never going to be truly good at them and I’m certainly never going to enjoy that part of my job.

On top of that, we really need either a much larger house or a major addition on this one, and we can’t remotely afford either of those things—not here in Arlington, Virginia. If we want more space, or for the kids to each have their own bedroom, we have to move out of the area.

Brian and I have been living with this reality for a long time now, but the kids haven’t. I suppose it’s not fair to expect them to love the idea immediately. But that doesn’t make it any easier to watch all of them join together in open rebellion.

There’s nothing to think about, Grace answers me. It stinks! At least she didn’t say sucks. I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies.

I wish we could stay here, honey, I answer. But we’ll never have a bigger house. And your father will never be happy working at the Pentagon. And if we don’t do it, we’ll never be able to save up enough money for all you guys to go to college. Or even to take you on a real vacation, somewhere really good.

They’re not hearing any of it. Steffy shouts, I don’t want to go to college anyway! She actually stamps her foot as she says it. I never, ever shouted at my parents like that. Did I?

I look over to my father, who catches my eye and gives me a knowing smile. Maybe I did. Or, maybe it just didn’t seem like shouting when I was the one doing it, filled with teenage anger over something or other that was the End of the World to me. Until I forgot about it a week later.

I do know that Brian never shouted at his parents in any way, and he’s simply not prepared for this. Well, you’re going to go, so you’d better start getting used to the idea now, he says. He was doing a good job keeping his calm, but clearly he’s hit his breaking point. Even though I understand why the kids are upset, and I know I’d feel the same way in their place, I’m not too far from running out of patience myself. But I know that won’t do any good.

I put a hand on Brian’s back, trying to calm him, and I force that same calm into my voice. You have plenty of time to think about it, Steffy. It won’t be for another ten years. Eleven, actually—she’s only in first grade—but close enough. And I know it’s going to be hard moving away from your friends. But you can still keep in touch with them. And you’ll make new friends up there. I promise.

How? Grace isn’t having any of it. What are there, a thousand people in the whole town?

I do have to admit that she has a point about how small our destination is. Aisling is a village on the Hudson River, right across from West Point. And she’s even overestimating the population—it’s only around 800, I think. There were more people than that in the apartment building we lived in when we first came down to Washington.

But, small as it is, it’s the perfect spot. Brian’s father helped to line up jobs for the both of us, and—this is why we’re having the conversation now—a house that looks perfect just came on the market.

We’ll be coming with you, Grace, my Mom chimes in. The house has a little apartment built onto the back, and Howard and I will be moving right in there.

That quiets the kids for a moment. The prospect of their grandparents being in the same house is a tempting one. And it’s another reason that we really have to do this. Mom and Dad will sell their condo and put the money towards the new house. We’ll own it outright—no mortgage at all. And we’ll have money left over to pay off the minivan and put a very nice amount into the college fund for the kids.

Exactly, I say. I know it’s going to be hard, but—look, this is our future. All of us. We’re doing this so that everyone in this family—all of you, and your father and I, and Mom and Dad—can have a better future. We’ll have real security, and a house that’s big enough for all of us, and we’ll be able to send all of you to college. We—we have to do this. It’s going to be tough on us, too. I’m moving away from my best friend, remember, and that, finally, catches Grace’s attention. I’ve known Beth since before I even met Brian. She’s family to me—to all of us. Do you think it’s easy for me to leave her?

It’s going to be so hard—I hate it every bit as much as my kids hate the idea of leaving their friends behind. But I don’t have a choice, not if I want to do what’s best for all of us. Besides, both Brian and I accepted our new jobs last week, and we’ve already signed a contract on the house. The kids will come around—I’m sure they will.

Anyway, I hope they will.

The kids didn’t really come around—but at least the great revolt was temporarily suspended due to extreme fatigue. I suppose being angry at your parents for hours on end does take a lot of energy; all of the kids fell asleep right at bedtime.

Except Matty, who’s only now begun to settle down after an hour of fussing. He slept through most of the arguments today, but he can definitely sense that something’s going on, and it took a lot of comforting to get him to calm down.

It’s almost eleven o’clock now, and I finally climb into bed. That was some day, I say, feeling myself start to drift off.

It won’t be the last one, Brian answers, rolling over and wrapping his arms around me. Lying here, nestled up close to him, none of it seems so bad. Not even the thought that I have to tell Laurie about it tomorrow morning. It just doesn’t feel nearly as daunting when I’m in my husband’s arms.

Yeah, I say. Tomorrow’s going to be fun, too. It won’t be a surprise to Laurie—we’ve talked about selling my portion of the practice, but it’s always been discussed as something that would happen someday. Well, someday is here.

