CHAPTER 17

Corin pulled the covers over his chest and sank into the dream almost immediately. He stood in his store staring at the chair, a short man, slightly hunched over, stood beside him.

“That chair is valuable. Worth a great deal of money. And we both know you need money. I believe you could sell and wipe out a good portion of the debt you currently swim in. That’s the wise decision.”

“How much is it worth?” Corin said. The figure of the man wavered like Corin was looking at him through water. “How much could I sell it for?”

“Tell people the chair was made by Christ and let the religious fanatics bid its price up into the hundreds of thousands.” The man shrugged. “Or I could take it off your hands for you. In fact, I’ll confess, that is most assuredly the best plan.”

Corin turned to face the man, but in the next instant he sat in the back corner of his store, a cup of coffee in his hands, the lady sitting directly across from him.

“We should go from here,” she said, and in the next moment they stood side by side on a cliff overlooking a stretch of ocean, wind whipping through his hair.

The water seemed to pull at him as if it wanted to seize him and wrench him over the edge. Pull him to the bottom and hold him in dark arms.

“You must protect the chair with everything in you. You must guard it with all your heart. Do you understand?”

“Why?”

“You must. Do not let it go. Ever.”

“Why did you give it to me?”

“You are the one.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. I am sorry I cannot say more.”

“Who are you?”

“Someone who has waited long to know you.”

Was it the woman? The one who gave him the chair?

An icy wave crashed onto the beach in front of them . . . or was it—?

He woke to a strong, cold wind pouring through his open window, the blinds smacking into his sill like waves.

Corin sat up, rubbed his eyes, and sucked in a deep lungful of air.

Great, now the chair was invading his dreams.

He pushed the dream out of his mind, turned over, and started counting chairs. No help. After ten minutes of doing the alligator roll, he threw off his covers and staggered into his kitchen. The green numbers on his microwave read 1:55 a.m.

He tapped his laptop to bring it out of hibernation and glanced at the e-mails that had stuffed his in-box since he last checked it.

Junk.

Junk.

Junk.

Corin carried his laptop over to his tan couch where he settled down and stared out the window at the wind whipping through the cottonwood trees.

Why couldn’t he get that stupid chair out of his head? Or his dreams? It was just a chair. Just a chair no one else would be interested in.

But he knew that wasn’t true.

Not even close.