“A dream?” Her voice, normally musical and confident, was as soft as a frightened child’s.
“Only a dream.”
A sob burst out of her. She threw herself into his arms. “Hold me.”
Joshua held her and whispered words of comfort. She squeezed him against her, fingernails dug into his back deeply enough to leave scratches.
Gradually, her sobs subsided. Her breaths grew deeper, and within a few minutes, she had drifted back to sleep. Coco, too, had settled down to slumber, the threat to her master vanquished.
Joshua laid Rachel on the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin. Although she had fallen back to sleep, sleep eluded him.
He studied his wife’s face.
When people spoke of beautiful black women, names often mentioned were Halle, Janet, Beyonce. All of them were gorgeous ladies, but Joshua placed his wife in a class of her own. He had married the woman of his dreams and found her far more appealing than some distant, probably airbrushed celebrity.
But there was much he didn’t know about her. He knew the basics, of course: she was thirty years old, two years younger than him, had never been married or had children, drank alcohol socially but didn’t smoke, had grown up in Illinois the only child of parents who’d died when she was in her teens, and had carved out a successful career as a hair stylist. She loved Mexican food, white wine, novels by Alice Walker, museums, comedy films, vacations to the beach, and dogs.
But he’d never met any of her family, or any of her friends that she’d known before she moved to Atlanta. At their wedding, the guest list was composed mostly of his own friends and family, the only people on her side being co-workers and friends from her hair salon. She explained that her family was small, scattered across the country, and didn’t keep in touch. And she’d never been the kind of woman who entertained a large roster of friends. She was a loner, she told him, a symptom of growing up an only child.
Joshua had accepted her explanations about her past. There was no reason for her to lie to him. He loved her, she loved him, and he and took what she told him at face value.
But . . . as he gazed at her closed eyes, puffy from her tears, anxiety quivered through him. The nightmare had passed, but a question hung over him like sour smoke.
Who had she been fighting in her dream?
* * *
Sleeping fitfully, Joshua awoke at five-thirty, much earlier than usual for him. Rachel was still dozing.
That was good. He wanted to talk to her before she left for work. Because Rachel owned a hair salon, she typically rose early and headed out the door while he was still bleary-eyed.
He put on a t-shirt and sweat pants, padded downstairs, and brewed a pot of coffee.
They lived in a two-story, four-bedroom home on the south side of metro Atlanta. They’d moved into the house five months ago, and Joshua was still getting used to the place. It was far more spacious than the one-bedroom condo he’d lived in for the past few years, and far more luxurious than anything he’d ever aspired to own. At times, Joshua felt as if his life there was temporary, as if he were only house-sitting until the rightful owner returned to reclaim it.
It was the same way he sometimes felt about Rachel. As if his time with her was doomed to be short-lived. At such moments of doubt, he was convinced that something was going to happen that would take her away from him. She was going to get bored with him, like his ex-girlfriend, and file for divorce. She was going to get diagnosed with terminal cancer. She was going to die in a car wreck. Something tragic was fated to occur that would tear them apart.
He had to learn how to let go of his baseless worries, and live in the moment. Seize the day, as Rachel liked to say.
But he kept mulling over her nightmare. His desire to talk to her about it was like an ache in his chest.
He poured a cup of coffee. He’d left one of his laptops on the kitchen’s island yesterday, and he switched on the machine to check his email.
As the computer booted-up, he sipped coffee and looked around, feeling an odd yet compulsive need to reassure himself of the realness of his life.
Although they had lived there for only a short period, Rachel had thrown herself into decorating their home with a passion. She’d had some rooms painted bold colors, deep reds and bright yellows; other areas were soothing shades of beige and green. Framed artwork adorned the walls, striking prints of ebony-hued men and women and photographs of beaches and oceans, and hand-carved, wooden figurines from Ghana decorated the end tables.
In celebration of Christmas, only a week away, a lush, lighted wreath garlanded the fireplace. A seven-foot high artificial Douglas fir towered in the family room, boughs bedecked with glittering ornaments and twinkling lights; a smaller, similarly decorated tree stood in the living room, near the bay window. Collectibles of honey-skinned Santa Clauses, angels, and elves stood here and there, spreading holiday cheer.
Virtually every room featured photos of Rachel and Joshua. Romantic snapshots of their honeymoon in Hawaii. Pictures of them at various restaurants, or attending parties with friends. Tons of photos from their wedding.
Although it was a large home, it was cozy, rich with the warmth of the life they had created together. Looking around took the edge off Joshua’s anxiety. Turning back to the computer, he went online to check his business email.
Four months ago, Joshua had left the graphic design firm where he’d been employed for several years and started a freelance graphic design business. He had long aspired to branch out on his own, but self-doubt had always prevented him from making the move.
Rachel had encouraged him to pursue his dream. She did very well with the hair salon, she said, and she could afford to keep their household running while he got his business up and running. “You’re going to be successful,” she had told him. “You’re talented and hard-working. I know it’s going to work for you. I have a good feeling about it, baby.”
Her confidence in him was all the push he needed. He launched Moore Designs with a few thousand dollars in start-up capital, a couple of computers loaded with design software—and an iron determination to prove that his wife’s faith in him was well-placed.
