Dream Trilogy

by Nora Roberts

  And the shop. She smiled to herself as her boots squished on the soggy path. She loved Pretenses, loved working with Margo and Kate. She enjoyed the customers, the stock, and the sense of accomplishment. The three of them had built something there, for themselves, for each other.

  How could she resent the hours and the effort that she put into raising her girls, seeing that they had a happy, healthy life? They were her heart. Whatever it took to make up for the loss of the home she had somehow helped break, she would try to do.

  Kayla, she thought, her little Kayla. So resilient, so easy to please. A loving, happy child was Kayla.

  But Allison. Poor Ali had needed her father’s love so desperately. The divorce was hardest on her, and nothing Laura did seemed to help her adjust. She was doing better now, Laura thought, better than she had been during those first months, even the first year. But she had pulled in, and back, and was only rarely spontaneous with her affections, as she had been.

  And wary of her mother, Laura thought with a sigh. Still blaming her mother for a father who had no interest in his daughters.

  Laura sat on a stump, closed her eyes, let the faint breeze that was the music of the forest surround her. She would handle it, she promised herself. She would handle all of it—the work, the rush, the worry, the children. No one was more surprised than she herself that she was handling it well.

  But how, she wondered, how in God’s name would she continue to handle the loneliness?

  Later, she snipped deadheads out of the garden, did some pruning, hauled away the debris. Old Joe simply couldn’t keep up any longer. And young Joe, his grandson, couldn’t afford more than a few hours a week in between his college courses to add his help. Since it would cut too much into her budget, and old Joe’s pride, to hire an assistant, Laura had convinced Joe that she wanted to take on some of the gardening tasks.

  It was partially true. She had always loved the gardens of Templeton House—the flowers, the shrubs, the vines. As a child she had often dogged Joe, nagging him to teach her, to show her. And he would pull a pack of cherry Life Savers out of his pocket, thumb one out for her, and demonstrate the proper way to train a creeper, to deal with aphids, to prune a tea rose.

  She had adored him—his weathered face, old even then, his slow, thoughtful voice, his big, patient hands. He had come to work in the gardens of Templeton House as a boy, in her grandparents’ day. After sixty years of service, he had a right to his pension, to spend his days tending his own garden, to a life sitting in the sunshine.

  And, Laura understood, it would break his heart if she offered it.

  So she picked up the slack under the guise of wanting a hobby. When her schedule allowed, and often when it didn’t, she would stand with Joe and discuss perennials and bonemeal and mulch.

  Today, as afternoon faded to dusk, she took stock. The gardens of Templeton House looked as they should in winter: quiet, waiting, the hardiest blooms splashes of defiant color. Her parents had given the house into her hands for tending, and for cherishing. Laura did both.

  She stepped out onto the skirt of the pool, nodded in approval. She maintained the pool herself. It was, after all, her indulgence. Whatever the weather, if she could squeeze in a few laps, she did so. She’d taught her children to swim in that pool, as her father had taught her. The water sparkled, a delicate blue, thanks to some of her recent dickering with the pump and filter.

  The mermaid lived beneath, a mosaic fantasy of flowing red hair and glossy green tail. Her girls loved to dive down and touch that smiling, serene face, even as she had.

  Out of habit, she checked the glass tables for smudges, the cushions of the chairs and lounges for dampness or dust. Ann would have already done so, but Laura didn’t turn toward the house until she was certain everything was perfect.

  Satisfied, she walked down the stone path and chose the kitchen door. Scents assaulted her, made her taste buds yearn. Mrs. Williamson, ample of hip and bosom, stood at the stove, as she had done for all of Laura’s memory.

  “Leg of lamb,” Laura said and sighed. “Apple chutney. Curried potatoes.”

  Turning, Mrs. Williamson smiled smugly. She was well into her seventies. Her hair was the hard glossy black of a bowling ball and approximately the same shape. But her face was soft, full of folds and wrinkles and as sweet as her own cream centers.

  “Your nose is as good as ever, Miss Laura—or your memory is. It’s what you always want for your birthday.”

