Garden of Dreams

by Patricia Rice

  GARDEN OF DREAMS

  by Patricia Rice

  All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not inspired by any person known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.

  This edition published by

  Book View Cafe 2012

  © 1998 – Patricia Rice

  Originally published 1998 by Ivy Books,

  The Ballantine Publishing Group

  Dedication

  To all the good friends I left behind in Western Kentucky: You gave me the best years of my life. Thank you, and God bless you all.

  Author’s Note

  I have lived in the beautiful Western Kentucky area for twenty years, and I’m quite familiar with the Land Between the Lakes and its environs. For fictional purposes, however, I’ve invented a composite town I’ve called Madrid, Kentucky. It borrows bits and pieces of all my favorite places and rolls them into one. The characters come completely from my imagination, although I’d surely love to meet a Nina Toon who might donate acreage for a botanical garden!

  Chapter 1

  “Three weeks. Unless we run into a major fault, we’ll have the finished program in three weeks, Harry. If you and your friends would leave me alone, we might have it even faster.”

  JD jotted notes across his desk pad while staring at the jargon on the screen. The sleek modern curves of the desk with its sleek computer equipment and the staggering skyline outside a bank of windows formed a cocoon of expensive technology that obliterated any signs of humanity from his surroundings.

  Unfortunately, technology couldn’t shield him from his uncle’s Arkansas whine over the telephone. In the electronically controlled coolness that shut out the muggy pollution LA called air, JD made a quick slash beneath one of his notes, then scowled. “No, Harry. Absolutely not. I’m not allowing a single bleeping stranger on this floor until the program is packaged and out of here. No, Harry!”

  As his uncle continued, he flung his marker across the desk and didn’t notice as it bounced off a gleaming metal stress toy and skittered to the floor. He ran his hands through his tousled hair and swore violently.

  ‘To hell with family, Harry. They may be your family, but they ‘re not mine. Stall them, Harry. I don’t want to hear another word about it.” JD slammed the phone down and swore fluently before grabbing the receiver and punching a button. A man couldn’t trust anyone, not even himself sometimes. He’d learned that lesson long ago.

  “Dillon,” he growled into the receiver, “what the hell were you doing letting us sign a loan contract that allows a damned financial officer on the premises? Are you out of your mind? Read the blamed thing again. We’ve made every payment promptly. There’s no reason for this.” He listened for about thirty seconds, gnashing his teeth at his lawyer’s weak excuses.

  ‘They’re threatening to pull the loan if we don’t bring him up here,” JD interrupted. “This is a serious matter, Dillon. Have you ever seen Harry’s damned friends? They all carry Magnums in their underwear and pigstickers in their socks.”

  JD suffered the lawyer’s hemming and hawing just long enough to escalate his fury to murderous and slammed the phone down. Impulsiveness did not become a CEO. Before he could punch another button, Jimmy MacTavish bobbed into the office.

  “JD, I’ve gotta leave early today. Barbara wants me to attend some function or other, and I’ve gotta rent a monkey suit. Katy about has that ATM debit loop under control. We’re still on schedule.” He loosened his narrow knit tie as he entered.

  If anything, Jimmy matched the public’s image of the quintessential computer nerd. Tall and string-bean rangy, he wore wire glasses he’d taped together and forgotten to take in for repair. His lank hair straggled into his eyes, and his entire wardrobe consisted of white shirts, narrow ties, and interchangeable baggy suit pants without the matching jackets. Compared to JD’s more compact, muscular build and his wardrobe of T-shirts, jeans, and cowboy boots, an observer couldn’t be blamed for thinking Jimmy the CEO of Marshall Enterprises.

  “We’ve got trouble, Jimmy. That loan contract Dillon let us sign allows a financial officer on the premises. Harry’s friends are threatening to come in on us.”

  JD noticed Jimmy seemed more nervous about missing his date with Barbara than about Harry’s threats. No one was afraid of Harry. Anybody in their right mind would be afraid of Jimmy’s bloodsucking girlfriend. JD waited for the day Jimmy came in with two holes in his neck.