She’ll be fine. She’s not just your partner, she’s your friend. She understands, Brian says. It sounds so reasonable when he says it. As though there’s nothing that could possibly go wrong. Of course, when I’m in his arms, pretty much nothing can…

Sara is in an office, probably on the second floor judging by the view of the parking lot outside. Neither the office nor the view is familiar, but the man who’s occupying the office does stir memories. It’s definitely his dream; Sara is certain of that.

And he’s definitely familiar to her. Sara recalls meeting him—or at least being introduced to him in passing—when she visited her new employer several weeks ago. No name comes to mind, however. I must have met the entire staff of the hospital, she mutters, shaking her head. And I’m no good with names anyway.

Whoever he is, he appears to be in a good mood. Sara examines him more closely: he seems to be around her age, maybe a little older, but it’s hard to be sure. He’s not very tall, only two or three inches taller than she is. He wears a very unfashionable pair of glasses, and his white coat could use a wash.

At the moment, he’s staring at his various diplomas, occasionally reaching up to adjust one slightly. After a few minutes and many tiny adjustments, he claps his hands together. Perfect! Just perfect, he says with a bright smile.

Just then, there’s the screech of brakes, and Sara follows the man’s gaze out the window and down to the parking lot, where a sports car is turning, much too fast, into the lot. It’s red, and although she won’t swear to it, Sara thinks it might be a Porsche. She and the dreamer watch as the car blasts around a corner and comes to a stop right in front of the main entrance to the hospital.

The driver’s door opens, and a high-heeled shoe emerges—three or maybe even four inches, Sara guesses. A leg that’s bare to the knee follows it out, and then the other leg. When the rest of the driver is visible, Sara gasps: it’s her.

Not precisely her: even from this distance, Sara can tell that the woman down there is wearing more makeup than she’s ever had on in her life, and the woman’s suit is sharper than anything Sara’s ever worn. But other than that, Sara is looking at herself. She laughs at the image: it’s a perfect stereotype of what someone who gets all their ideas from TV shows would think a big-city doctor might look like. Showing up in an insanely expensive sports car, with a suit that probably cost $5,000 and shoes that belong on a model? There’s nothing else to do but laugh—except that the dreamer, whoever he is, actually sees Sara that way.

Dream-Sara disappears from view—presumably into the hospital—and the man begins muttering. Sara listens closely, and it’s more cursing than muttering, and directed at her. Fear—and anger—spread across the man’s face. She wasn’t going to come! Why is she here?

Sara hears the clackety-clack of heels approaching, and a moment later the door is thrown open with excessive force. Her dream-self stands there in the doorway, takes in the scene and turns her gaze onto the office’s occupant. You! What’s your name? Banks? Sara can’t help herself: she’s both horrified and fascinated by this vision of herself.

Dr. Bates, the man says, fighting to keep his voice level.

Whatever, the dream-Sara spits. You’re in my office. Out! And take all your crap with you! She heaves a deep sigh and then stalks past the dreamer—poor Dr. Bates—and up to his wall of carefully-hung diplomas. Then she reaches up and begins pulling them off the wall, tossing them carelessly behind her. Things are going to change around her, Banks, she says, not turning to look at him. Things are going to change…

Sara continues to watch, unable to look away, as the dream-Sara trashes Dr. Bates’ office, berating him all the while. And as she watches, the meaning of this dream becomes crystal clear. Oh, my God, she thinks, shuddering, I’m not even starting the job for four months! How can I have an enemy already?

The West Point Story

(November 2-3, 2003)

We’ve just crossed over the Bear Mountain Bridge, and we ought to be home in fifteen minutes. I’ve made this drive nearly every weekend since the end of August and it’s pretty much automatic to me by now. On this chilly, gray Sunday morning, it’s just me and the newest member of our family.

Well, it feels like he is, anyway, even though we’ve only known him two months. He is Cadet Will Harper, a first year student, or plebe, as they’re usually called, at West Point. It was a random selection—we didn’t know a thing about Will when we were picked to be his sponsor family, and he had no idea who we were—but I don’t think we could have asked for a better match. He’s fit right in ever since the first time we met him, back in August. I ask him, Did you remember your chemistry notes?

Yes, ma’am, he answers. I’m still not used to being addressed that way, and, honestly, I really don’t like it. But part of the cadet sponsorship program is training the cadets in proper military etiquette—the handbook we were given made that point, over and over, in no uncertain terms. And since favors had to be called in and exceptions made just to allow us to participate, we’ve all done our best to follow the rules.

But if I’ve learned anything in my thirty-five years of life, it’s that rules are made to be—maybe not broken—but definitely worked around. Let me ask you something, I say. What would you say to calling me ‘Doctor’ instead of ‘ma’am?’ He doesn’t immediately answer, and I glance over to him just for a moment—he’s thinking hard about it. I assume he’s mentally going through the endless list of rules and regulations that he’s been given. It’s still a title of respect, right?

