The Dream (Crosslyn Rise Trilogy)

by Barbara Delinsky

  “We?”

  “Yes.” She came away from the window to make her plea. “I need help, Gordon. I don’t have any money. There would have to be loans, but once the cluster homes were built and sold, the money could be repaid, so it’s not like my asking you for a loan just to fix up the Rise. Can I get a loan of the size I’d need?”

  “No.”

  She blinked. “No? Then you don’t like the idea?”

  “Of the condo complex? Yes, I do. It has definite merit.”

  “But you won’t back me.”

  “I can’t just hand over that kind of money.”

  She slid into her chair and sat forward on its edge. “Why not? You were offering me money just a little while ago. Yes, this would be more, but it would be an investment that would guarantee enough profit to pay back the loan and then some.”

  Gordon regarded her kindly. He had endless respect for her where her work at Harvard was concerned. But she wasn’t a businesswoman by any stretch of the imagination. “No financial institution will loan you that kind of money, Jessica. If you were an accredited real estate developer, or a builder or an architect, you might have a chance. But from a banker’s point of view, loaning a linguistics professor large amounts of money to build a condominium complex would be akin to loaning a librarian money to buy the Red Sox. You’re not a developer. You may know what you want for the Rise, but you wouldn’t know how to carry it out. Real estate development isn’t your field. You don’t have the kind of credibility necessary to secure the loan.”

  “But I need the money,” she cried. The sharp rise in her voice was out of character, reflecting her frustration, which was growing by the minute.

  “Then we’ll have to find people who do have the necessary credibility for a project like this.”

  Her frustration eased. All she needed was a ray of hope. “Oh. Okay. How do we go about doing that and how does it work?”

  Gordon relaxed in his chair. He enjoyed planning projects and was relieved that Jessica was open to suggestion. “We put together a consortium, a group of people, each of whom is willing to invest in the future of Crosslyn Rise. Each member has an interest in the project based on his financial contribution to it, and the amount he takes out at the end is commensurate with his input.”

  Jessica wasn’t sure she liked the idea of a consortium, simply because it sounded so real. “A group of people? But they’re strangers. They won’t know the Rise. How can we be sure that they won’t put their money and heads together and come up with something totally offensive?”

  “We handpick them. We choose only people who would be as committed to maintaining the dignity and charm of Crosslyn Rise as you are.”

  “No one is as committed to that as I am.”

  “Perhaps not. Still, I’ve seen some beautiful projects, similar to what you have in mind, done in the past few years. Investors can be naturalists, too.”

  Jessica was only vaguely mollified, a fact to which the twisting of her stomach attested. “How many people?”

  “As many as it would take to collect the necessary money. Three, six, twelve.”

  “Twelve people? Twelve strangers?”

  “Strangers only at first. You’d get to know them, since you’d be part of the consortium. We’d have the estate appraised as to its fair market value, and that would determine your stake in the project. If you wanted, I could advance you more to broaden your stake. You’d have to decide how much profit you want.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I’m not in this for the profit.”

  “You certainly are,” Gordon insisted in the tone of one who was older and wiser. “If the Rise is made into the kind of complex you mention, this is your inheritance. And it’s significant, Jessica. Never forget that. You may think you have one foot in the poorhouse, but Crosslyn Rise, for all its problems, is worth a pretty penny. It’ll be worth even more once it’s developed.”

  Developed. The word made her flinch. She felt guilty for even considering it—guilty, traitorous, mercenary. In one instant she was disappointed with herself, in the next she was furious with her father.

  But neither disappointment nor fury would change the facts. “Why does this have to be?” she whispered sadly.

  “Because,” Gordon said quietly, “life goes on. Things change.” He tipped his head and eyed her askance. “It may not be all that bad. You must be lonely living at the Rise all by yourself. It’s a pretty big place. You could choose one of the smaller houses and have it custom-designed for you.”

  She held up a cautionary hand. He was moving a little too quickly. “I haven’t decided to do this.”

  “It’s a solid idea.”

  “But you’re making it sound as if it can really happen, and that makes me feel like I’m losing control.”

  “You’d be a member of the consortium,” he reminded her. “You’d have a voice as to what’s done.”

  “I’d be one out of three or six or maybe even twelve.”

  “But you own the Rise. In the end, you’d have final approval of any plan that is devised.”

  “I would?”

  “Yes.”

  That made her feel better, but only a little. She’d always been an introverted sort. She could just imagine herself sitting at the far end of a table, listening to a group of glib investors bicker over her future. She’d be outtalked, outplanned, outwitted.

  “I want more than that,” she said on impulse. It was survivalism at its best. “I want to head the consortium. I want my cut to be the largest. I want to be guaranteed control over the end result.” She straightened in her chair. “Is that possible?”

  Gordon’s brows rose. “Anything’s possible. But advisable? I don’t know, Jessica. You’re a scholar. You don’t know anything about real estate development.”

