The Dream (Crosslyn Rise Trilogy)

by Barbara Delinsky

  “I’ll call one of the other members of the commission.”

  “She’s the chairman. She’s the one who can make things happen, but only if she wants. Talk to her, Carter. Make her want to help us.”

  Carter was beginning to feel uneasy. Sitting back against the banister to put a little more space between them, he asked cautiously, “How would you suggest I do that?”

  Jessica had been tossing possibilities around for the better part of the afternoon, which was why she hadn’t called him earlier to tell him about the problem. The solution she’d found was as abhorrent as it was necessary, but she was feeling desperate on several counts. “Smile a little. Sweet-talk her. Maybe even take her to dinner.”

  “I don’t want to take her to dinner.”

  “You take prospective clients to dinner.”

  “Prospective clients take me to dinner.”

  “Then make an exception this time. Take her to dinner. Wine and dine her. She’ll listen to you, Carter.”

  “Okay. You and I will take her to dinner.”

  “You’re missing the point!” Jessica cried.

  “No,” Carter said slowly. His eyes were chilly, reflecting the cold he felt inside. “I don’t think I am. I think that the point—correct me if I’m wrong—is that I should do whatever needs to be done to get a waiver from the commission, and if that means screwing Elizabeth Abbott, so be it.” While he didn’t miss the way Jessica flinched at his choice of words, he was too wrapped up in his own emotions to care. The coldness inside him was fast turning to anger. “Am I right?”

  The harsh look in his eyes held Jessica silent for a minute.

  “Am I right?” he repeated more loudly.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “I don’t believe it,” he murmured, and though his voice was lower, the look in his eyes didn’t soften. “I don’t believe it. How can you ask me to do something like that?”

  “It may be the only way we can go ahead with this thing.”

  “Is that all that matters to you? This thing? Crosslyn Rise?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Could’ve fooled me. But then, it’s no wonder. You won’t say you love me, you won’t say you’ll marry me, and now you come up with this idiotic scheme.”

  “It’s not idiotic. It would work. Elizabeth Abbott has a reputation for things like this.”

  “Well, I don’t. I wouldn’t demean myself by doing something like this. I’m no goddamned gigolo!” Rising from the stairs, he stormed down three steps before turning to glare at her. “I love you, Jessica. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you dozens of times, and I’m not just blowing off hot air. I love you. That means you’re the woman I want. Not Elizabeth Abbott.”

  Jessica swallowed hard. “But you were with her once—”

  “And it was a mistake. I knew it at the time, and I know it even more now. I won’t go so far as to say that she’s holding up things for Crosslyn Rise because of me, because even when she used to call me and I wouldn’t see her, she was gracious. I never thought of her as being vindictive, and I’m not about to now, but I won’t sleep with her.” Agitated, he thrust a hand through his hair. “How can you ask me to do that?” he demanded, and through the anger came an incredible hurt. “Don’t I mean anything to you?”

  Jessica was so stunned by the emotions ranging over his face that it was a minute before she could whisper, “You know you do.”

  But he was shaking his head. “Maybe I was fooling myself. Part of love is respect, and if you respected me for who and what I am, you wouldn’t be asking this of me.” Again he thrust a hand into his hair; this time it stopped midway, as though he were so embroiled in his thoughts that he couldn’t keep track of his gestures. “Did you honestly think I’d go along? Did you think I’d seduce her? Did you think I’d really be able to get it up?” He swore softly, and his hand fell to his side. “I blew it somewhere, Jessica. I blew it.”

  In all the time she’d known him, Jessica had never seen him look defeated, but he did now. It was there in the bow of his shoulders and the laxness of his features, either of which put him a galaxy apart from the angry and vengeful boy he’d been so long ago. She knew he’d changed, but the extent of the change only then hit her. She was still reeling from it when she caught the sheen of moisture in his eyes. Her knuckles came hard to her mouth.

