Pulled by a Dream

by Kathryn Greenway

  “Not regretting your decision, are you?”

  Emily smiled. “Mixed feelings, I guess. This was my baby, my precious company. I’ve invested so much of myself in it—time, effort, emotions.”

  Fran huffed. “Yeah, but you know you were right when you decided to sell it, don’t you? I mean, you had no life. For instance, when was the last time you took a holiday?”

  Emily snorted. “Holiday? What’s a holiday?”

  “Exactly.” Fran drew her legs up onto the couch and sat cross-legged. “You’ve been like this since you went to university.”

  “What—driven? Goal-oriented?”

  “I was thinking more along the lines of obsessed, tunnel vision, but yeah, you’re in the right area.”

  “Don’t you think I say the same things to myself? After all, being so focused on the business is what kept me in London, instead of visiting Jane more often, while I had the chance.”

  “She did understand, you know.” Fran’s voice was gentle.

  Emily knew that—Jane had said as much in her letters and e-mails—but it didn’t alleviate the ache in her heart.

  “When I first set up the business, it was exciting. Running an interior design company in London had been my dream all the way through university. And for the first eight years or so, it was everything I’d thought it would be. But then something changed.” The nature of the business, for one thing. Faced with mounting competition from up-and-coming new firms, she’d poured more hours into maintaining the company’s success. And then there was the fact that she was a woman running her own business, in a world dominated by men. “When it got to the point that I was no longer enjoying what I was doing, I knew that was the time to stop.”

  “So what will you do when you’ve sold the company?”

  Emily shrugged. “Find myself a new challenge. Let’s face it, I’m only thirty-six. I’m not ready to retire just yet.” She grinned.

  “As long as you find something that gives you time to breathe.” Fran speared her with a glance. “And just where were you thinking of looking for such a challenge? Please, don’t tell me the US, or I will scream.”

  She laughed. “I haven’t decided. Right now, I have no plans etched in stone, beyond selling the company, spending Christmas with my parents, and then….” She paused, smiling. “Now, don’t fall over, but I was thinking of taking… a holiday.”

  Fran clutched her heart dramatically. “Oh my God. Okay, where is Emily? What have you done with her? Take off that Emily mask, you evil alien.”

  Emily giggled. “Anyone listening to this conversation would—”

  “Would get to know exactly what you’re like, and don’t deny it.” Fran’s eyes sparkled. “And I demand postcards, just to prove you really did go away.” She settled back against the cushions. “Any idea where you’ll go?”

  “Right now, I haven’t got beyond ‘somewhere hot’. That’s top of the list.”

  Fran picked up the plate of pizza and shoved it under her nose. “Eat faster, it’s going cold.”

  Emily laughed. “Then stop asking me so many questions!”

  For the next ten minutes or so, there was no conversation while they ate, no sounds beyond smacks of appreciation and the crackling of the logs on the fire. When their hunger had been assuaged, Fran refilled their wineglasses and stretched out, her socked feet resting on the coffee table.

  “Okay, now for those answers you promised me.”

  “Answers?” Emily gave her a blank look.

  “Oh no, you don’t, lady. Phillip. Start talking.”

  Emily copied her and stretched out her legs. “Okay, where to start?” It didn’t take her long to decide. “I was fifteen when I first worked out exactly what the deal was between Jane and Clare. Until then, I just thought of Clare as Aunt Clare.”

  “So what clued you in?”

  Emily stilled. In her mind she was a fifteen-year-old, long-legged colt of a teenager, standing at the barn door, looking for Jane. What she’d heard was enough to tell her that Jane was up in the loft, Clare was with her, and that they were making love. Emily had fled the scene instantly, her cheeks hot, but that evening she’d been bold enough to ask questions, and Jane and Clare had seemed relieved to be able to tell her the truth.