  “What can bankers do? They’ll look at some printouts, ask a few questions, pull a few invoices. You’re getting paranoid, Marshall. No one knows what we’re doing. No one cares. We’re not exactly Microsoft.”

  Maybe he was paranoid. JD worked his shoulders beneath his T-shirt in hopes of releasing some of the tension. What he really needed was time in the gym so he could work off enough steam to keep him from killing somebody.

  “Word is out, Jimmy, don’t kid yourself,” JD reminded his partner. “We went to half a dozen banks for that loan. We presented precise plans of what we would accomplish with the money. They know we’re competing with the big boys on this one. That’s why they turned us down. There’s nothing to stop them from spreading the word. They may be laughing, but they’ll be watching.”

  “If you’re so worried about Harry’s friends, why don’t you go ahead with your plans and go public? We could make enough off a stock offering to cover the loan on the basis of the game software alone.” Jimmy loosened his tie even more and began to pace, occasionally throwing a glance at the escape hatch of the door.

  “We don’t have time for that now. Besides, once we have the banking program copyrighted, the stock will be worth fortunes. We’ll need that money for operating expenses to get the program through production and sales. We discussed all this, Jimmy. We’ve got to find some way of stalling Harry.”

  “I still think you’re nuts. If you can’t trust your uncle, who can you trust? Listen, I’ve gotta go. Barbara’s waiting downstairs. I’ll see you later.” He loped off, leaving the office door open behind him.

  JD didn’t envy Jimmy’s henpecked state, but he still wished he had the freedom of running out like that. Once upon a time he’d amused himself and released a lot of angry tension by creating video computer games with ghouls crashing down hallways and space aliens zapping dinosaurs. Then he’d developed the biggest video game of them all, Monster House, and sales had slammed through the ceiling. He’d turned into a damned executive with a multimillion-dollar company to run, and his life hadn’t been the same since.

  Particularly not after he’d had the brilliant idea of applying that fascinating loop he’d created for Monster House to a program that would facilitate on-line computer banking. The principles were the same; he just used debits and credits instead of gorgons and three-headed dwarves. Once he’d realized that, there had been no going back. He’d sunk all his profits into research and development and hired the best staff available. Then a few months ago he’d discovered that the big software companies were closing in on him. With their huge facilities, they could develop the program fifty times faster once they discovered the key he already possessed. He’d gone out hat in hand, begging for money to speed up his own production.

  Only Uncle Harry had come through. JD glared at his secretary as she walked in bearing the ubiquitous phone messages. She didn’t flinch. Miss Hartwell had almost twice JD’s years and a head full of gray hair as thick as his own black locks. Sometimes, he swore she used the same barber.

  “You’ve had two calls from Mr. Dillon, another from the stockbroker, one from a Mr. DiFrancesco who says your uncle Harry told you about him, and another fro
m some youngster who wants to know if you came from Tempe, Arizona.” Her usually clipped tones held a quizzical note when she mentioned the last.

  Tempe, Arizona. That’s all JD needed on a day like this, to be reminded of Tempe. He didn’t come from anywhere, precisely. He’d lived in Germany, Italy, Alaska, and half the United States at one time or another. Tempe had been one of his father’s last stops. JD had been sixteen at the time. He had no desire whatsoever to recall that disastrous period of his past.

  “Tell them all I’ve gone to hell for a vacation and won’t be back until I meet the devil. I’ve got work to do.” Spinning in his chair, JD ignored the messages his secretary dropped on the desk and returned to his computer screen. He had no intention of ever creating a computer program that talked. He much preferred his silent companions to the ceaseless nattering of the people around him. He hadn’t always been that way. These last years he had just gravitated in that direction. On the whole, the people in his life were a major disappointment. Computers, on the other hand, he understood completely, even when they broke down and went haywire on him.

  “The guard downstairs said Mr. Marshall is on the way up. Shall I keep him out, too?” she asked without inflection.