  “No one roasts a lamb like you, Mrs. Williamson.” Because she knew the game, Laura wandered the spacious kitchen, making her poking about obvious. “I don’t see a cake.”

  “Maybe I forgot to bake one.”

  Laura expressed the expected dismay. “Oh, Mrs. Williamson!”

  “And maybe I didn’t.” She chuckled, gestured with her wooden spoon. “Now off you go. I can’t have you around pestering me while I’m cooking. Get yourself cleaned up—you’re carrying garden dirt.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” At the kitchen door, Laura turned back. “It wouldn’t be a Black Forest cake, would it? Double chocolate?”

  “Just you wait and see. Scat!”

  Laura waited until she was well down the hallway before she chuckled. It would be a Black Forest cake. Mrs. Williamson might be a tad forgetful these days, and her hearing wasn’t what it had been. But vital matters such as Laura’s traditional birthday meal would be remembered in every detail.

  She hummed to herself as she climbed the stairs to bathe and change for dinner. Her mood had lifted, but it plummeted quickly when she heard the sounds of a sibling argument in full swing.

  “Because you’re stupid, that’s why.” Ali’s voice was shrill and bitter. “Because you don’t understand anything, and I hate you.”

  “I am not stupid.” There were tears trembling on the surface of Kayla’s retort. “And I hate you more.”

  “Well, this is pleasant.” Determined to lose neither her temper nor her perspective, Laura paused in the doorway of Ali’s room.

  The tableau seemed innocent enough. In a girl’s pretty mint-and-white room, dolls from around the world wearing their countries’ traditional dress ringed the shelves that flanked the wide window. Books, ranging from Sweet Valley High to Jane Eyre, filled a case. A jewelry box with a twirling ballerina stood open on the dresser.

  Her daughters faced each other from either side of the canopy bed like mortal enemies over embattled soil.

  “I don’t want her in my room.” Her fists clenched, Ali whirled to face her mother. “This is my room and I don’t want her in it.”

  “I just came in to show her the picture I drew.” With trembling lips, Kayla held it out. It was a clever crayon sketch of a fire-breathing dragon and a young, silver-clad knight with a raised sword. The natural youthful talent in it reminded Laura that she needed to arrange for Kayla to have drawing lessons.

  “It’s wonderful, Kayla.”

  “She said it was ugly.” Never ashamed of tears, Kayla let them fall. “She said it was ugly and stupid and that I had to knock before I came into her room.”

  “Ali?”

  “Dragons aren’t real, and they’re ugly.” Ali thrust her chin out, challenging. “And she can’t just come into my room if I don’t want her.”

  “You’re entitled to your privacy,” Laura said carefully, “but you’re not entitled to be mean to your sister. Kayla—” Laura crouched down, brushed tears off her daughter’s cheeks. “It’s a wonderful picture. We can frame it if you like.”

  Tears dried up. “We can?”

  “Absolutely, and we can hang it in your room. Unless you’d let me hang it in mine.”

  The smile bloomed, brilliantly. “You can have it.”

  “I’d like that very much. Why don’t you go back to your room and sign it for me, just like a real artist. And Kayla . . .” Laura rose, kept a hand on Kayla’s shoulder. “If Ali wants you to knock on her door, then that’s what you’ll do.”

  Mutiny flared br
iefly. “Then she has to knock on mine, too.”

  “That’s fair. Go on now. I want to talk to Ali.”

  After sending her sister a smug look, Kayla sailed out.

  “She wouldn’t leave when I told her to,” Ali began. “She’s always running in here whenever she wants.”

  “And you’re older,” Laura said quietly, trying to understand. “There are privileges that go along with that, Ali, but there are also responsibilities. I don’t expect the two of you never to fight. Josh and I fought, Margo and Kate and I fought. But you hurt her.”

  “I just wanted her to go away. I wanted to be alone. I don’t care about her stupid picture of a stupid dragon.”

  There’s more going on here, Laura thought, studying her daughter’s miserable face, than sibling sniping. She sat on the edge of the bed so that her eyes were level with Ali’s. “Tell me what’s wrong, honey.”

  “You always take her side.”