  “Something I heard. Let’s leave it at that, okay? Anyway, I got to hear the whole story.” She could still picture them in the living room, her sitting on the rug in front of the fireplace, Jane and Clare sitting together on the couch, both with small glasses of Clare’s parsnip wine in their hands. It had felt like an adult conversation, and Emily had been proud that they felt they could share with her. “When Phillip was eighteen, Jane finally plucked up enough courage to tell her husband Derek what she’d been dying to share for years—”

  “That was when she came out?” Fran gasped. “Wow. That was brave, considering she had a son.”

  “I think it was his age that had decided her. Phillip was about to go to university, and she figured she’d been unhappy for long enough.”

  “Did… did she have someone? Was she already in love with Clare?”

  Emily shook her head. “She had no one. She just knew she couldn’t stay with Derek any longer. Well, their reaction was pretty much instantaneous—they cut her out of their lives. Phillip told her she was sick, and that he wanted nothing more to do with her.”

  Fran narrowed her gaze. “And yet he turned up at her funeral, expecting to be left the house? Now I understand that crack about the mirror. Bastard.”

  “In 1985, when I was about four years old, my grandmother Rachel died and left Jane the house. So she moved into the village. Two years later, she met Clare, who was living on the outskirts of the village at the time. She was a potter, making ceramic ornaments and such for tourists and anyone who wanted them. Jane started buying her stuff, and they became friends.” Emily laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “When Clare finally came to the house, she found a room full of boxes of her ceramics, things Jane had bought under the pretext of sending them as gifts to friends and family. It had been her excuse for visiting Clare’s studio. Anyway, you know the rest. They fell in love, Clare moved in, and Jane had the kiln and all the contents of Clare’s studio moved to the barn.”

  “Aw.” Fran’s face glowed. “I always did like a happy ending. Her husband sounds like he was a real asshole though. And Phillip never came to visit?”

  Emily shook her head. “I ran into him a few times at family gatherings or in London. In fact, when I was setting up the business, I asked his advice when I was looking for investors, but the less said about that, the better.”

  Fran frowned. “Investors? With a family as rich as yours? I don’t get it.”

  Emily stuck out her chin. “It was my company. I was going to build it my way. And that didn’t include taking handouts from my parents. Too many strings attached for my liking.” When Fran lifted her eyebrows, Emily scowled. “Change the subject, please.”

  “Okay, okay.” Fran took a long drink from her glass. “So what now with the house?”

  “We wait and see. If Phillip wins and it’s his, fine. If not, I’ll sell it.”

  Fran’s face clouded over. “Great,” she said gloomily. “I can see it now. Some oligarch buys it, brings in his own labor from God knows where to do it up, and then sells it off for some extortionate price to someone who lets it stay empty. Just what the village needs.”

  “What do you expect me to do—live in it? I have an apartment in London, I don’t need a house in the country, especially one with four or five bedrooms.”

  “Hang on a minute.” Fran sat upright. “You’re selling the business, therefore what you don’t need is an apartment in London. You have, however, a house in the country.”

  “Until Phillips brings in a team of lawyers to prove that Jane acted illegally to disinherit him. Then I don’t have a house at all, do I?”

  Fran set her jaw. “It’s not happened yet.”

&n
bsp; Emily sighed and put down her glass. “Look, I’m only here for this weekend, right? Let’s not talk of things that we can’t do anything about right now, and just enjoy spending time together.” She laid her hand on Fran’s. “What do you say?”

  Fran huffed. “Okay, I suppose.” She jerked up her head at the sound of a child crying above their heads. “And that’s my cue to see what’s going on upstairs. Back in a sec.” She got up and headed for the stairs.

  Emily stared into the flames. It wasn’t that Fran’s idea of living in the house didn’t appeal to her. Far from it. It just wasn’t practical. It wasn’t her.

  She wasn’t ready to live the quiet country life, not when she was looking for another challenge to stimulate her.

  Chapter Seven

  Jake parked his truck behind Simon’s aging Mondeo and switched off the engine. The rain had eased off, thank God: he’d already been soaked to the skin once, and that was enough. From inside the house came the sounds of a piano, and Jake smiled to himself. He didn’t have to hear more than a few notes of a Frank Sinatra song to know Simon was playing for their father.