  “I’d do most anything for you, Jessica,” he said in a gut-wrenching tone. “So help me, if you asked me to lie spread-eagle on the railroad track until the train blew its whistle, I’d probably do it, but not this.” Swallowing once, he tore his eyes from hers, turned and started down the stairs.

  “Carter?” she whispered against her knuckles. When he didn’t stop, she took her hand away. “Carter?” Still he didn’t stop, but reached the bottom of the stairs and headed for the door. She rose to her feet and called him again, more loudly this time, then started down. When he opened the door and went through, she quickened her step, repeating his name softly now and with a frantic edge. By the time she reached the door, he was halfway to his car.

  “Carter?” Her eyes were filled with tears. “Carter!” She was losing him. “Carter, wait!” But he was at the driver’s side, reaching for the door. “Carter, stop!” He was the light of her life, leaving her. Panicked, she opened her mouth and screamed, “Carter!”

  The heartrending sound, so unusual coming from her, stopped him. He raised his head wearing such a broken look that she couldn’t move for another minute. But she had to keep him there, had to touch him, had to tell him all he meant to her. Forcing her legs into action, she ran toward the car.

  Stopping directly before him, she raised a hand halfway to his face, wavered, mustered enough courage to graze his cheek with a finger before pulling back, then went with her own need and slipped her hand to the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” she tried to say, but the words were more mouthed than anything. “I’m sorry.” She put her other hand flat on his chest, moved it up, finally slid it around his neck, went in close to him and managed a small sound against his throat. “I’m sorry, Carter, I’m sorry. I love you so much.”

  Carter stood very still for a long minute before slowly lifting his hands to her hips. “What?” he whispered hoarsely.

  “I love you. Love you.”

  It was another long minute before he let out a breath, slid his arms around her and gathered her in.

  Unable to help herself, Jessica began to cry. She could no more stop the tears than the words. “That was s-such a stupid thing for me to think of—and an insult t-to you. But something happened to me wh-when she said she’d known you before. Maybe I wanted to know what w-would happen—she’s very attractive—but I I-love you so much—I don’t know what I’d d-do if you ever left me.”

  He buried his face in her hair. Even muffled, his voice sounded rough. “You were pushing me away.”

  “I didn’t know what else t-to do.”

  “You should have called me right away.” He tightened his hold in a punishing way, and his voice remained gruff. “There’s a solution, Jessica. There’s always a solution. But you’ve got to keep your priorities straight. Top priority is us.”

  She knew that now. For as long as she lived, she’d never forget the sight of big, bad Carter Malloy with tears in his eyes. They had been tears of pain, and she’d put them there. They were humbling and horrifying. She never wanted to see them again.

  Going up on tiptoe, she coiled her arms more tightly around his neck. “I love you,” she whispered over and over again until finally he took her face in his hands and held her back.

  “What do you want?” he whispered. His face was inches from hers, his thumbs brushing tears from under her glasses while his palms held her still. “Tell me.”

  “You. Just you.”

  “But what do you want?”

  She knew that he needed to hear the words, and though they represented the ultimate exposure, she was ready for that, too. “I want to marry you. I want
to take your name and use your credit cards and drive your car. I want to have your babies.”

  Carter didn’t react, simply looked at her as though he weren’t quite sure whether to believe her. So, clutching his wrists, she added, “I mean it. All of it. I think it’s what I’ve wanted since the first time we made love, but I’ve been so afraid. You’re so much more than me—”

  “I’m not.”

  “You are. You’ve done so much more, come so much further in life, and that makes you so much more interesting. I want to marry you. I do, Carter. But if we got married and then you wanted out, I think I’d die, I love you so much.”

  “I won’t want out,” he said.

  “But I didn’t know that for sure until just now.”

  “I’ve been telling it to you for weeks.”

  “But I didn’t know.” She closed her eyes and whispered, “Oh, Carter, I don’t ever want to lose you. Not ever.”

  “Then marry me. That’s the first way to tie a man down.”

  Her eyes came open. “I’ll marry you.”