Business had been going well, better than he had expected. He specialized in book cover designs for small and large publishers, corporate identity packages, brochures, posters, and Web site design.
Although he’d begun as a one-man shop and hadn’t planned on hiring employees anytime soon, due to demand he’d begun farming out certain projects to independent contractors. If business continued to grow at its current rate, he would need to bring on full-time help within a year.
A check of his email yielded two new business inquiries, both of them interesting. He filed them to be answered later in the day.
He did not, however, have a response from a popular Atlanta restaurant group to whom he had submitted a proposal last week. They had contacted him about creating a corporate identity package, and he had sent them what he was certain was a competitive bid.
But so far, no response.
They’d probably decided to hire someone else. Someone who did better work than he did, someone with a better portfolio and a better price.
But damn, that would have been a nice chunk of change. He had told Rachel about the proposal, gotten her excited about the possibilities, and she was sure to ask about it soon. He wished he hadn’t said anything to her.
As he was logging off his email, Rachel came downstairs, Coco trailing on her heels.
Rachel wore an oversized pink t-shirt, house slippers, and glasses with thin designer frames. Her short hair puffed out in a curly halo. Watching her stroll toward him, the t-shirt clinging to her body, Joshua felt a warm heaviness in his center that almost made him forget about last night’s terror. Almost.
“Morning, baby,” she said. “You’re up early.”
“I figured I’d get a head start on work, wrap up some things before the holidays,” he said, which was partly true. He turned to the cabinets. “Coffe
e?”
“Of course.”
He opened the cabinet and grabbed a coffee mug—and lost his grip on the cup. It clanged onto the Corian countertop, the impact chipping the mug’s rim.
“Sorry,” he said. “You know I’m a klutz sometimes.”
Because of his size—he was six-feet-five, weighed about two-fifty, and was built like a football lineman—he was accustomed to snide remarks whenever he showed his clumsy side. Hey, Lurch, how’s the weather up there? You’re nothing but a big, dumb oaf, man. You move like the damn Frankenstein monster.
That he had little athletic talent only made the teasing worse. In high school, everyone pressured him to play basketball and football, but he was more interested in art class, and never bothered with sports. It guaranteed his status as the butt of countless cruel jokes.
“No problem, baby,” Rachel said. There was no harsh judgment in her eyes; there never was. “Happens to the best of us.”
“You’re just patient,” he said. He carefully took out another cup and poured coffee for her. She took it from him, and then set it aside and came into his arms.
The top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. Standing on her tiptoes, she tilted her head backward to look up at him.
“I love you,” she said.
“Love you, too.”
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Ever.”
He smiled, a little taken aback by her affection. “Ditto.”
“All right, Patrick Swayze.”
She snuggled against him. Her body felt good against his, a perfect fit, as if this was exactly where both of them were supposed to be, enveloped in a gentle embrace.
At such moments, it was easy to believe in soul mates. In destiny. He was probably just a hopeless romantic, but sometimes he believed God had created Rachel just for him, and him for her.
The memory of last night was a thorn pricking his warm thoughts.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked.
He felt her body tense.
“Fine.” She moved out of his arms and picked up her coffee.
“Remember any bad dreams?”
She shook her head. She added cream and sugar to her coffee, stirred it with a spoon.
“Who were you fighting?”
The spoon slipped out of her fingers and clattered onto the countertop.
“What?” She picked up the spoon, frowning.
“You had a nightmare. You were kicking and swinging like you were fighting someone—you even started choking at one point. The whole time, you were screaming at a man. I know it was a man, because you called him a bastard.”
The crease in her brow deepened. “Seriously? I don’t remember that at all.”
“Not at all?”
She dropped her gaze, shook her head. “I have no idea who I could’ve been screaming at, either.”
“Whoever it was, you were terrified of him.”
She cupped the coffee mug in both hands, sipped, and shrugged.
“Dreams are just . . . well, dreams,” she said. “They don’t always hold a meaning—sometimes they do, I admit, but not always. How many times have you had a dream about something that was totally make-believe?”
“Pretty often. But you should’ve seen yourself, Rachel. I mean, you were really fighting.”
“Did I kick the guy’s ass?” She smiled mischievously.
“I don’t know. I woke you up. I was getting worried.”
“You should’ve let me sleep through it. I would’ve finished kicking this mystery guy’s ass and then our conversation this morning would be, ‘Baby, you were beating the hell out of somebody in your sleep last night. Hope it wasn’t me.’ “
She was trying to make him laugh, and it almost worked. Usually, it did. This time, however, her attempt at humor failed to dissolve the anxiety that burned like an ulcer in his gut.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Thinking about how you were acting . . . it wasn’t funny at all. Even Coco was upset.”
Sitting on the floor between them, Coco glanced from Joshua, to Rachel, as if corroborating his story.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else to tell you,” she said. “As far as I’m concerned, it was just a meaningless nightmare that I can’t remember. That happens to everyone sometimes.”