  He pushed open the gate with his hip. and strode along the path that bisected a bare front garden. Just seeing the shrubs reduced to mere boughs, sticks and twigs made his throat tighten. Mum had always been the gardener of the family, cursed with three sons who weren’t born with a single green thumb among them. Once she’d passed on, Dad had tried to keep up with the garden, but his heart hadn’t been in it.

  It had been Taylor’s idea this past summer to hire Ted Pelshaw to do something with the neglected patch, so maybe Jake wasn’t the only one who missed their mum’s ability to fill a small space with bright colors and heavenly scents. Ted had come along, taken one glance at the garden and declared he’d start at once. The soil had been raked over, bulbs planted for spring, and Ted had promised to take Jake with him on a trip to the local garden centre, so they could choose new shrubs and plants.

  Jake used his key to enter the house, stepping into its welcome warmth, and leaving the grim November day outside. “I’ve got the beers,” he called out as he walked through the cozy house to the kitchen.

  Taylor stuck his head around the kitchen door. “There was a damn sight more than beer on that list I gave you, so you’d better have brought it all.”

  Jake held up the two plastic bags bulging with shopping. “Happy now?”

  Taylor grinned. “As long as you found some sage in Havers, I’ll be happy.”

  Jake widened his eyes. “Shit. The sage. I knew there was something I’d forgotten.” He heaved the bags onto the wooden kitchen table.

  “Aw, Jake,” Taylor griped. “That’s why I sent you in the first place. You know how Dad loves sage in his stuffing when we have roast chicken. And it isn’t as if I could just walk into the garden and pluck off some leaves. Not anymore.” His face tightened.

  Jake rummaged through one of the bags until his fingers came up against the small glass container. “Here.” He pulled it free and threw it at Taylor. “Gotcha.” Jake couldn’t resist grinning at him.

  “You bastard. Just for that, you can make the tea. Dad should be ready for one about now. I’ll get on with lunch.” A heavy roll of thunder interrupted him, and he peered through the kitchen window. “Looks like you made it back just in time.”

  Jake filled the kettle and put it on the range. Already the air was permeated with the wonderful aroma of roasting chicken, and he sniffed it up eagerly. “That smells good.”

  Taylor laughed. “Don’t think I don’t know why you always show up for my Sunday lunches. It’s pure cupboard love.”

  “Sorry I missed your birthday.” Jake was still pissed about that.

  “Yeah, well, you had things to do, people to see. I get it. Besides,” Taylor added with a gleam in his eye. “That meant more cake for us.”

  Jake knew better than to believe that nonchalant tone. “I know, but it was a big one.”

  Taylor arched his eyebrows and pushed his black rimmed glasses back onto his nose. “So I was thirty. So what? Now, you miss my fortieth, and we’ll have words.”

  In the background, strains of Chicago could be heard.

  Jake inclined his head toward the door. “How is he?” With hindsight, taking their father to the funeral had been a bad idea, but when he’d specifically asked to go in one of his increasingly rare lucid moments, neither Jake nor his brothers had had the heart to refuse him.

  What they hadn’t counted on was the sheer volume of people who attended the funeral. And when Dad became more and more agitated, they’d had to take him home.

  Taylor gave him a tired smile. “Let’s just say I appreciate all the times you two visit.”

  His words only heaped coals on Jake’s head. Granted, it had been Taylor’s decision to become their father’s carer, but that didn’t make the situation any easier to swallow. “Have you got much writing done since the funeral?”

  Taylor shrugged. “Not much.” He glanced toward the door. “There was kind of a development this morning. I walked into the living room, and for a moment, he didn’t know who I was. That was a first.”

  There was suddenly an iron band around Jake’s chest. “That sounds like a late stage behavior, but it’s too soon for that.” Dad had only been diagnosed early in the previous year, but they knew they’d missed the early signs.

  “We can talk about this later. I’ve been trying to get him to go the whole day without taking a nap, to see if he’ll sleep all night, but I’ve not been having a lot of luck. So if he drops off after lunch, which is likely, we can discuss a few things. For now, go see if Simon needs a break. He’s been playing for the past forty minutes.”

