by Joan Hohl
Andrea decided that this assurance was a many-faceted statement if she’d ever heard one. There were more meanings than words to his promise. Nevertheless, more intrigued than before, she also decided to accept his invitation.
“All right,” she agreed. “Pick an afternoon.” Though Andrea felt pressured, she was not beyond a touch of wry insouciance. “But I warn you, if I see as much as a shadow of a dark fin anywhere between the shoreline and the horizon, I am outta there.”
“Fair enough,” Paul replied. “Are you free tomorrow afternoon?”
Telling herself that she was imagining the clicking sound of a trap springing shut, Andrea slanted a helpless look at her aunt. “Well, I did promise Aunt Celia I’d take it easy for the next few days,” she said, making an attempt to buy a little clear-thinking time.
Celia gave her a dry look and a chiding smile. “I’m positive an afternoon on the beach would be more beneficial than detrimental.” She waved a hand. “Go and enjoy yourself.”
“Yes, go,” Blaine urged. “And to keep your aunt from being bored, I’ll take her to lunch in San Francisco.” He grinned. “I’ll even allow her to drag me through those quaint little art galleries she loves.”
Andrea was well and truly trapped and she knew it. There was no way Celia would agree to go off to San Francisco for the day knowing Andrea was rattling around the house alone. Thinking that, if she had to give in, she might as well do it gracefully, she bestowed her most charming smile on Paul.
“Tomorrow afternoon will be fine,” she finally answered. “Will two o’clock be all right?”
Paul’s smile was slow in forming and devastating in effect. “Since Celia will be out for lunch, suppose I arrange a picnic lunch for us?” Though he posed the question, he didn’t wait for her to respond. “Shall we say twelve?”
Andrea sighed in surrender. “Twelve will be fine.”
* * * *
Worrying over her acceptance of Paul Hellka’s invitation, Andrea lay awake and restless for long hours after the men had gone and the house was quiet.
Was she being schoolgirlish and overcautious? she asked herself. Besides being unbelievably handsome, Paul appeared to be a genuinely nice person. And yet, Andrea was fearful of becoming involved with him.
She knew why, of course; the resemblance between Paul and her fantasy man was so uncanny it was nerve-racking.
Her fantasy man.
Her love.
It was the thought of her love and her dream memories of him that eventually lulled Andrea to sleep. Maybe he would tell her what to do, how to handle this man who walked in the physical world wearing his face.
* * * *
Andrea was running through the mist. Tears streamed down her face. She couldn’t find the path! She couldn’t find him! She called to him again and again.
My love! My love! Where are you?
Her voice had no sound, no substance!
Still she ran on, stumbling, falling, struggling to her feet again, running, running. She had to find the path. The path would lead her to him.
The mist thickened and closed in around Andrea. She couldn’t breathe; she couldn’t see!
She was sobbing; a silent weeping she couldn’t hear, but could feel like repeated knife thrusts in her soul. An inner, soundless cry filled her being.
Where are you? Where are you?
I love you!
Then, swirling slowly, the mist began to disperse. In the distance, Andrea could see the vague outline of the path. A great wave of relief washed over her. Then, as the narrow path became clearly visible, the wave receded.
He wasn’t there.
He wasn’t there!
And then, suddenly, he was there, separate yet seemingly a part of the mist. His form was hazy, shadowy, as insubstantial as her voice.
Filled with incredible joy, Andrea made to run to him, but she couldn’t progress. Her legs moved, but she didn’t get anywhere. With a silent cry, she called to him to help her, to come to her.
He didn’t answer. He waved. Then he began to fade, blending into the mist.
Panic clutched at Andrea’s heart. He was waving farewell! Her love was leaving her!
And then he was gone.
Overwhelmed by wild, rending grief, Andrea threw back her head and screamed in despair.
“My love, you promised me always! Don’t leave me!”
* * * *
Andrea woke with a start. Tears streamed down her face. Morning sunshine sparkled on the pristine air beyond her bedroom windows.
