The cutting table was large and immaculate, topped with a green self-healing cutting mat marked in standard one-inch squares with thin yellow lines. Two top-of-the-line sewing machines, a long-arm embroidery machine, and a five-thread serger were lined up along the back window. He almost missed an old Singer Featherweight sitting to one side on a small oak desk with the black, curlicued, wrought-iron base. Not only did it appear well cared for, it was the only one that hadn’t been tidied up, as if it were the latest used.
He turned and was confronted by a wall of fabric neatly stored in cubicle shelves that ranged floor to ceiling down the long wall. Whatever else this woman might be, she was serious about her work space.
Bill kicked free a stool from under the edge of the cutting table and sat down next to Wilson, across the table from the designer.
“Well, it is an entirely new opera, not just a new mount.”
He saw her confused expression. Great. Time to get remedial. They didn’t have time for this. But when he looked at Wilson, the man merely cocked his head in her direction and he was left with no choice but to continue.
“Operas are typically done one of two ways. A packaged opera is one that has been previously designed. We pull everything from storage: sets, costumes, props, and so on. Or we rent someone else’s. Sometimes we’ll mix it up; rent a set from Houston, but use San Francisco’s costumes. All we have to do then is adjust, fit, and perhaps replicate a couple pieces that are too worn or too drastically the wrong size. Then there’s a new mount. All new sets and costumes. That’s expensive and takes a lot of planning.”
“But you said this one was more than that.” She had remained standing and he had to look up at her. He wasn’t complaining. Despite her incoherent taste in clothing, she was fine-featured and very nice to look at. When was the last time he’d really looked at a woman? There had to be someone in the four years since Adira’s death, but he couldn’t think of one at the moment.
“Yes. A new opera is a new mount with many additional nightmares because no one has ever staged this opera before. We will be the first to present the work which has been in development for over two years. We will be making a statement that will enter the repertoire of dozens of opera companies—or that disappears quietly taking several million dollars of investment with it. Now you see why you aren’t acceptable. You make nice clothes, but that is a whole different matter from costuming a new and successful opera.”
# # #
Perrin wasn’t really listening. Wasn’t even worrying about the gauntlet she had cast at his feet of a “demonstration” whatever she’d meant by that. She was too tired to make much sense of what Bill Cullen was actually saying.
All she knew was that the page on the sketchpad she’d dropped before her on the cutting table was still blank. A square white hole in a sea of green cutting mat. She started looking around the table for a Yellow Submarine and then stopped herself. Not tired enough to hallucinate…yet.
She didn’t care that he kept saying she wasn’t qualified, that kind of statement only ever made her that much more determined. Too many years of proving her parents wrong about her, that lesson was deeply ingrained. Up until now repeating himself appeared to make him happy so she’d let him do it. But she needed more.
“You still have told me nothing about your opera. An opera must have a setting, a place, a feel, a story, or it would just be noise. Clothes are the same. Without the story, they are just coverings.”
“Yes, Bill. Do get on with it.”
Perrin liked Wilson Jervis. He was a generation, or even two older than she was, but he had an easy-going manner that was totally belied by his well-known success. She’d never been inside the Opera House, except once to hear an Indigo Girls concert during the Bumbershoot music festival. But Perrin had been commissioned to make enough opening-night-of-the-opera gowns to know of him and what he’d achieved.
And wasn’t part of Jo’s new job being on the opera board? Or maybe it was Cassidy. One of her two best friends… Or maybe both? Again, brain cells too tired to remember or care.
Bill Cullen she hadn’t quite figured out yet. He studied her through narrowed eyes, wary and suspicious. He was like Jeffrey, a bulldog she once knew—all rough and grumpy. She wondered if he also had a mushy heart beneath that bristly exterior, or if he was irascible to the core.
He was certainly far prettier than Jeffrey. Bill Cullen stood six feet tall. He wasn’t all shoulders like her friend Russell, not that there was any fat on him. He was simply built of a squarer stock. His dark brown hair and disdainful expression, combined with his strong features, lent itself to two different avenues of expression.
She flipped open her pencil set and selected a simple gray to start with.
He began describing a dark adventure. Part Jules Verne and part Hobbit, evil staff of power. He talked about it being quite different in character from Wagner’s “Ring Cycle” which meant nothing to her. Somewhere in his explanation he mentioned a tragic love story. It was his voice that caught her attention. It was a good voice, expressive, clearly practiced at storytelling. She let herself simply enjoy the tones and emotions he wove.
Perrin sketched two side-by-side figures. One stern and foreboding, one the romantic hero. She began adding color and lines to both, letting his deep voice and evocative words wrap about her as she sketched. To the left, grays, browns, boots, and towering shoulders…high collar. To the right, purples and blues of royalty and inner majesty, thin lines of white to promise hope. The valiant savior riding to the rescue. But the trim was in darkest red to suggest that heart’s blood would be shed despite the nobility. The white hope quite in vain.
Her hand ached by the time she pulled back enough to again be aware of her surroundings. Dozens of colored pencils were scattered about the table. The room was silent. The cramp in her hand told her she’d drawn for twenty, perhaps thirty minutes without interruption.