  “And give me kids. That’s the second way to tie a man down.”

  “Okay.”

  “And keep on teaching, because I’m so proud of what you do.”

  “You are?” she asked with a hesitant half smile.

  “Damn it, yes,” he said and crushed her to him. “I’ve always been proud of you. I’ll always be proud of you—whether you’re a scholar, mother of my kids, my wife or my woman.”

  Jessica smiled against his neck, feeling lighter and happier than she’d ever felt before. “I do love you,” she whispered.

  “Then trust me, too,” he said. Taking her by the shoulders, he put her back a step and eyed her sternly. “Trust that I mean what I say when I tell you I love you. I don’t want other women. I never have wanted other women the way I want you. I’ve never asked another woman to marry me, but I’ve asked you a dozen times. I choose you. I don’t have to marry you. I choose you. I want to marry you.”

  “I get the point,” she murmured, feeling a little shamefaced but delighted in spite of it.

  “Do you also get the point about priorities?” he went on, and though a sternness remained in his voice, there was also an exciting vibrancy. “Crosslyn Rise is beautiful. It is venerable and stately and historic. I’ve got a whole lot of time invested in it, and money now, too, but if I had to choose between the Rise and you, there’d be no contest. I’d turn my back on the time, the money and the Rise just to have you. And I’d do it without a single regret.” His eyes grew softer. “So I don’t want you worrying about the zoning commission. We’ll call Gordon and Gideon and the others. We’ll work something out. But all that is secondary. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” she whispered, and it was true. In those few horrible minutes when she had seen his tears, when he had walked away from her and she’d had the briefest glimpse of the emptiness of life without him, Crosslyn Rise had been the last thing on her mind. Yes, the Rise was in trouble, but she could handle it. With Carter by her side, she could handle anything.

  Read on for an excerpt from the latest novel by Barbara Delinsky

  SWEET SALT AIR

  Available in trade paperback Summer 2014 from St. Martin’s Griffin

  Darkness was dense this far from town. There were no cars here, no streetlights, no welcoming homes, and whatever glow had been cast from Nicole’s place was gone. Trees rose on either side, sharing the narrow land flanking the road with strips of field, and beyond the trees was the rocky shore, lost now in the murk.

  But there was hope. As she walked, she saw proof of a moon behind clouds, etching their edges in silver and spraying more to the side. Those silver beams would hit the ocean in pale swaths, though she could only imagine it from here. But she did hear the surf rolling in, breaking on the rocks, rushing out.

  When the pavement at the edges of the road grew cracked, she moved to the center. This end had always been neglected, a reminder that Cecily didn’t invite islanders for tea. The fact that no repair work had been done said the son was the same.

  She passed a string of birches with a ghostly sheen to their bark, but between the sound of the breeze in their leaves and, always, the surf, she was soothed. The gulls were in for the night, hence no screeching, and if there were sounds of boats rocking at moorings, the harbor was too far away to hear.

  There was only the rhythmic slap of her sneakers on the cracked asphalt—and then another tapping. Not a woodpecker, given the hour. Likely a night creature searching for food, more frightened of her than she was of it. There were deer on Quinnipeague. And raccoons. And woodchucks, possums, and moles.

  The tapping came in bursts of three and four, with pauses between. At one point she stopped, thinking it might be a crick in her sneakers. When it quickly came again, though, she walked on. The closer she got to the Cole house, the louder it was.

  The creaking of bones? Skeletons dancing? That was what island kids said, and back then, she and Nicole had believed it, but that didn’t keep them away. Bob and Angie had forbidden their coming here, so it was definitely something to do. Granted, Charlotte was the instigator, but Nicole wouldn’t be left behind.

  Feeling chilled now, she pulled the cuffs of her sweater over her hands as the Cole curve approached. That curve was a marker of sorts, as good as a gate. Once past it, you saw the house, and once you saw the house, you feared Cecily. As special as her herbs were and as healing as her brews, she could be punitive.