She was alone.
* * *
Chapter 4
The dream mist still clinging to her mind, Andrea felt weighted by foreboding and despair.
He was gone.
Silent sobs shook her trembling body. Her grief-stricken mind whirled with one question: Why had he left her?
The question expanded to fill her head: Why had he left her?
The mournful cry of the seabirds beyond her open window penetrated the fog clouding Andrea’s mind. A shuddering sigh whispered through her lips as the last tendrils of dream mist dissolved. The racking sobs subsided; her tears slowed to a trickle.
It was only a dream, she comforted herself, clasping her arms around her shivering body.
Only a dream.
Andrea bit her lip; her aunt had said those very same comforting words to her . . . was it only yesterday?
Only a dream.
A chill snaked up Andrea’s spine. He had come to her nightly in her dreams for nearly a year. They had talked together, been quiet together, and, finally, made exquisite love together...
Was it only yesterday?
And now, with a tender smile and a wave of farewell, her fantasy lover was gone.
Dragging her depleted body from the bed, Andrea walked to the window to stare sightlessly at the shimmering ocean. The morning air was cool and sweet. It bathed her face and dried the last of her tears.
From her window Andrea could see the small crescent beach at the base of the low cliff below the house. A tiny sandpiper ran around in frantic circles in search of breakfast. A faint smile curved her lips as she watched the bird dodge the wavelets lapping the shore. The sand was golden in the morning sunlight. The water looked refreshing, inviting...
Andrea’s thoughts splintered. The beach. The water. She had a date to spend the day on the beach, in the water. She had a date to spend the day with a man who was the living image of her fantasy man.
The living image.
Andrea became still as speculation exploded inside her mind.
Paul was the living image of her fantasy man!
Was it possible? Andrea shook her head. The idea forming in her mind was too bizarre to be contemplated. And yet, she mused, could it be possible ... ? Now that she had met his image in Paul, had her fantasy lover stepped out of her dreams, believing her to be secure from loneliness in the company of his breathing reflection?
Ridiculous! Andrea chided herself. Her fantasy man was only a figment of her imagination! A lovely dream, but a dream nonetheless. And dreams, no matter how seductive, could not spill over into reality.
But hadn’t she allowed her reality to spill over into her dreams? An inner voice whispered the mocking query.
Andrea went cold at the thought, slowly shaking her head in silent denial. It wasn’t true! she assured herself. She wasn’t a child. She knew the difference between waking reality and sleeping fantasy.
Oh, really? the inner voice taunted. Then why all this anguish? Why this agony? Why the angst? Wake up and smell the coffee, Andrea, before you find yourself lost to reality in a dream world of your own devising.
Like most reasonably normal adults, Andrea didn’t appreciate being pressured . . . not even by her own inner protective mechanisms. Her immediate reaction was defensive.
Tossing her head defiantly—exactly the way her dream self had done the previous afternoon—Andrea turned away from the window and strode to the bed. In a flurry of furious activi
ty, she moved around the bed, grumbling to herself as she pulled, tugged, and smoothed the sheets and covers into order.
She was an intelligent, well-educated young woman, Andrea raved silently, applying more energy than domesticity to the task of bed-making. And she was certainly not about to lose herself to a dream or to any other imaginary reality!
But what about your fervent declaration of love during yesterday’s dream? the chiding inner voice continued to taunt her.
But it was only a dream, Andrea justified herself mutely. It wasn’t real.
Right. It wasn’t real. The inner voice took on a victorious purr. It was only a dream.
Andrea’s hands stilled on the pillow she was plumping; the flower-strewn pillowcase was damp from her tears.
Only a dream.
The sigh that ruffled the quiet in the room was wrenched from Andrea’s soul.
But it was such a beautiful dream. And now it was gone. He was gone.
Andrea had never in her life felt so forsaken and alone, not even after her father’s death or her mother’s defection or Zach’s betrayal.