I think so, ma—Doctor.

See, that wasn’t so hard, was it? If it’ll make you feel better, you can keep right on calling Brian ‘sir.’ I glance over again, and that earns me a grin. So they haven’t completely beaten the sense of humor out of you yet.

It’s not like that, Doctor.

I’ve seen his daily schedule, and it looks a lot like that to me. But, then again, it’s not that different from my clinical rotations in third and fourth year of medical school, and I got through that with my sense of humor intact. Or, at least, I like to think I did. I’ll take your word for it. We ride in silence for a few minutes, and then I’m turning onto Gilbert Lane and there’s our house at the end of the street. My mother is making lunch, but that won’t be until one or two o’clock. So you’ll have your choice until then. We can go over your chemistry homework, or you can listen to Grace practice or you can sit with Brian and my father and listen to them yell at the Eagles game on TV.

He actually laughs. Any of that sounds good. Even chemistry. I’m just happy to be off post for a few hours. I can imagine. I park right in front of the house, on the brand-new driveway. It looks so out-of-place compared to the house itself, which, from the outside, needs a lot of work.

That’s a little bit deceiving. In the four months we’ve been here, we’ve actually gotten quite a bit done—it’s just all on the inside. We replaced the boiler, had a lot of electrical work done and had the basement totally refinished. Unlike our old house back in Arlington, the limiting factor here has been time, rather than money.

We go inside, stepping through the screen door and into the tiny kitchen. Making it larger will be the next major project, hopefully in the spring. Mom is already at the stove, but she tears herself away from her task to give Will a hug. I hear a squeal from somewhere deeper inside the house and then Grace and Steffy come running in. Steffy gives him a hug and lets him go quickly. Grace steps up to him, starts to put her arms out to hug him as well, and then there’s a momentary flash of panic in her eyes and she takes a couple of steps back. She stares up at him nervously, until he gives her a grin.

I appreciate his patience with Grace. I haven’t said anything to him, but he’d have to be blind not to notice that she’s got a massive crush on him. He’s handled it like a perfect gentleman so far, though, and that’s all I can ask. We thought about this situation a lot before we made the final arrangements to join the sponsor program. I worried about the idea of bringing a handsome young man into the house on a regular basis, because Grace would probably be drawn to him.

Brian agreed that she would, but he saw that as a benefit rather than a drawback. His thinking was that a young man who was hard-working and had to live by a strict honor code, would be the perfect kind of boy for Grace to fixate on. Brian’s idea is that she’ll associate her feelings with all Will’s positive qualities and look for that in her future boyfriends. I’m not totally convinced it’ll work out that way, but I’m definitely willing to try it.

How are you, Grace? Will asks her, but before she can answer, my mother shoves a spoon in his face. He opens his mouth to swallow, and begins to tear up the moment he does.

For a moment or two, he tries to speak, but he’s unable to get any words out. Too spicy, I see, Mom says. Thank you, Will. I fetch him a glass of water, and he downs it in one gulp.

He’s still not quite able to talk. I ask Mom, Why didn’t you let me try?

"I already know you’ll like it, Sara, Mom answers. I needed an opinion from someone with more normal taste buds." Ever since I was pregnant with Matty, two years ago, I’ve liked more spicy food, and my taste never reverted back. So the rest of the family has had to get used to that. Along with all the other changes in the past few months.

That’s a big reason that we signed up to sponsor Will, and went through all the trouble to become part of the program. I thought it would give the kids—all of them, not just Grace—something to focus on instead of all the things that they were leaving behind back in Washington.

It’s worked, so far. Will has definitely been good for all of us, and I think we’ve been good for him, too. Although an hour or two of Grace singing at him might change his opinion about that!

Right on cue, Grace asks, Will, I was going to practice. Do you want to hear? She’s got it bad—I can hear it in her voice. There’s a hesitation there that only comes out when she’s talking to Will. And I see it in the way she’s dressed, too: her nicest jeans, a very pretty light-blue sweater and her best shoes. She never wears shoes in the house, except on Sundays when Will comes to visit.

Yes, Grace. I’d love to, he answers.

Do you mind if I listen too? Steffy turns a pleading look at Grace, who shrugs and, somewhat reluctantly, nods her head. Since it’s not going to be private, I follow them. We go through the hallway, into the weird little space that I think of as the spleen of the house. I think that’s funny—just like the spleen it’s smack in the middle, and none of us understand why it’s shaped the way it is. Nobody else laughs when I call it that, but in my defense, years of medical training can do odd things to your sense of humor.

The space is larger than a hallway, but not big enough to really be called a room—and everything in the house connects from here. There are doors to all the bedrooms, a bathroom, a walk-in closet and also the living room. That’s where we head now, and then through it and down into the basement.

