The Complete Where Dreams

by M. L. Buchman

  Suddenly he colored.

  “Sorry, your dad had a Merlot grape planted that just didn’t grow very well here. We nursed it, played with it, and phased it out. We’ve had great luck with the Cab-Sauv on this slope and finally converted the whole field.”

  He looked as if he wished to erase those last sentences and finally moved away to check the vines.

  Cassidy moved slowly forward among the vines. The view across the valley revealed a massive patchwork of fields. Some fields stretched long and narrow, others square, and everywhere rows of vines traced the topography like a map—every rise and dip revealed. This field, this one small field, a quarter-mile square, was barely an afterthought in the valley’s total production.

  She’d had Mondavi Merlot and Cab-Sauv many times with dinners. She’d tasted and spit it out at formal events.

  The air was thick with the smell of sap. The drop. The rows between the vines were covered in great mats of green grapes and leaves spread across the dark soil. Tons of grapes, literally. Thousands and thousands of bunches lay scattered to rot and return to the soil. The grapes that remained, they were the ones that held this year’s hope. This small bunch kept and not the next—which now lay beneath her feet. On the survivors were banked the fortune of the vineyard.

  She stepped out on the soil her mother and father had labored to preserve and expand, had nearly buried their hearts and souls to save. She stood now at the core of their greatest failure.

  Cassidy knelt and gathered a handful of the mud-dark earth. The vine’s roots could go down thirty feet and still not hit rock. Fertile soil piled so thickly that it might as well go down forever. So different from the Pacific Northwest. Bainbridge Island had offered her father two to three feet of rocky soil to plant his roots. And much of that had been painstakingly cleared and set by hand. Here, nascent weeds were scalped back into the soil by the most modern machinery, not a balky old rototiller that she’d never once successfully started on her own. There they battled blackberry vines that towered above her head after a mere week’s inattention. Nothing here but the soil and the grapes.

  She’d had Mondavi Merlots several times before they replanted this field in 2002. She’d drunk her father’s wine without knowing, or at least a blend of it.

  No matter what Mondavi had done to this soil, her father’s tears were still here.

  True to his word, Angelo promised them a table for three at eight o’clock on just a few hours’ notice. At six they hit the Virginia Inn for a couple of drinks in the cozy bar. By seven, they’d decided to go raid Perrin’s store for dinner attire.

  Perrin was into a sixties mode. Her hair streaked, part flapper platinum blond, but with darker lines of oak that made her the very authentic sun-bleached gal. Two months seemed to be the longest she could retain a hair color.

  She flaunted a generous tie-dye skirt, that showed every bit of difference from the classic, dyed-in-Kool-Aid versus professionally done with Procion dye on the fine-weave of quality cotton. Her peasant blouse was loose, airy, and kept slipping off one shoulder. The outfit invited you to imagine the slender, vibrant woman within.

  Jo refused Perrin’s insistence that she go without a bra. Instead, she selected a bright red dress that might have been worn by a flamenco dancer. Her shoulders and dark skin revealed by thin straps, and her legs by the knee-length pleated skirt and a minor bell of red petticoats. Hot was the key word to describe the result.

  They fussed over Cassidy until she finally agreed to wear the slinkiest of blue dresses—one shoulder bare and her hair up. She’d had just enough to drink that she agreed to go without a bra when Perrin couldn’t find a strapless in her size. The perfect tailoring of the top was all that kept her from being indecent. The long skirt had a slit up to mid-thigh which she would do her best to keep closed. The high heels were ridiculous, but her legs did look great in the mirror.

  She wore a gold chain with a tiny sailboat dangling at the end—that she’d spotted in a San Francisco airport shop while waiting for her flight home. She hadn’t explained it to her friends yet.

  Perrin put one of those leather friendship bracelets around each of their wrists. Jo decided to go without further adornment which was exactly right—her long, black hair pushed back over her shoulders was decoration enough.

  Perrin had reached for the perfumes, but she and Jo declined. Perrin went for just a touch of lavender, behind one ear only.

