Chapter Five

When to do it was the question....as the days clicked by. He didn't know. He had thought about taking her out to dinner...the only problem was that Jordan needed to be moving when she was talking. And he wanted her to tell him about the dream. Telling someone about it might banish it. It was early spring, and Boston was having a few good days. The weather was warming. The trees were almost budding. Spring. A time of renewal. A good time to get all this out in the open and see what happens, he thought.

One Saturday, he awoke to bright sunshine and warming temperatures. The morning may be chilly, but the afternoon would be great. Without giving himself time to have a second thought, he picked up his phone and hit her number on speed dial. Her slightly husky voice let him know he had woken her up.

Hello?" she said over the receiver.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."

"You didn't."

"You're a bad liar, Jordan."

She chuckled. "Okay, you woke me up. But I didn't get in from the Pogue last night until two."

"Are you tired?"

"No more than usual."

"Feel like a picnic this afternoon?"

Jordan was instantly awake. A picnic. She hadn't been on a picnic....in who knew when. "Yes....it would be nice."

"Great. I'll pick you up at one, we'll go to the big park out in the country....Freedom Park. Can you get someone to cover for you tonight at the bar?"

"I don't have to work tonight, as a matter of fact."

"Good. I'll see you at one. I'll get the picnic lunch, you don't worry about anything." He couldn't have planned it any better. They'd have all afternoon – no hurry to get back for anything. All afternoon to talk. All afternoon to make her understand.

At one, he found himself in front of her red door. She answered it a few seconds after he knocked. "Ready to go?" he asked, looking her over. She looked great...of course to Woody, she always looked great, whether she was in scrubs or evening wear. Today she had on black jeans and a red t-shirt. Nothing fancy. Just great picnic clothes. She grabbed a jacket on the way out.

They made small talk on the way to the park...the weather...the BoSox...the morgue, their cases. Woody parked the car and grabbed a Frisbee from the trunk. "Feel up to it?" he had asked.

"You don't know what you're in for," she replied. After a few throws and a great deal of chasing the plastic disk around, she sprawled out, exhausted, against a tree. Sensing this would be the best chance he had, Woody grabbed the picnic basket from the car and spread it out. He had packed a good bottle of wine....knowing it may help her loosen her tongue and him to stay relaxed. A little food and a glass or two later, Jordan found herself very mellow, with her head leaning on his shoulder. Gently rubbing one of her hands, Woody took a deep breath and said. "So...Jordan. Tell me about the dream that keeps you awake."

He felt her shoulders stiffen just a bit as she sat up and turned to look at him. "My dream? Why do you want to know?"

"Because talking about it sometimes makes it go away....I'd like to see if I could help you stop having it."

She leaned against the tree and shut her eyes. "It's the same dream I had at your apartment that night. The robber comes back...but this time I can't fight him off...this time, he makes me take off my clothes and he...he...." She stopped and shuddered. Woody pulled her into his arms.

"When do you wake up?"

She hadn't thought about that. She would always get to the same point and then she would jerk herself awake. "Right before he..."

"So you see....you are still fighting him, Jordan. You're still winning. You're not a victim, even in your dream. You wake up before anything happens."

She lowered her head and thought for a minute. "I guess you're right...I've never thought about that before. I just knew I kept having the dream....and I didn't like feeling as if I were a victim all over again."

Woody softly rubbed her back. "You're not," he replied quietly. "Does that help? Does that help you put this dream in perspective?"

Jordan nodded against his shoulder. "Yeah.."

"And I'll bet, after today, eventually you stop having that dream...."

"I hope so. I want it to stop."

He smiled against the top of her head. "It will, Jordan. Feel better?"

She nodded, her head still against his shoulder. "Thanks."

"Jordan, I always want you to feel like you can come to me when you're scared, or worried, or just feel alone. I understand more than you think I do." He gently pulled away from her and lifted her chin so that he could look her in the eyes. "I really do. And I need to tell you why."

She gave him a puzzled look. "What are you talking about, Woody?"

He poured himself and her another glass of wine. They would need this and maybe even the second bottle he still had in the picnic basket. "How much do you know about my past, Jordan?"

"Let's see....just what you told me in the desert when we were in California. You were born and raised in Kewuanne, Wisconsin. You were stood up for the prom. You stuttered a little bit, and your first love was a girl named Annie, whose father thought you weren't good enough to marry his daughter. And you're complicated...or at least you say you are. You told me that one night at the Pogue, a long time ago."

He nodded. "Do you think I'm complicated, Jordan?"

She thought for a minute. "I don't know, Woody. I know more about you since you moved to Boston. You work hard. You're a good friend. You seem naïve, but that's just a cover. You use that to get people to talk to you...you're so unassuming. You're not naïve at all...but complicated? I'm not sure."

"Jordan, have you ever thought there's a reason you don't know anything about my past? Why I haven't shared that with you, the way you've shared your history – from your mother's murder, to Paul, to your dad's leaving – with me?"

That statement struck Jordan hard. No, she hadn't thought of it. She just assumed that Woody had a "Leave it to Beaver" childhood....Mom, Dad, dog, white picket fence....she looked at him closely. His blue eyes were hooded, not telling her anything. "Woody?" she questioned, as much asking him if he was okay as it was for him to clarify his statement.