  “So I’ll listen and learn. I have common sense and an artistic eye. I know the kind of thing I want. And I love Crosslyn Rise.” She was convincing herself as she talked. “It isn’t enough for me to have the power to approve or disapprove. I want to be part of the project from start to finish. That’s the only way I’ll be able to sleep at night.” She wasn’t sure she liked the look on Gordon’s face. “You don’t think I can do it.”

  “It’s not that.” He hesitated. There were several problems that he could see, one of which was immediate. He searched for the words to tell her what he was thinking, without sounding offensive. “You have to understand, Jessica. Traditionally, men are the investors. They’ve been involved in other projects. They’re used to working in certain ways. I’m … not sure how they’ll feel about a novice telling them what to do.”

  “A woman, you mean,” she said, and he didn’t deny it. “But I’m a reasonable person. I’m not pigheaded or spiteful. I’ll be open-minded about everything except compromising the dignity of Crosslyn Rise. What better a leader could they want?”

  Gordon didn’t want to touch that one. So he tried a different tack. “Changing the face of Crosslyn Rise is going to be painful for you. Are you sure you want to be intimately involved in the process?”

  “Yes,” she declared.

  He pursed his lips, dropped his gaze to the desktop, tried to think of other evasive arguments, but failed. Finally he went with the truth, bluntly stating the crux of the problem. “The fact is, Jessica, that if you insist on being the active head of the consortium, I may have trouble getting investors.” He held up a hand. “Nothing personal, mind you. Most of the people I have in mind don’t know who or what you are, but the fact of a young, inexperienced woman having such control over the project may make them skittish. They’ll fear that it will take forever to make decisions, or that once those decisions are made, you’ll change your mind. It goes back to the issue of credibility.”

  “That’s not fair!”

  “Life isn’t, sometimes,” he murmured, but he had an idea. “There is one way we might be able to get around it.”

  “What?”

  He was thoughtful for another minute. �
�A compromise, sort of. We get the entire idea down on paper first. You work with an architect, tell him what you want, let him come up with some sketches, work with him on revising them until you’re completely satisfied. Then we approach potential investors with a fait accompli.” He was warming to the idea as he talked. “It could work out well. With your ideas spelled out in an architect’s plans, we can better calculate the costs. Being specific might help in wooing investors.”

  “You mean, counterbalance the handicap of working with me?” Jessica suggested dryly, but she wasn’t angry. If sexism existed, it existed. She had worked around it before. She could do it again.

  “Things would be simplified all around,” Gordon went on without comment. “You would have total control over the design of the project. Investors would know exactly what they were buying into. If they don’t like your idea, they don’t have to invest, and if we can’t get enough people together, you’d only be out the architect’s fee.”

  “How much will that be?” Jessica asked. She’d heard complaints from a colleague who had worked with an architect not long before.

  “Not as much as it might be, given the man I have in mind.”

  Jessica wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or nervous. The bravado she’s felt moments before was beginning to falter with talk of specifics, like architects. “You’ve already thought of someone?”

  “Yes,” Gordon said, eyeing her directly. “He’s the best, and Crosslyn Rise deserves the best.”

  She couldn’t argue with that. “Who is he?”

  “He’s only been in the field for twelve years, but he’s done some incredible things. He was affiliated with a New York firm for seven of those years, and during that time he worked on PUDs up and down the East Coast.”

  “PUDs?”

  “Planned Urban Developments—in and around cities, out to suburbs. Five years ago, he established his own firm in Boston. He’s done projects like the one you have in mind. I’ve seen them. They’re breathtaking.”

  Her curiosity was piqued. “Who is he?”

  “He’s a down-to-earth guy who’s had hands-on experience at the building end, which makes him an even better architect. He isn’t so full of himself that he’s hard to work with. And I think he’d be very interested in this project.”

  Jessica was trying to remember whether she’d ever read anything in the newspaper about an architect who might fit Gordon’s description. But such an article would have been in the business section, and she didn’t read that—which, unfortunately, underscored some of what Gordon had said earlier. Still, she had confidence in her ideas. And if she was to work with a man the likes of whom Gordon was describing, she couldn’t miss.

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  “Carter Malloy.”

  Jessica stared at him dumbly. The name was very familiar. Carter Malloy. She frowned. Bits and snatches of memories began flitting through her mind.

  “I knew a Carter Malloy once,” she mused. “He was the son of the people who used to work for us at the Rise. His mom kept the house and his dad gardened.” She felt a moment’s wistfulness. “Boy, could I ever use Michael Malloy’s green thumb now. On top of everything else, the Rise needs a landscaping overhaul. It’s been nearly ten years since the Malloys retired and went south.” Her wistfulness faded, giving way to a scowl. “It’s been even longer since I’ve seen their son, thank goodness. He was obnoxious. He was older than me and never let me forget it. It used to drive him nuts that his parents were poor and mine weren’t. He had a foul mouth, problems in school and a chip on his shoulder a mile wide. And he was ugly.”

  Gordon’s expression was guarded, his voice low. “He’s not ugly now.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said,” he repeated more clearly, “he’s not ugly now. He’s grown up in lots of ways, including that.”

  Jessica was surprised. “You’ve been in touch with Carter Malloy?”