  Miss Hartwell had an admirable machinelike quality that JD appreciated. If he ordered Uncle Harry pushed down the stairs, she would do her best to oblige. Unfortunately, Miss Hartwell’s skinny sixty-five-year-old frame was no match for Harry’s 250 pounds.

  JD stared longingly at the neat lines coming together on his screen. He thought he’d just found the right piece that would put this particular part of the puzzle together, and he longed to try it out. But he could see the time had come for donning his CEO hat and growling authoritatively. He didn’t have to ask when life had become this complicated. He knew. It had happened just as soon as he’d allowed people in instead of machines.

  Harry bustled in without waiting for anyone’s permission. Miss Hartwell obediently bowed out, closing the door behind her. Harry didn’t give her a glance.

  “DiFrancesco’s on his way over here, Johnny. You’ll like the man. He’s a good friend of Frank. Smart as a whip. He’ll turn your finances around in no time, boy. Just look at what he’s done for Frank. He’s got one of the best casinos in Vegas, and he’s opening a place in Tahoe. We’ll all be millionaires.”

  Harry flung his bulk into the wide leather chair next to JD’s desk. JD winced and absently contemplated the cost of new springs. He’d impulsively purchased the leather furniture last year upon the suggestion of a particularly willowy interior designer. The relationship hadn’t worked out—no surprise—but he rather liked the furniture she’d chosen.

  “That’s just fine, Harry. As soon as we get this program packaged and out of here, your friends can help us with the stock offering. But we don’t have any finances to manage right now.” JD tried reason, but he knew from long experience with his few scattered relations that reasoning didn’t play a large part in Marshall lives. Of course, he didn’t exactly have the habit of looking before he leaped either, or he wouldn’t be in this predicament today. “I want them out of here for just a while longer, Harry. This is important.”

  Harry wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief and distributed his bulk more comfortably between the wide arms of the chair. “We don’t have a choice, Johnny. Either DiFrancesco comes in, or they’ll pull the loan. I told you I didn’t have that kind of money on my own. It’s a package deal. Frank’s real careful how he loans out his money. They’re good guys, Johnny. Don’t be such a bigot. Not every casino owner in Vegas is mob.”

  No, probably only half. Maybe one quarter, JD mused as he played with his swordlike silver letter opener, another gift from a delusional female. Hell, all of Vegas could be Ivory pure except for one character, and Harry would latch onto that one impurity. Marshall luck ran that way.

  “I don’t have the patience for this guy, Harry. I’m telling you that time is of the utmost importance right now. I have to finish this program in the next six weeks or we’re dead in the water. We’ll be a quarter million in the hole and no chance of payback.”

  “No problem. I’ll show him the ropes myself,” Harry said cheerfully, reaching in his pocket for a mint. “I know everybody. We’ll just ask for what we need and take care of ourselves. You won’t hear a peep out of us, Johnny. We’ll be good as gold.”

  Oh, God, save him from Harry’s clichés, JD prayed fervently. He never expected any response to his prayers, so he felt free in wasting them as he liked. Harry had been more father to him than his own father had, but that didn’t say a great deal. Harry meant well. He’d offered JD a home and a garage to work in when he’d first started out. And though he’d genially approved each new employee JD hired, helped locate new facilities when the company’s sales took off, chewed gum and shot the bull with sales executives when JD didn’t have time for them, Harry never really did anything. He didn’t even have an official position with the company. His only ambition in life was to be friends with everybody.

  JD couldn’t formulate a response to Harry’s naiveté before the intercom buzzed.

  “A Mr. DiFrancesco to see you, Mr. Marshall. He’s coming in. He’s smoking.” Miss Hartwell’s voice dripped disapproval even through the wires of the intercom.

  Harry squirmed a little nervously as JD glared at him. “He doesn’t like people telling him what he can or can’t do,” he whispered as the door swung open.

  JD didn’t find that reassuring.

