Plain Jane by Fern Michaels Page A

grimace at the word spirit.
    â€œI know, and I’m Madonna. Outta here!” She dodged to the right and went around him.
    â€œIf you go back to sleep, you will dream,” he warned. “You’ll dream about all the old stuff. It’s been bothering you a lot lately. I wish you wouldn’t worry so much, Miss Jane.”
    She stopped short of the bed and looked over her shoulder. “Who says I’m worried?”
    â€œYou worry about everything. You have to stop. You’re taking the joy out of living. If you want me to be specific, you worry about Connie Bryan and Todd Prentice. And you worry about Mrs. Ramsey.”
    Jane raked her hands through her frizzy hair. “How do you know that?” she asked, her voice ringing with a desperation she didn’t like.
    â€œI know all kinds of things.” He looked toward the door leading to the hall. “Your doorbell is going to ring in a couple of minutes. You better get dressed.”
    Jane sat down on the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands. These dreams of hers were starting to take a toll on her. Where most people could get along with eight hours of sleep, Jane needed a minimum of nine. Any less and she was a grouchy grump the rest of the day.
    The doorbell rang. The opening notes of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” pealed through the house. Why she’d bought a doorbell that played thirteen different tunes instead of the old-fashioned dingdong was a mystery. She must have been having one of those nuttier days when she ordered it from the one-of-a-kind catalog.
    Jane snorted as she pulled on her old bathrobe. Who would be ringing her doorbell at—she glanced at the clock—6:45 on a Saturday morning? She hoped whoever it was had a good excuse, or they would be the recipient of her early-morning wrath. “Come on, Olive.” She snatched a flowered headband off the dresser, skinned back her curly hair, and ran downstairs as fast as her still-sore legs would carry her.
    The doorbell rang again.
    â€œAll right already. I’m coming,” she yelled. Didn’t the boy in her dream just get through telling her that the doorbell was going to ring?
    She skidded across the foyer to the front door and fumbled with the dead bolt. “Whoever’s there, you got a helluva lot of nerve coming here at this hour!” She bared her teeth and pulled the door open, ready to do battle with the rude intruder.
    â€œJane. Did I wake you up? I’m sorry,” Mike said, a grin plastered from one ear to the other.
    â€œMike? Sorenson? It’s still dark outside. Aren’t you early?”
    â€œYou’re not a morning person, I take it,” he said, a bemused smile lifting one side of his mouth. He pulled back the screen door and stepped inside.
    â€œNo, I’m not a morning person,” Jane shot back as she eyed her handsome colleague. He was wearing khaki cargo pants and a pale yellow Polo T-shirt. His clothes had been ironed. She could see the creases in his pants and on the sleeves of his shirt. His Docksiders were worn in and comfortable-looking. “What’s that smell?” she asked, twitching her nose. “Alpine something, right?”
    â€œChristmas gift from my mother. Look, I brought breakfast.” He held up a white bakery bag. “Fresh beignets , juice, and coffee.”
    â€œI thought we were going to have a picnic brunch around ten or so?”
    â€œWe were, but ever since I left here I’ve thought about nothing except what happened at the well, and I couldn’t wait to get back. I hope you don’t mind. . . .”
    Jane threw her hands up in the air. “No! No problem. C’mon, let’s eat,” she said, turning and heading for the kitchen. “Since you brought breakfast, you should do the serving. I think you should know I like my juice in a fragile wineglass and my coffee in bone china and my beignets on a matching plate.