Hugging the pillow to her chest, she sank onto the bed. Deep inside, Andrea felt intuitively that her fantasy lover would never again come to her in her dreams. An emptiness of spirit yawned inside her body and her soul.
Andrea knew that her aunt Celia would always be there for her, and she felt that, at least to a certain extent, Blaine would be there, too, in much the same way Alycia and Karla had. But she also knew that basically she was on her own.
Intellectually Andrea knew she couldn’t make it on her own by clinging to the memory of a dream lover. The memory was sweet... but it was just a memory nonetheless. Though she believed that dreams were closely related to reality, she knew they had no real substance. And she had to live and interact in the corporeal world ... or step over the fine line between reality and fantasy.
Oil a sun-splashed late August morning, Andrea examined her mind, her heart, her soul, and her options. Then, squaring her shoulders without conscious thought, she chose to step back from the line and live to the best of her considerable ability in the here and now of physical reality.
The decision made, Andrea acted upon it. Jumping up, she replaced the pillow on the bed and smoothed the coverlet over it before dashing for the bathroom.
Her first order of business in the world of physical reality was to eat breakfast with her aunt.
By the time Andrea strolled into the kitchen and wished her aunt a cheery good morning, she had succeeded in burying the memory of her dream-time love like precious treasure in the deepest recesses of her heart and mind. Like shining jewels of hope, the memories would always be then:, just below the surface of the everyday, if she should ever need them.
“Well, good morning!” Celia exclaimed. She briefly examined Andrea’s expression, then smiled with relief. “I don’t have to ask how you slept... You look rested and terrific,”
Andrea flashed her aunt a grin as she slid onto a chair. “I do feel pretty good,” she said, not commenting on the quality of her slumber. Surprisingly, the moment the assertion was out, she realized she really was feeling pretty good. She reached across the table for the glass pitcher of chilled orange juice. Her nostrils flared as she caught the mouth-watering aroma wafting from a covered bread basket sitting next to the pitcher. As she drew her arm back, pitcher in hand, Andrea raised her brows in question. “Muffins?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes.” Chuckling, Celia moved the basket closer to Andrea. Her chuckle turned into full-throated laughter when Andrea’s nostrils twitched. “Strawberry, your favorite.”
Andrea groaned, and snaked her hand beneath the steam-warmed napkin. After slathering butter on the muffin, she took a bite and murmured her appreciation of the fruity flavor. “Mmm, delicious.” She swallowed the morsel, then frowned at Celia. “Why did you make so many?” She indicated the muffin-mounded container. “Are you expecting Blaine for breakfast?”
“No.” Celia shook her head. “He said he’d be here at eleven.” Her soft mouth curved into a knowing smile. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if he decides to have a muffin and a cup of coffee before we leave for San Francisco.” Picking up the ceramic coffee server, she poured the aromatic brew into Andrea’s cup, then refilled her own before continuing, “Actually, I made a double batch of the muffins, in case you wanted to add some to your picnic lunch.”
Reminded of her date with Paul, Andrea momentarily forgot to chew the bit of muffin she’d popped into her mouth. For an instant sheer panic clutched at her throat.
It had been several years since Andrea had spent more than a few moments with a man. Wary and distrustful, determined never again to give a man the opportunity to hurt her, she had adroitly avoided being with any man.
Steam curled from her cup to tickle her taste buds with the fragrant scent of Colombian coffee, stirring the memory of her own taunting inner voice less than an hour ago.
Yes, Andrea mused, absently chewing the muffin. Perhaps it was time she shoved the past behind her, where it belonged, and faced the present, including both male and female members of it. Maybe it was time to wake up and smell the coffee before it and her youth were burnt.
“Paul Hellka,” she said, tilting her head to gaze at her aunt. “It’s an unusual name.” She arched her eyebrows. “Is it Greek?”
Celia’s expression went blank. “You know, I’m not sure.” She gave a light shrug. “I guess I just assumed it was. But I never really asked.”