As she flexed her fingers, she inspected the drawing before her. The same man, twice presented. The Dark Overlord, and the forsaken nobleman doomed before his time to a tragic end. They would work well at a distance. The overemphasized shapes of one and the powerful colors of the other. She would never make street clothes like these, far too depressing. She wanted clothes that made people smile, or want to get married in. But designing to embody an individual’s power itself was intriguing.
She practically yelped when she became aware of the two large men flanking her. She’d forgotten they were there.
Bill Cullen was leaning in, studying her drawing intently.
Wilson Jervis smiled at her broadly after little more than a glance.
“Ooo, she’s seen right through you, Bill Cullen. You absolutely nailed him, Ms. Williams. We’ll have a contract for your review by tomorrow.”
Perrin turned back to see Mr. Cullen’s reaction. He was no longer studying the sketch. He was studying her, from mere inches away. She could practically see the thoughts churning in his head. His dark brown eyes, the way two vertical lines appeared on his brow when he was concentrating, the unexpected laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, as if he did that a lot… She knew she would be able to draw his face from memory.
“But can you execute your vision?” His voice was still rough.
She waved a hand to indicate the room they were standing in.
“Actually, Bill,” Jervis stopped the man. “Her contract is to design. Any costumes she actually constructs earns a bonus but is not required by the contract.”
Cullen’s expression slowly shifted to one of chagrin though he didn’t look away.
“Tomorrow. Nine a.m. At the—”
“Tomorrow at nine a.m.,” Perrin interrupted him. “I will still be asleep. I’ve been awake for four days for one of my best friend’s weddings. I might be up by noon. Maybe.” She knew that she couldn’t let him have control. He struck her as the sort of man that on
ce he had control, he’d never let it go.
“Would tomorrow at two in the afternoon be satisfactory?” His growl didn’t sound all that different from Jeffrey the bulldog’s. She couldn’t decide whether to be deeply peeved at his tone, or amused at how cute he was at being all male and growly.
“That… ” she almost said it was fine, but changed her course just to push him and see what he would do. “Would be far more likely than nine a.m. Do people get up at nine a.m.?”
“I have kids. My day starts at six.” He nodded curtly and the two men showed themselves out.
Perrin felt a surge of disappointment that she didn’t understand. She hung onto the edge of the cutting table, weaving with exhaustion while she tried to figure out the source of it.
Kids. Bill Cullen had children and was married. She hadn’t noticed a ring, but she was so tired she could easily have missed it. Some men didn’t wear them, but she didn’t like men who did that.
Perrin dreamed of a man who was so glad to be with her that he’d want to wear a ring so that he could brag about her. He would need to feel the connection between them even when they were apart.
And she wanted the same for herself.
She’d seen her two best friends find it. But she also knew that such dreams would never be reality for Perrin Williams. With her past, why was she the one who ended up being the romantic among her group of friends?
That still didn’t explain the disappointment. Perrin had long ago learned to chase down her emotions until she understood them. When she was younger, her acute reactions and reckless actions had been sources of grave personal danger. The ride down that path had only been averted by meeting Cassidy Knowles and Jo Thompson on the first day of college, and a million very careful steps since.
That was it. She’d taken a step without being aware of it; a step she took far too often with men, her great weakness. Because while she knew it would never come, she still wanted the dream of true love. That feeling of let-down could be traced back to the fact that Perrin had liked Bill Cullen despite his irascible self.
But he was married. He’d also scoffed at the only thing she did well, had ever done well, which didn’t earn him a lot of points. She gazed back down at her drawings. The dark and the tragic stood side by side. Wilson Jervis had been right. She had captured Bill Cullen.
Without being aware of it, she’d drawn both men with his features and build. And the two images… The Dark Overlord who had so carefully inspected each of her designs, appreciated them, yet deemed her unworthy. Him she’d been far too aware of from the moment he entered her shop. And the Tragic Prince who only showed through when Bill Cullen wasn’t so busy being himself.
She took up the lead pencil and clarified a few of the details on his face. The way his hair shaded his eyes: not with its length, but with its rich darkness. The least bit of curl that she hoped his wife appreciated toying with.
Then she began sketching a third image. The face was less clear…a woman’s face? A woman’s body. Yes. Tall. In her mind’s eye, the clothing became clearer.
Chapter 2
Two-thirty. Damn the woman! Five more minutes and Bill was going to Jervis and make sure he didn’t send the contract to this damned woman. He’d tear it up himself if he had to.
It wasn’t like the day had been off to a good start to begin with. The kids had been in rare form, Tamara showed all the signs of having read a book until the middle of the night. She was lethargic, grumpy, and had snapped at Jaspar. He in turn had added salt to his sister’s cereal when she wasn’t looking. Bill actually had to snap at them before they pummeled each other, or even worse, messed up their school clothes ten minutes before he had to drop them off.
Then he’d spent the morning finding out that the costumes weren’t his only problem. The set designer had been timely, thorough, and innovative in his scenic design. He’d also shown absolutely no concept of what it would cost to build, to move about the stage, or store between productions. Then his lead scenic painter had broken her wrist… Bill ground his teeth and tried to beat down his e-mail that had decided today was the day everything should be labeled urgent.