  Cassidy spotted a poster on Perrin’s wall that had a familiar feel. She went up closer to inspect it. Russell’s work; it had to be. “Perrin’s Glorious Garb –the home of stand-out style.” Perrin in her flapper outfit, sitting on a couch that looked homey and made for two like an invitation.

  “He’s great, Cassie. And the name he chose is sooo much better than Perrin’s Gallery. I can’t believe you found him. Or that he’s so reasonable. You’re the best.”

  Jo inspected the poster, raised one eyebrow at Cassidy, and didn’t say a thing. Well, the smokescreen was aimed at Perrin; she shouldn’t have expected it to fool Jo for long.

  How had the time gone by so fast? She’d meant to call him the day she’d gotten home from Dungeness Spit lighthouse, but researching the vineyard had gotten in the way. That was part of tonight’s celebration—actually walking her father’s land.

  She’d call Russell tomorrow or the next day, once she caught up on her columns.

  By the time they reached Angelo’s they were in a very merry mood and men were stopping on the street to watch them walk by arm in arm. Sixties chic, flamenco red, and slinky blue sapphire. Even Jo was laughing and whispering about the one who walked squarely into a newspaper box as they went by.

  The sun was near setting when they arrived. Long streaks of gold slid up the street between the buildings and a soft breeze slipped up from the Sound. They might regret not having wraps by the time they were done, but for the moment it was too warm to consider them.

  Angelo came out of the kitchen personally to seat them. His exclamations over their attire made them giggle, at least she and Perrin. Jo simply blushed crimson and slipped quickly into an inside chair against a wall. Cassidy sat beside her and Perrin took the other side of the table.

  “Josh Harper is coming tonight as well.”

  “Oh, you must seat him with us, Angelo. Set another place.” Cassidy turned to her friends. “He’s this great guy from Gourmet Week. Good friend, too.”

  When he arrived, Angelo led him over.

  “Cute, too,” Perrin whispered to her.

  “Married,” she whispered back. “Happily,” she added before turning to welcome him. He kissed both her cheeks and smiled all around the table at introductions.

  “Angelo. For seating me with three such impossibly lovely ladies, I will promise you gold, dancing women, and great reviews. Whatever you need.” They shook hands in a very manly-looking clasp. He took the seat by Perrin just as the bruschetta arrived: fresh mozzarella cheese, perfect little squares of roasted red pepper, and a sprinkling of minced fresh basil on tiny slices of toast smeared with olive oil and rubbed with garlic.

  “So, Josh. Cassidy says you’re happily married.” He nodded as he bit into one of the appetizers. She smiled in her most dangerous and charming way.

  She leaned her bare shoulder against his.

  “How do you feel about polygamy?”

  He practically passed the cheese through his nose.

  “As always, Angelo,” Cassidy raised her tiny cup of decaf espresso.

  He doffed his hat and sipped from his own cup, most certainly the leaded variety. “Yes, I make a mean espresso.”

  They all laughed knowing she’d meant the meal and that he’d known it as well. The restaurant had quieted and slowly emptied as the hours slid by. Now they were the last table that hadn’t been cleaned and prepped for the next day. Of course they also had been the noisiest table the whole night.

  Perrin’s latest exploits and Cassidy’s behind-the-label tales of the Mondavi system had kep
t the conversation lively—egged on by Jo’s wry interjections. Cassidy hadn’t yet told them about Russell, not with Josh sitting there and especially not now with Angelo joining them. It would be unfair for him to know before Russell did.

  The food and wine had flowed almost as lavishly as the laughter. Perrin had flirted wildly with Josh as well as their waitress—a comely Italian girl who sassed her right back—and Angelo every time he came near. Angelo had flirted with Perrin and taken the opportunity to spread his charm to her and Jo.