From her tone, he could tell that she didn’t want to discuss the subject further. Another man might have probed deeper, but Joshua didn’t like to push people. It would have turned this conversation into a disagreement, perhaps even an argument, and he disliked conflict, tried to avoid it whenever possible.
“Sure, okay,” he said.
Coco whined to be picked up. Rachel plucked the little dog off the floor and cradled her in her arms, cooed to her softly.
“I was wondering.” Rachel nodded at the laptop. “What’s going on with the proposal you sent to that restaurant group? Heard anything yet?”
“No. I don’t think I will. They’ve probably hired someone else.”
“Don’t give up yet. You gave them a competitive bid, and you’ve got a great portfolio—you know that.”
“That doesn’t guarantee I’ll get the work.”
“Have you called them to follow up?”
“I don’t want to be too aggressive and piss them off. Remember, they approached me in the first place. They should know how to get in touch with me if they want to move forward.”
“Please, call them,” she said. “Matter of fact, call them this morning. Between eleven and one would be a good time, I think. I have a good feeling about it.”
Joshua had known Rachel long enough to know not to question her “good feelings” about certain matters. She had an intuitive sense for some things that defied logic. It was why he sometimes referred to her as his “good luck charm. “
“Promise me you’ll call, okay?” she asked.
“All right, I promise.”
She stood on her tiptoes and gave him a quick kiss. “I’ve got to go open the salon. Sistas are beating our doors down with Christmas coming up.”
He watched her return upstairs. The room was dull in her absence.
His thoughts doubled back to their conversation about her nightmare, and the dream man.
Just as Rachel had good feelings about things, Joshua had a bad feeling about this.
He was convinced that she had lied to him.
Chapter 2
Rachel had lied to Joshua. Again.
As quickly as possible, she left home to go open her hair salon. The longer she stayed in Joshua’s presence, the worse she felt about what she’d done.
She backed her silver Acura TL out of the garage and drove away from the house, winding through the subdivision of spacious homes and large, winter-browned lawns. It was a quarter to seven, the December sun still in hiding. Although she loved the holiday season, she disliked the late sunrises at that time of year. A shower of golden sun rays as she drove to work might have lifted her spirits.
Or perhaps not. She was burdened with such heavy thoughts that morning that nothing would have improved her mood.
Why had she lied to Joshua? He was sweet, honest, and loyal, the kind of man she’d longed to meet and had doubted she would ever find. He deserved the best she could give him of herself. He deserved the truth.
But for so many reasons, she didn’t believe she could give it to him. Not yet.
Last night’s dream was fresh in her mind. After she’d awakened from the nightmare, Joshua believed she had fallen back to sleep, but when he shut off the lights she’d lain awake for much of the night, plagued by the macabre visions that scored her mind’s eye.
Was the dream a premonition? Yes, maybe. Hell, not maybe. Probably. She had a lifetime of experience with such things, and had learned to tell the difference between a dream that was a departure from reality—and a dream that foretold a possible reality.
She had to be careful, watchful.
In typical Atlanta fashion, traffic was a
lready heavy on Camp Creek Parkway, the four-lane road that snaked past their neighborhood all the way to the marketplace where her salon was located. Cars poured onto Camp Creek from intersecting streets that supported an ever-increasing number of residential communities.
In her three years living in Atlanta, Rachel had watched the South side transformed from vast acres of silent fields and undisturbed forests of pine and elm into the metro area’s hottest slice of real estate. Some people complained about the rapid pace of growth, but Rachel welcomed it.
It was easier to stay hidden in a heavily populated area.
Stopping at a traffic light, Rachel flipped down the sun visor and examined her face in the mirror. She wasn’t looking for flaws, and she wasn’t planning to apply make-up—she had been blessed with a blemish-free complexion that required only a light touch of cosmetics.
She was inspecting her new look.
Before moving to Atlanta, she’d worn contact lenses, instead of the thin frame glasses she now sported. Auburn was her natural hair color, and her lush mane had previously hung to the middle of her back. Upon relocating, she’d dyed her hair black and trimmed it to a cute, curly ‘do.
If someone who’d known her before she came to Atlanta saw her today, they wouldn’t recognize her. She hoped.
She felt someone watching her, and she spun in her seat. An older man driving a Cadillac Escalade occupied the lane next to her. He winked and flashed a gold-toothed smile.
She ignored him and turned away. She was too damn jumpy and needed to calm down, get control of her day.
Ten minutes later, she parked in front of her salon, Belle Coiffure. The name was French for “beautiful hairstyle.” She and her business partner, Tanisha Banks, had opened the salon two years ago, and business had been booming from day one. Every time she arrived to work, she felt a rush of pride at how she’d achieved her dream.
Certain individuals from her past had doubted her abilities, had told her she’d never amount to anything on her own. As the saying went, living well was the best revenge.
The Open sign was already aglow, the interior track lights shining brightly. When Rachel pushed through the glass double-doors, she heard a gospel song by Mary, Mary rocking on the satellite radio, and saw Tanisha organizing magazines in the waiting area—copies of Essence, Hype Hair, Gospel Music Today, Ebony, and other glossy periodicals their clients read to pass the time.
The Darkness To Come Page 2