  Impulsively, Jake gave him a brief hug.

  Taylor chuckled when Jake released him. “What was that for?”

  “Just reminding myself that you’re my little brother.” Lately Taylor seemed to have matured a lot, and Jake had a good idea why. Coping with Dad couldn’t be easy.

  Taylor whacked on the arm. “Not so much of the ‘little’, if you please. I am thirty now, remember?”

  “How could I forget? I mean, thirty. That’s old.” With a last grin, Jake left him in the kitchen and wandered through into the living room. A fire blazed in the hearth, and Dad was sitting in his armchair beside it, nodding his head in time to the music. By the window was the upright piano he and Mum had bought for Simon years ago. Simon sat on the bench, his fingers dancing over the keys, his body moving in time to the music as he played The Summer Wind. He caught sight of Jake and nodded toward him.

  Jake went over to Dad. “Not long until lunch,” he told him, placing the mug of tea on the table beside him.

  Dad nodded absently, clearly absorbed by the music. Jake crossed the room and stood next to the piano, his gaze flickering to where Dad sat.

  “He was a little agitated. I figured the music would soothe him. It usually does.” Simon kept his voice low.

  “Looks like it did the trick.” Dad appeared lost in his own little world.

  Simon shrugged. “It just took his mind off whatever was making him anxious, but it’s temporary. Any number of things could be causing it, and we may never get to the root of it, but if we can alleviate it, that’s a plus.”

  “I’m sure a thunder storm doesn’t help.” Jake could still hear the odd rumble.

  “It might just be the change in his routine.” Simon brought the piece to an end. “Time for lunch, Dad,” he called out. “Drink your tea first though.”

  Dad nodded, smiling. “You play really well. You could do that for a living, y’know.”

  Simon smiled back at him. “I’ll bear that in mind. Now after you’ve drunk your tea, how about we go into the kitchen and see what Taylor’s made for us?” He caught Jake’s gaze. “And then after lunch you can tell us all about it.”

  “I would if I had a clue what ‘it’ refers to,” Jake remarked dryly. It was pure bluff, of course. He’d known they’d want an update after
the funeral.

  Shame I have nothing to tell them, then.

  Jake still couldn’t believe Emily Darrow’s manner. And that’s another shame, that someone so attractive should be so… brusque, so cold. Nothing like her aunt, that was for sure.

  Simon snorted. “Yeah, right. Like I said… later.”

  Jake should have known. Since when had he ever been able to fool his brothers about anything?

  Simon closed the kitchen door quietly. “He’s asleep. I’ve put that blanket over him, and I’ve added more logs to the fire.” He sat down at the kitchen table and grinned when Taylor handed him an opened bottle of beer. “Oh, nice one.”

  “I’d rather we didn’t drink in front of Dad.” Taylor’s expression grew serious. “Especially since we’re trying to improve his sleep patterns. It’s not fair to have alcohol when he can’t.”

  “Is James still keen for you to go down the non-drug route?” Jake knew their doctor, James Mitchell, was working closely with Taylor to avoid medication for as long as they could.

  Taylor nodded. “He said the night time restlessness usually peaks in the middle stage, but that it’ll pass. Dad’s definitely been getting more confused and anxious toward the end of the day. I’m following the doc’s advice and trying out a couple of things.”

  “Such as?” Simon took a mouthful of beer. “God, that’s good.”

  “Well, one theory is that reduced lighting and increased shadows cause confusion for people with Alzheimer’s. We also have to watch for urinary tract infections, because that can cause or worsen sleep problems.”

  Something clicked into place. “Is that why I saw a bottle of cranberry tablets in the bathroom?” Jake asked.

  “Yes. I’d read somewhere that they prevent UTIs by making it difficult for germs to stay in the bladder. And I’m making sure he drinks lots of water.” Taylor gave them a sheepish smile. “The tablets can’t hurt him, anyway. And I switch on the lamps as soon as the light begins to fail. Dad now has a nightlight too.” He paused. “There was something I wanted to talk to you two about. I think it might be a good idea to invest in door sensors and motion detectors.”