  Especially to Jo, though she claimed not to notice, or be interested in a scruffy Italian. But the more wine Jo drank, the deeper her blush became each time Angelo served them personally. Now only espresso, tiny wedges of an exquisite, richly chocolate-and-hazelnut pan forte, and crumpled napkins remained of the meal. Cassidy could feel the electric current passing from Jo on her left to where Angelo had joined them on her right seated at the end of the table. Everyone was talking to everyone, except the two of them. Perhaps she should take Jo to the bathroom and insist that they switch places when they returned. It was the best plan she—

  “Hey Angelo, where are you?” Russell Morgan burst through the kitchen doors, his voice overloud in the empty restaurant. “There you…” He stumbled to a halt as his eyes met hers. He looked ready to beat a hasty retreat even as his eyes slid from her face to inspect her bare shoulders and form-fitting dress.

  She couldn’t help smiling at him. The man seeking the lady in the red parka. Her. Knowing nothing about her except she wore a red coat and went to lighthouses and that was enough to make him desperate to find her. Her: the lovely princess in the tower. He: Prince Charming, who hadn’t a clue how he despised his Princess in real life. Perhaps Prince Uncharming, but Cassidy realized that she liked that honest forthrightness of his more and more with time.

  His eyes returned to her face as he moved slowly forward. Once again he was as she’d first met him: jeans covered with streaks of dirt and paint, both knees long gone. A blue t-shirt that showed every muscle from belt to shoulder was torn high on one arm. Even his arms had splotches of blue paint on them—the shade of which she now knew the source. He matched his hull perfectly. His hair was a tumble with flecks of sawdust—if it had been combed, it was with his fingers. Her fingers itched to do the same.

  “Won’t you join us, Mr. Morgan?”

  It was a good thing that Angelo had his back to Russell, because his face was definitely laughing at the refined invitation for his scruffy friend.

  “Oh, Mr. Morgan. You have to join us.” Perrin leaned right into Josh’s lap as she reached out a hand toward him. “I love that poster you made. It so captures what I want to do. I’ve already had three customers who came in just because they saw it.”

  “Um, you’re welcome.”

  Angelo glanced in Cassidy’s direction and started to scoot his chair her way so he’d be between them. She shook her head infinitesimally and Angelo scooted closer to Josh though he did arch his eyebrows in her direction. She wasn’t going to say anything—not a chance. But she didn’t want Angelo between them. She was just drunk enough to feel brave.

  “Are these your clothes as well?” He nodded toward Jo and Cassidy keeping his attention on Perrin. He grabbed a chair from another table.

  When Perrin nodded, he smiled a bit. He still hadn’t looked in her direction after his initial inspection and she was starting to feel a bit piqued about it.

  “I’d like to get a series of shots with the three of you.”

  “Us?” Cassidy managed to choke out.

  Jo was shaking her head.

  “Yes.”

  There was no way she was getting in front of Mr. Testosterone’s camera.

  Russell spun the chair backwards and straddled it, his exposed knee ending up so close to her thigh she could feel the heat through her thin dress. She glanced down. The slit of her skirt had opened wide exposing her horribly. She pulled it closed before Russell noticed. Though he couldn’t have missed it on his arrival, but she held it closed anyway.

  “You are three classic, beautiful archetypes. And there is a synergy between you that would work well on camera. You also have the benefit of being free models, at least I assume so. Budget is important in this case.” He finally looked at Cassidy. She was well aware they hadn’t worked out a payment yet, but he didn’t have to rub it in.

  Russell leaned in close and whispered for her ears alone, “Told you that you’d hate it.”

  He was right; she did. And she was well and truly trapped. She’d definitely rather pay the money.

  Perrin was so excited by the prospect that she won Jo over with only a minimum of arm-twisting from Cassidy.

  Russell was in a thoroughly cheerful mood about having trapped her, albeit for a good cause. He knocked down a large gulp from a beer bottle still covered in beads of condensation. He must have liberated it on his way through the kitchen.

  His motion sent a waft of his smell her direction. Beneath the bright tang of teak wood shavings and the bite of paint, there was a raw scent like the musk of the finest red—whole, complete in itself, strong without being overwhelming.

