Inside a clapboard cottage surrounded by California live oaks, secluded in the hills above Santa Cruz, a young woman sighed in her sleep. A copy of Steinbeck's Sweet Thursday lay spread-eagled in the covers beside her. A thicket of dark hair draped her face, hiding a hopeful smile. She was dreaming of a man-someone new, yet familiar, too. Blond. Peaceful. Someone who might tempt her to trust again. She awoke with his face vivid in her mind. She did not see the figure retreating from her window, melding with the shadows of the evening.