  Shorter by some six inches than JD’s modest five-eleven, DiFrancesco entered as if he imagined himself John Wayne in a pinstripe suit. JD detested him on sight, even if the cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth hadn’t already pissed him off.

  “This is a nonsmoking facility, Mr. DiFrancesco,” JD said icily. “We have too many valuable assets on location that can be damaged by smoke.”

  The shorter man glanced around JD’s spartan office. “Not that I can see.” He took a chair without asking and dropped cigarette ash into his trouser cuff just like in an old forties movie on TV. JD wondered where he found his tailor. MGM?

  “I’ve come to inspect your operation, Johnny. We’re making certain we’ve invested our money wisely. We’ll start with the R&D department you expanded.” He glanced impatiently at his Rolex. “If you’ll show me the way, Johnny, you can introduce me around before the staff goes home for the day.”

  JD felt his blood pressure escalate to terminal. No one but his uncle called him Johnny. Rudely, he stood up, using the full effect of his greater height over the seated man. He hadn’t spent all his time in the marines playing with computer documents. He’d built up a certain amount of muscle he kept in shape with regular workouts. He hadn’t done it for the purpose of intimidating people so much as for a release of energy and frustration, but if his size threatened this slimeball, he wouldn’t apologize.

  “I’ve told Harry I don’t have time for this. If you’ll make an appointment with my secretary, I’ll be happy to talk another day.” Without waiting for a reply, JD walked out, leaving his visitors staring after him. He thought he saw DiFrancesco’s cigarette drop onto his expensive gabardine trousers. A pity it couldn’t burn a hole in the devil’s hide.

  Slamming his office door after him, JD stopped at his secretary’s desk. “I’m going home, Miss Hartwell, where I might possibly get some work done.”

  Miss Hartwell covered the phone receiver with her hand and whispered, “It’s the boy from Tempe, again. What should I tell him?”

  To get the hell out of Tempe was JD’s advice, but no one had asked him. Grabbing the receiver, he said curtly, “Marshall here.”

  A quaky adolescent male voice asked, “Is this John David Marshall from Tempe, Arizona?”

  “I haven’t seen Tempe in sixteen years,” he replied impatiently, wondering what kind of joke someone was perpetrating on him now. It wasn’t as if his fame and fortune preceded him as it did Bill Gates.

  Following a mo
ment’s hesitation, the voice cracked anxiously. “Then I’m your son.”

  Chapter 2

  “I know what you’re going through, Nina,” the man behind the desk said sympathetically, leaning forward to show his earnestness.

  Nina contemplated saying, “No, you don’t,” but stopped herself. She’d just come from a confrontation where she’d insanely held a shotgun on the cell phone people, but a lifetime of caution came easier. That’s why she was here, doing things the proper way.

  Matt Home had a young politician’s blond good looks and polished smile. Nina figured he had the county attorney’s job locked up in the next election, and after that, the sky was the limit. In the meantime, he walked a careful line in the cases he took. She could see his agile mind weighing the pros and cons of this one.

  “I’m doing this for Hattie,” Nina insisted. “I’ve put it off as long as I can, but the doctors say she’ll never get better. Her lucid moments are fewer and farther between. It’s not the money, Matt. You know that. Heaven only knows, there’s little enough of that. It’s the land. Hattie’s life was that land. I can’t let them steal it.”

  “You can’t stand in the way of progress, Nina.” Matt steepled his fingers against his chest as he retreated into a leaning position against the back of his leather chair. “I think we can keep the incompetency hearing fairly quiet. People know how hard you’ve worked to help Hattie. They’ll understand this is just a legal maneuver. But the cellular tower has to go in there, Nina. It’s the only suitable hill in the whole county.”

  “They can put the blamed thing on top of the bridge, then,” she said emphatically as she rose from the chair. “If you won’t do this for me, Matt Home, I’ll take it to a lawyer in Paducah. There are plenty of people behind me on this one. I’ll start a petition. And if I find you’re working for those damned phone people, I’ll tell the world how you’re robbing a sick old lady.”