  But Cecily was dead, and Charlotte was curious. A look wouldn’t hurt.

  Slowing only a tad, she rounded the curve. The thud of her heart felt good. She was alive; she was having an adventure; she was breaking a rule, like the irreverent person she was. The salt air held a tang here, though whether from the nearby pines or adrenaline, she didn’t know.

  Then, like a vision, Cecily’s house was at the distant end of the drive. It was the same two-story frame it had always been, square and plain, with a cupola on top that housed bats, or so the kids used to say. But there were no bats in sight now, no ghostly sounds, nothing even remotely scary. A floodlight was trained on the upper windows, unflattering light on an aging diva. And the sound she heard? A hammer wielded by a man on a ladder. He was repairing a shutter, which would have been a totally normal activity had it not been for the hour.

  Wondering at that, she started down the long drive. The walking was easier here, the dirt more forgiving than broken pavement. An invitation after all? She fancied it was. The house looked sad. It needed a visitor, or so she reasoned as the trees gave way to the gardens where Cecily had grown her herbs. In the darkness, Charlotte couldn’t see what grew here now, whether the low plants were herbs or weeds. She could smell something, though the blend was so complex that her untrained nose couldn’t parse it. Tendrils of hair blew against her cheek; wanting a clear view, she pushed them back.

  Her sneakers made little sound on the dirt as she timed her pace to the pound of the hammer. When the man paused to fiddle with what looked to be a hinge, she heard a rustle in the garden beside her, clearly foraging creatures alerted by her movement.

  Alerted in turn by that rustle, the man stopped pounding and looked back. He must have had night eyes; there was no light where she was. Without moving a muscle, though, he watched her approach.

  Leo Cole. She was close enough to see that, astute enough to remember dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a square jaw. She remembered long, straggly hair, though a watch cap hid whatever was there now. He wore a tee shirt and paint-spattered jeans. Tall and gangly then? Tall and solid now.

  But thin-mouthed in disdain. Then and now.

  “You’re trespassin’,” he said in a voice that was low and rough, its hint of Maine too small to soften it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, refusing to cower. She had met far more intimidating people in far less hospitable spots.

  His eyes made a slow slide from her to the window and back. “What does it look lik
e?”

  “Repairing your house in the dark.” She tucked her cuffed hands under her arms. “Is that so you won’t see the broken windowpane over there, or do you just like being reckless?”

  He stared at her for another minute. Then, holstering the hammer in his jeans, he climbed down the ladder, lifted a shutter, and, somewhat awkwardly given its bulk, climbed back up. The shutter was wide, clearly functional rather than decorative. Though he carried it one-handed, he stopped twice on the way up to shift his grip. At the top, he braced it against the ladder’s shelf while he adjusted his hands, then lined up hinges and pins.

  He had one hinge attached but was having trouble with the second. She knew what this was about. She had worked with storm shutters. They were tricky to do alone.

  Resting the shutter on the shelf again, he pulled the hammer from his waistband and adjusted the hinge with a few well-aimed hits. Then he tried the shutter again.

  Watching him struggle, Charlotte remembered more about Leo Cole from her early days here. Not too bright, they said. Troubled. Stubborn. She had never known him personally; she was only there summers, and he ran with a different crowd. Actually, she corrected silently, he didn’t run with a crowd. A lone wolf, he did damage all on his own, and it was serious stuff. The stories included stealing cars, forging checks, and deflowering sweet young things.

  Those last summers she was on Quinnipeague, he was in state prison, serving time for selling pot. Rumor had it that Cecily was the one who grew it, and Charlotte could believe it, what with medical marijuana use on the rise. The islanders always denied it, of course. They didn’t want the Feds threatening their cures.

  Leo had been nabbed for selling grass on the mainland. Did he still grow it? She couldn’t smell it now, and she did know that smell.

  Having returned the shutter to the shelf, he was readjusting the hinge.

  “Want some help?” she called up.