  Laura bit back a sigh. “That’s not true.” Determined, she took Ali’s hand, pulled her closer. “And that’s not what’s bothering you.”

  There was a war going on inside this little girl, Laura realized as she watched Ali’s eyes swim. With all her heart, Laura wanted to find the right way to make peace.

  “It doesn’t matter. It won’t make any difference.” Tears came closer to the surface. “You won’t do anything about it.”

  It hurt, but then, this recent distrust from Ali always hurt. “Why don’t you tell me, then we’ll see. I can’t do anything about it if I don’t know what it is.”

  “They’re going to have a father-daughter dinner at school.” The words burst out, full of anger and pain. “They’re all going to bring their dads.”

  “Oh.” No peace here, Laura admitted and touched her daughter’s cheek. “I’m sorry, Ali. That’s hard. Uncle Josh will go with you.”

  “It’s not the same.”

  “No, it’s not the same.”

  “I want it to be the same,” Ali said in a furious whisper. “Why can’t you make it be the same?”

  “I can’t.” There was relief when Ali went unresisting into her arms. And there was grief.

  “Why don’t you make him come back? Why don’t you do something to make him come back?”

  Now there was guilt to layer on top of grief. “There’s nothing I can do.”

  “You don’t want him to come back.” With her eyes bright and hot, Ali jerked back. “You told him to go away, and you don’t want him to come back.”

  This was a thin and shaky line to travel. “Your father and I are divorced, Ali. That’s not going to change. The fact that we can’t, and don’t want to, live together anymore doesn’t have anything to do with you and Kayla.”

  “Then why doesn’t he ever come?” Tears poured out again, but they were hot now, and angry. “Other kids have parents that don’t live together, but their dads come and they go places together.”

  The line got shakier. “Your father’s very busy, and he’s living in Palm Springs now.” Lies, Laura thought. Pitiful lies. “I’m sure once he’s more settled, he’ll spend more time with you.” When did he ever?

  “He doesn’t come because he doesn’t want to see you.” Ali turned away. “It’s because of you.”

  Laura closed her eyes. What good would it be to deny it, to defend herself and leave her child vulnerable? “If it is, I’ll do what I can to make it easier for him, and for you.” On legs that weren’t quite steady, Laura rose. “There are things I can’t change, I can’t fix. And I can’t stop you from blaming me for it.”

  Fighting to control both grief and temper, Laura took a slow breath. “I don’t want you to be unhappy, Ali. I love you. I love you and Kayla more than anything in the world.”

  Ali’s shoulders slumped. “Will you ask him if he could come to the dinner? It’s next month, on a Saturday.”

  “Yes, I’ll ask.”

  Shame eked through the anger and misery. She didn’t have to look at her mother’s face to know she would see hurt. “I’m sorry, Mama.”

  “So am I.”

  “I’ll tell Kayla I’m sorry, too. She draws really good. And I . . . I can’t.”

  “You have other talents.” Gently Laura turned Ali around, cupped her shoulders. “You dance so beautifully. And you play the piano so much better than I did at your age. Better than I do now.”

  “You never play anymore.”

  There were a lot of things she didn’t do anymore. “How about a duet tonight? We’ll play. Kayla can sing.”

  “She sounds like a bullfrog.”

  “I know.”

  And when Ali looked up, they grinned at each other.

  Another crisis averted, Laura decided, as she settled down with her family after dinner. There was a cheery fire blazing in the hearth and rich, creamy cake to be devoured. The curtains in the parlor were opened to a starry night. And the lights inside glowed warm.

  Birthday presents had been unwrapped, opened, and admired. The baby was sleeping upstairs. Josh and Byron were puffing on cigars, and her daughters, fences mended for the moment, were at the piano. Kayla’s booming frog of a voice competed with Ali’s skillful playing.

  “Then she went for the Chanel bag,” Margo was saying, comfortably curled on the sofa as she talked shop. “It took her more than an hour, and she just kept piling up stock. Three suits, an evening gown—your white Dior, Laura—four pairs of shoes. Count them, four. Six blouses, three sweaters, two silk slacks. And that was before she started on the jewelry.”