  “He keeps an account here. God only knows he could easily give his business to one of the bigger banks in Boston, but he says he feels a connection with the place where he grew up.”

  “No doubt he does. There’s a little thing about a police record here. Petty theft, wasn’t it?”

  “He’s reformed.”

  Her expression said she doubted that was possible. “I was always mystified that wonderful people like Annie and Michael Malloy could spawn a son like that. The heartache he caused them.” She shook her head at the shame of it. “He’s not living around her, is he? Tell me, so I’ll know to watch out. Carter Malloy isn’t someone I’d want to bump into on the street.”

  “He’s living in Boston.”

  “What is he—a used-car salesman?”

  “He’s an architect.”

  Jessica was momentarily taken aback. “Not the Carter Malloy I knew.”

  “Like I said, he’s grown up.”

  The thought that popped into her head at that moment was so horrendous that she quickly dashed it from mind. “The Carter Malloy I knew couldn’t possibly have grown up to be a professional. He barely finished high school.”

  “He spent time in the army and went to college when he got out.”

  “But even if he had the gray matter for college,” she argued, feeling distinctly uneasy, “he didn’t have the patience or the dedication. He could never apply himself to anything for long. The only thing he succeeded at was making trouble.”

  “People change, Jessica. Carter Malloy is now a well-respected and successful architect.”

  Jessica had never known Gordon to lie to her, which was why she had to accept what he said. On a single lingering thread of hope, she gave a tight laugh. “Isn’t it a coincidence? Two Carter Malloys, both architects? The one you have in mind for my project—does he live in Boston, too, or does he have a house in one of the suburbs?”

  Gordon never answered. Jessica took one look at his expression, stood and began to pace the office. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her skirt, and just as the challis fabric faithfully rendered the slenderness of her hips and legs as she paced, it showed those hands balled into fists. Her arms were straight, pressed to her sides.

  “Do you know what Carter Malloy did to me when I was six? He dared me to climb to the third notch of the big elm out beyond the duck pond.” She turned at the window and stared back. “Needless to say, once I got up there, I couldn’t get back down. He looked up at me with that pimply face of his, gave an evil grin and walked off.” She paused before a Currier and Ives print on the wall, seeing nothing of it. “I was terrified. I sat for a while thinking that he’d come back, but he didn’t. I tried yelling, but I was too far from the house to be heard. One hour passed, then another, and each time I looked at the ground I got dizzy. I sat up there crying for three hours before Michael finally found me, and then he had to call the fire department to get me down.” She moved on. “I had nightmares for weeks afterward. I’ve never climbed a tree since.”

  She stopped at the credenza, turned and faced Gordon, dropping her hands and hips back against the polished mahogany for support. “If the Carter Malloy I knew is the one you have in mind for this job, the answer is no. That’s my very first decision as head of this consortium, and it’s closed to discussion.”

  “Now that,” Gordon said on a light note that wasn’t light at all but was his best shot at an appeal, “is why I may have trouble finding backers for the project. If you’re going to make major decisions without benefit of discussion with those who have more experience, there isn’t much hope. I have to say that I wouldn’t put my money into a venture like that. A bullheaded woman would be hell to work with.”

  “Gordon,” she protested.

  “I’m serious, Jessica. You said you’d listen and learn, but you don’t seem willing to do that.”

  “I am. Just not where Carter Malloy is concerned. I couldn’t work with him. It would be a disaster, and what would happen to the Rise, then?” Her voice grew pleading. “There must be other arc
hitects. He can’t be the only one available.”

  “He’s not, and there are others, but he’s the best.”

  “In all of Boston?”

  “Given the circumstances, yes.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “He knows the Rise. He cares about it.”

  “Cares?” she echoed in dismay. “He’d as soon burn the Rise to the ground and leave it in ashes as transform it into something beautiful.”

  “How do you know? When was the last time you talked with him?”

  “When I was sixteen.” Pushing off from the credenza, she began to pace again. “It was the first I’d seen him in a while—”

  “He’d been in the army,” Gordon interrupted to remind her.

  “Whatever. His parents didn’t talk about him much, and I was the last person who’d want to ask. But he came over to get something for his dad one night. I was on the front porch waiting for a date to pick me up, and Carter said—” Her memories interrupted her this time. Their sting held her silent for a minute, finally allowing her to murmur, “He said some cruel things. Hurtful things.” She stopped her pacing to look at Gordon. “Carter Malloy hates me as much as I hate him. There’s no way he’d agree to do the work for me even if I wanted him to do it, which I don’t.”

  But Gordon wasn’t budging. “He’d do it. And he’d do it well. The Carter Malloy I’ve come to know over the past five years is a very different man from the one you remember. Didn’t you ever wonder why his parents retired when they did? They were in their late fifties, not terribly old and in no way infirm. But they’d saved a little money over the years, and then Carter bought them a place in Florida with beautiful shrubbery that Michael could tend year-round. It was one of the first things Carter did when he began to earn good money. To this day he sees that they have everything they need. It’s his way of making up for the trouble he caused them when he was younger. If he hurt you once, my guess is he’d welcome the chance to help out now.”