Andrea polished off her muffin and reached for her cup. “Have you known him long?” she asked, blowing on the steam before sipping the hot coffee.
“Hmm,” Celia murmured, frowning. “About a year, I suppose.” She was quiet a moment, then said, “Come to think of it, it’s almost exactly a year. Blaine introduced me to him when he arrived here last summer to join the faculty at Parker. And that was near the end of August, a week or so before the start of the fall semester.”
Not wanting to appear excessively curious, Andrea drank her juice and half of her coffee before venturing another unconcerned-sounding question.
“You said when he arrived here,” she said in the most casual tone she could manage. “Arrived from where?”
“Texas,” Celia replied at once.
“Texas?” Andrea was more than surprised, she was stunned. “Texas!” she repeated in an incredulous tone. In her opinion, Paul Hellka did not look anything like a westerner. But come to that, she thought, he didn’t look like an easterner, either. “What was he doing in Texas?”
Celia laughed, and the sound of her laughter seemed to indicate that she shared Andrea’s opinion. “Believe it or not, he was born there,” she said, still laughing softly.
“Odd,” Andrea murmured, the idea persisting that he really didn’t seem to be a product of any particular section of the country.
Celia arched her eyebrows in surprise. “Odd? I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Andrea shrugged. “I suppose he just doesn’t look like my preconceived notion of a native Texan”—her smile was self-derisive—”which, I admit, was fostered by Hollywood stereotypes.”
“You mean, like all criminals should have scars?” Celia’s smile was both wry and dry. “Or all the good guys must wear white hats?”
“Exactly!” Andrea grinned.
“You know better,” Celia chided, her lips twitching from the need to return her niece’s grin. “But you do have a point.”
Andrea composed her expression, but an impish light danced in the depths of her eyes. “Are you referring to the one at the top of my head?”
Celia lost the battle against her twitching lips. “No, you teasing brat,” she said lovingly. “I mean that Paul looks more European than western. And understandably so, since his parents were immigrants who settled in the American West, somewhere in the Big Bend area.” Her tiny frown was contemplative. “If I remember correctly, both of Paul’s parents are scien
tists.”
“How did he ever wind up here, in California?” Andrea asked, while inwardly denying an unusual interest in the man.
“Economics,” Celia answered, then smiled at the expression of confusion that washed over Andrea’s face. “As Blaine explained it to me, he literally bought Paul away from the small Texas college where he was teaching at the time.”
Andrea asked the question that immediately sprang into her mind. “Why? I mean, I was under the impression that professors were a dime a dozen these days. Why did Blaine buy this one particular educator?”
“Because he’s brilliant,” Celia said simply. “According to Blaine, who does know his business, Paul’s credentials are not only impressive but damn near awesome.”
This information coincided with the bits and pieces Andrea had garnered from her small cadre of new friends, all of whom were, at one level or another, students at Parker. According to them, the earth studies professor was “totally max”—the best in the business. And, although Andrea had completed an earth studies course in her freshman year of college, preparatory to her aerospace studies, her new friends’ vocal admiration of Paul Hellka had inspired her to include his class in her graduate studies.
It seemed strange to Andrea now that she had never heard his name mentioned during any of the rap sessions she’d sat in on with her friends throughout the summer. Until Melly had enlightened her yesterday, every member of the small group had simply referred to him as “the prof,” and that in tones of unabashed hero-worship.
As if mentioning his name had somehow magically conjured him out of the air, Blaine rang the doorbell a second or two after Celia finished speaking.
“Oh, Lord!” Celia exclaimed. “It can’t be eleven already!” She glanced at the kitchen clock, then shot out of her chair. She called instructions to Andrea as she dashed from the room. “Sugar, will you let Blaine in and keep him company while I get my act together?” Since she obviously knew what Andrea’s response would be, she didn’t wait to hear it. “Give him a cup of coffee and a muffin,” she went on. “That’ll keep him happy for a few minutes.”