  She opened her eyes and he was inspecting her closely. She didn’t remember closing them as she’d reveled in his scent. Reveled? She’d have to be careful. Russell Morgan was trouble and she really didn’t need the complication.

  His eyes were so close. Blue-grey eyes. Ones that would be very easy to get lost in.

  She scrambled around in her brain for some way to break his intent study of her face. For a way to change what was occurring in her own mind.

  “Um, been to any lighthouses lately, Mr. Morgan?”

  Perrin’s laugh climbed quickly up the scale toward a giggle, but a quick glance across the table revealed that the others were still discussing the modeling photoshoot.

  “Yes, actually,” he studied his beer and picked at the corner of the label. “I sailed to one just a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Which one?” As if she didn’t know.

  “New Dungeness lighthouse up in the Straits,” his tone said that he had no hint that she’d been there.

  “Did you find whoever you were looking for at Cape Flattery?”

  He started and his attention shifted from his beer back to her face. His eyes widened like a deer in the headlights.

  “You were obviously looking for someone at the cape.”

  He turned back to his label, though he didn’t pick at it any more.

  “I, uh… No, I didn’t.”

  Angelo leaned over. “He’s been chasing a phantom for six months now.”

  “Three. I didn’t see her in the photos at first. And she’s not a phantom.”

  Angelo shrugged his doubts.

  Cassidy took another sip of her espresso. This was simply delicious. He’d taken photos of every lighthouse and she’d been in every photo. Had he taken one of her at Cape Flattery? She couldn’t remember, but she hoped so. That way his collection would be complete, even if he didn’t know it…yet. She’d replaced her own shot of the lighthouse to include one with him in it. But she hadn’t yet figured out how to tell him that he was sitting next to his phantom.

  “I believe in phantoms.” She’d been chasing one for the last six months as well. The phantom of who her father had really been. The man she’d known and loved but was turning into a stranger in the course of a dozen short notes.

  “Oh no,” Russell held up a hand as if to fend her off. It was callused with hard work, but didn’t look heavy despite its size.

  “No discussions of ghosts and visitations. I’ve been with so many woman who were into—” Angelo elbowed him in the ribs. He glared at Angelo, then his eyes widened and he clamped his mouth shut.

  “And how many women have you been with, Mr. Morgan?” She hadn’t quite meant to drop her question into the lull in conversation, but suddenly she had everyone’s attention. Or rather Russell did.

  He glared first at her, then at his beer.

&
nbsp; She could feel the heat on her own cheeks. She hadn’t meant to trap him or back him into a corner.

  The conversation at the rest of the table slowly drifted back to life as he stubbornly refused to look up.

  She rested a hand on his forearm. She was transported back to the moment she’d taken his arm at Cape Flattery. The strength and warmth were intense against her palm. Her body was reacting in ways that made her feel flush even where the dress did cover her decently.

  “I’m sorry,” she kept her voice soft so that no others would hear. She squeezed his arm and was about to remove it when he covered it with his other—cool from the beer bottle but warm from the inside.

  His gaze met hers and there was a tinge of sadness in how his eyes closed part way.

  “We were clearly never meant to have a conversation together. We’re like two porcupines with all of our bristles up and all defenses to the fore.”

  This was a totally different man. This wasn’t the abrupt and rude Mr. Russell Morgan. This wasn’t the brash sailor she’d expected, nor the cool professional. Suddenly, the man she’d glimpsed in scattered moments at dinner and at the lighthouse kneeling in the sand was seated beside her and holding her hand. It took her breath away and made the pounding of her heart the only sound she could make.

  “To answer your question: too many and never the right one.”

  Question? What question? Her mind had definitely gone elsewhere. “How many women?” That was it. “Too many and never the right one.” What a fantastic answer. She could feel herself melting.

  He patted her hand like an old friend and withdrew his arm from her grasp.

  “Sorry, dumb thing to say. I meant nothing about you. I meant…” Russell jerked to his feet like a puppet on strings.