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...