Grace and Steffy have their bedroom down here; we left it up to the kids, and Steffy made a huge fuss about wanting to share with Grace. There’s a lot of space down here, and it feels even larger because we didn’t divide it into two completely separate bedrooms. There’s a half-wall separating their beds so that they have some feeling of privacy, but it’s really more like their own little studio apartment.

There’s an old sofa against one wall—it came along with the house—and Grace motions for us to sit down. She goes over to her boombox—actually, I don’t know if they’re even still called that anymore—pops a tape in, and turns it on. I think I’ve got this song down, she says. I’m going to use it for my audition. I mean, if you guys think it sounds good. Anyway…

She hits play, and there’s a blast of static that makes all of us cover our ears, but it’s gone in a moment, and then there’s a piano. It must be the music teacher at Grace’s school—she’s been helping Grace practice so she can hopefully win a role in the high school musical next month. The school is so small—only 300 students—that they have to open auditions up to the seventh and eighth graders in order to put on a proper show.

I recognize the tune immediately—I heard it often enough as a child, since The Music Man is one of my mother’s favorite movies. It’s Till There Was You—Marian the Librarian’s big song near the end, when she’s finally realized that she loves Harold Hill. Grace is looking right at Will. She takes a deep breath, and then she launches into it. No hesitation, no building up, she just starts singing, full force, throwing everything she’s got at him…

…When did everyone come down here? There’s Brian, and my father, and Ben and Lizzie, standing together by the stairs. I was so taken by Grace’s performance—completely transfixed—that I didn’t even notice them. I look over at Will and Steffy, and they’re both sitting there, as stunned as I am.

It wasn’t the quality of her voice. Grace has a nice enough voice, but it’s not really trained at all. It was the sheer power—the force of her emotions coming through. I remember what it was like to be fourteen, all the feelings swirling around, so much that sometimes it felt as though I was going to just explode with it all. And I had a pretty simple, carefree life. Grace has been through so much, she’s got so many things going on in her head, before her teenage hormones even come into it.

Just now, she took all of that—everything inside her—and put it into three minutes of song. She’s got a gift. I don’t think that’s something you can be taught.

I think you’ll get the part for sure, Grace, Will says, in a very calm voice. It’s a good thing he’s five years older, and he’s been toughened up by an incredibly difficult first few months at West Point. I shudder to think what that performance would have done to a boy Grace’s age.

He’s right, honey, I add, finding my own voice. If you do that in the audition, you’re guaranteed to get it. Maybe later, after I take Will back to campus tonight, I’ll have a word with her about my one worry. She put so much into that song, but it’s a long show, and I’m afraid that if she puts everything out there, she might be so drained that she won’t have anything left to finish the show with.

She is drained, too; I can see her shaking a little bit, as she wipes beads of sweat from her forehead. She’s been looking directly at Will the whole time, but now she turns away and notices that she’s got everyone except my mother down here. She asks Brian and my father, Was I really OK?

Brian’s answer is to go to her and embrace her. You were spectacular, Grace, Dad chimes in. Better than Shirley Jones.

I laugh. Don’t let Mom hear you say that! Even Mom would be impressed, though. She really was spectacular.

I’m helping Mom clean up from lunch. Will is sitting at the kitchen table with Ben and Steffy. He’s still in uniform—that’s another one of the rules. He’s allowed to change into his gym clothes, but that’s it. Right after we met Will, I went out and bought some casual clothes for him to wear when he visits us, but they’re still in Brian’s closet, untouched. The rules are the rules, after all.

I wonder where Grace is—she never misses a chance to spend time with Will. But I get my answer when Steffy asks Will about his girlfriend back home. What’s she like? Is she pretty?

I hope they’re teaching you how to resist interrogation, I tell him. "Anything you say will definitely be used against you."

Will smiles, reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. You want to see a picture of her? Steffy grins and nods, and takes the photo from Will’s hand. I come over to see as well. She’s very pretty, with gorgeous long black hair and a bright smile.

I feel Mom standing over my shoulder, and she whistles. You’re a lucky young man, she says. Of course, she’s lucky as well.

Will blushes slightly at that, but it’s true. He’s quite handsome. I’d say he’s just about six feet tall, with short and extremely neat light-brown hair and very pretty eyes—there’s really no other word for them. He’s in amazing shape, with muscles that are just rock-solid. And the uniform—I was never one to go crazy over a man in uniform, but I really get it, now.

OK, Steffy, you can go tell Grace all about—what’s her name, Will?

Victoria, he answers, grinning.

Go tell Grace about Victoria, I repeat, patting Steffy on the head, "and I’ll take Will back into the apartment and help him with his