  “It was a red-letter day.” Kate propped her bare feet on the Louis XIV coffee table. “I had a hunch when the woman pulled up in a white stretch limo. She’d come up from L.A. because a friend of hers had told her about Pretenses.”

  Kate sipped herbal tea, hardly missing the punch of coffee. “I’m telling you,” she went on, “this woman was a pro. She said she’s buying a country home and she’s going to come back and choose some of the furnishings and whatnots from the shop. Turns out she’s the wife of some hotshot producer. And she’s going to tell all her friends about this clever little secondhand shop in Monterey.”

  “That’s wonderful.” So wonderful, Laura could almost accept not being in on the kill.

  “It’s making me wonder if we shouldn’t think about expanding sooner. Maybe in L.A. rather than Carmel.”

  “Hold it, hotshot.” Kate eyed Margo narrowly. “We’re not talking seriously about another branch until we’ve been in business two full years. Then I run some figures, do some projections.”

  “Always the accountant,” Margo muttered.

  “You bet your ass. So, what did you do with your day off, Laura?”

  “Oh, a little gardening.” A little bill paying, closet cleaning, moping.

  “Is that J. T.?” With a mother’s superhearing, Margo tuned in to the sounds whispering out of the baby monitor beside her. “I’d better check on him.”

  “No, let me.” Laura rose quickly. “Please. You get to have him all the time. I want to play.”

  “Sure. But if he’s . . .” Margo trailed off, glancing toward the two young girls at the piano. “I guess you know what to do.”

  “I think I have a pretty good idea.” Aware that Margo might change her mind, Laura hurried out.

  It was amazing and gratifying to see the way her impulsive, glamorous friend had taken to motherhood. Even two short years before, no one would have believed Margo Sullivan, supermodel, the rage of Europe, would be settled down in her hometown, running a secondhand shop and raising a family. Margo certainly wouldn’t have believed it herself, Laura mused.

  But fate had dealt her a tough hand. Rather than fold and run, she’d stuck. And, with determination and flair, had turned fate on its ear.

  Now she had Josh, and John Thomas, and a thriving business. She had a home she loved.

  Laura hoped that somehow, someday, she could deal fate the same blow.

  “There he is,” Laura cooed as she approached the anti
que crib that she and Ann had hauled out of storage. “There’s the darling. Oh, what a handsome boy you are, John Thomas Templeton.”

  Truer words were never spoken. He’d had a rich gene pool to choose from, and he’d chosen well. Golden hair grew thick around a glorious little face. Round with babyhood it was, with his mother’s stunning blue eyes, his father’s well-sculpted mouth.

  His fretful whimpering stopped the moment she lifted him. And the feeling, one that perhaps only a woman understands, soared through her. Here was baby, beginnings, beauty.

  “There, sweetheart, were you lonely?” She walked him, as much to pleasure herself as to soothe. She’d wanted more children. She knew it was selfish when she had two such beautiful daughters. But, oh, she’d wanted more children.

  Now she had a nephew to spoil. And she intended to do so, lavishly. Kate and Byron would have children, Laura mused as she laid J. T. on the changing table. There would be more babies to cuddle.

  She changed him, powdered him, tickled him to make him giggle and kick his legs. He grinned at her, wrapped a fist around a curl and tugged. Laura went with the pull to nuzzle his neck.

  “Bring back memories?” Josh asked as he stepped inside the nursery.

  “Does it ever! When Annie and I were putting this room together for his visits, we wallowed in memories.” She lifted J. T. high over her head, where he could gurgle in delight. “Both my babies slept in that crib.”

  “So did you and I.” He ran a hand over the curved rungs before moving to his son. Josh’s fingers itched to hold him, but he held back, allowed Laura to cuddle the baby.

  “Everyone who’s been there says it, but I can’t stop myself. The years go so fast, Josh. Treasure every second of it.”

  “You did.” He touched her hair. “You are, and have been, the most incredible mother. I’ve admired you for that.”

  “You’re going to make me sloppy,” she murmured, and buried her face in the sweet curve of J. T.’s neck.

  “I figure you and I had the best possible examples to follow. We’ve been lucky, Laura, to have people like Mom and Dad for parents.”