At two-thirty-three, past the limit of his patience, Bill went to hunt down Wilson to fire this Williams woman before she signed any damned contract. His office was empty.
The old office building had been built into a hillside, with rooftop parking and a flight of stairs descending to the top story where the main offices were. They were a labyrinth of white-painted concrete rooms chopped up with open-plan cubicles. It had once been a moving company’s storage facility. The towering storage racks had been removed and the tall ceiling lowered with dropped T-bar and acoustic tiles. The result had been a nice enough office environment with inexplicably long flights of stairs between the tall stories. Rising from the industrial-gray carpet, the walls were magnificent with large production photos of every opera performed over the last forty years by Emerald City Opera.
Timothy, the Production Manager, had seen Wilson about an hour earlier. No one since, not Marci, Consuela, or Chloe. Where had the damn man wandered off to? Bill swung by the front desk where Nia reigned as the eyes and ears of the organization.
As he was asking, he felt someone come in through the front doors. He turned around part way to see if it was Wilson or his missing designer, then forgot how to breathe when he saw the apparition entering the small lobby from the stairs.
The woman who had walked in wasn’t the costume designer, but she was an incredible sight to behold.
He heard Nia gasp behind him, but he couldn’t turn to gauge her reaction. He couldn’t even gauge his own. He’d been slapped by a gestalt vision that his brain was now having to unravel.
Amazingly, it was Perrin Williams—yet it couldn’t be.
In place of the crazy-clothed blond waif, he now faced a towering woman of power and majesty. Her hair was the darkest, purest black, except for a stripe of her original coloring. A pale-blond stripe started at her right temple in a three-inch wide band and disappeared behind her head in a sloping spiral. It reappeared on the other side, just meeting the tips of her hair at her left shoulder.
From there, in fabric, the white stripe was picked up and continued its downward swirl across her gown, widening as it went. The dark purples and blues of her second drawing from yesterday had been incorporated. The thin white stripe of hope on her “tragic noble” was now a blazing banner. The white transitioned, by an exceptional job of hand-dying, into a gold of true glory. If he remembered correctly, every place that had been blood red in her drawing of the Prince had been turned golden in this dress.
She was hope embodied. But its message didn’t stop there.
The left shoulder extended to a tall collar encasing her neck right up under her chin and down to the clavicle. But the right shoulder was bare, a line of flesh was exposed down her ribs and that opening too extended around the side reappearing at the far hip.
A thigh-high side slit revealed even more skin in long legs of startling perfection. Every muscle enhanced and accented by the knee-tall, high-heel boots of the dark destroyer sketch. In the boots she was an inch or so taller than he was.
It was a dramatic statement that would play as well from the back of the house as it did from ten feet away. She was joy and hope and immense power all wound together.
And beauty. Gods, she was incredible. Her slender frame had been shifted from waif to sleek by the design. Every womanly shape and curve was accented by the design until her gender struck such a hard slap in the face that it left him reeling.
“Well, I guess that worked.” She sounded very pleased with herself.
Bill blinked hard. “Huh? What worked?”
She twirled on one foot proving that the look was as powerful from behind as it was from the front, and at the same time totally destroying the persona. The swirl of her hair and girlish laugh match
ed the crazed designer of yesterday.
“The look on your face. It so totally worked.” She did a little stomping victory dance in her high-heel boots.
He heard a laugh beside him and turned to see Nia nodding in agreement.
“What worked?” He knew he was repeating himself like a child, and not a very smart one. He couldn’t help himself, as he turned once more to admire the woman before him. She was breathtaking.
# # #
Bill Cullen really was so cute. Perrin knew she had the ability to shock. But to make a married man turn into a gibbering idiot, that was a new one. Well, not really. But she did thoroughly enjoy doing it.
Had the last thirty hours of frenetic work been worth it? She was now so tired that her body had gone past aching and numb right into zombie. Zombie girl. Her body so disconnected it could wander off on its own and she’d never notice. She giggled at the image.
“What?” Bill Cullen was still being monosyllabic, she’d really gotten him good. “What’s so funny?”
“Wow! Back up to polysyllabic, Bill. Well done, you! Gonna go for three syllables together anytime soon?”
That brought the Dark Overlord scowl back.
She decided that made him fair game. “Me. As a zombie, you know, green-and-ghoul makeup, singing opera in a killer dress. It has real possibilities.”
She started dancing, Madonna-style bends and hair swoops, and began singing a KT Tunstall song that she didn’t really know the words to, so she made them up as she went which was okay because sometimes she wondered if KT did just that. On the third dip and whirl she was so lightheaded that she almost collapsed. She stopped and had to brace herself to remain upright while her head spun.
Her palm landed in the middle of Bill’s chest. He didn’t waver, the man was solid as if built from the rock of the Earth’s very core. She could feel the hard muscle through his thin shirt. She’d always been a fan of hard muscle.
“Are you okay?” His deep voice rumbled in his chest and tickled its way up her arm.
Where Dreams Unfold Page 2
