Pulled by a Dream

by Kathryn Greenway

  “Like my stubborn streak?” Emily asked with a grin.

  Her mother didn’t return the grin. “Maybe that’s why we are often at loggerheads, you and I.”

  “Were you and Jane ever close?” Emily knew Jane’s sexuality had been a bone of contention, but prior to that, she knew little of their relationship. Neither Jane nor her mother had spoken much about their childhood.

  “Not really, but that’s hardly surprising. Jane was eleven years old when I was born. By the time I was old enough to interact with her, she was already a teenager. In my mind, she was just another adult in the house, only, not my mother.” Her wistful expression tugged at Emily’s heart.

  “So, to all intents and purposes, you grew up an only child.” Somehow Emily had never seen that side of things.

  Her mother smiled. “Jane was married at age eighteen. I was seven, my hair in ringlets, wearing an apricot chiffon dress and carrying a basket of flowers down the aisle. By the time I was nine, I was an aunt. So yes, your supposition is correct.”

  Emily couldn’t imagine growing up alone in that huge house. “Did you play with other children?”

  “Who had time to play? I was away at boarding school most of the year. There were children on the estate, granted: the grounds keeper’s son, for one, the head of the stable’s two children for another. I tried to play with them once, but my father put a stop to that.”

  As much as Emily didn’t see eye to eye with her brother, she was suddenly thankful to have had him in her life. She’d always thought the six-year-gap between them was huge, but to be confronted with the reality of her mother’s childhood made her appreciate those few moments when they had actually gotten along.

  Emily decided a change of subject was called for. “Richard and Deborah took the children up to bed an hour ago, hence the peace and quiet. I think they’re dressing for dinner. Father is in his study.”

  Her mother gave a wry smile. “Which means I know exactly what he’s doing. He’ll be sitting at his desk, watching some sporting event on his computer, his headphones on.”

  The sonorous clanging of the gong in the hallway shattered the peaceful atmosphere.

  Emily got up off the rug, her glass held tightly. “Perfect timing. I’m ready for my roast turkey.”

  Her mother laughed. “Then you’ll have a long wait. We’re having goose.”

  Emily rolled her eyes. “You had to be different, didn’t you? You couldn’t have a typical Christmas dinner, just this once?”

  “That was a rhetorical question, wasn’t it?” Her mother glanced at Emily’s jeans and sweater. “You’re surely not going in to dinner like that, are you?”

  Emily gave her a sweet smile. “I hardly think the goose will mind, do you? And it could have been much worse.”

  “How?” her mother asked with a barely concealed shudder.

  Emily grinned again. “I could have decided to stay in my pajamas all day.” She followed her mother out of the drawing room and across the hall to the dining room, trying not to chuckle.

  Jane would have been so proud of me. She was always one for a little anarchy.

  “Have we opened all the presents?” Taylor asked as he passed around mugs of coffee. The living room was a brightly-colored mess of wrapping paper, boxes and plastic packaging. Simon was going through his pile of newly acquired CDs, reading the back covers, lost in his own world.

  Dad was sitting in his armchair by the fire, smiling at the bright red sweater Taylor had bought for him. It seemed Simon and Taylor had had the same idea that year: all Dad’s presents reminded Jake of their childhood.

  “Just got one more left for Dad,” Jake told Taylor. He’d saved the Christmas lights for last. Jake sniffed the air. “Something smells good out there.”

  Taylor smiled. “And that’s only the giblet stock I’ve got going. You won’t smell the turkey for an hour or so yet.”

  Jake gave a mock shudder. “Giblets?”

  “Don’t knock it. Giblet stock makes great gravy. And that turkey is enormous. It’s twice the size of Tiny Tim.” Taylor’s eyes sparkled.

  Jake sighed. “Okay, you are not allowed to watch any more versions of A Christmas Carol, all right?”

  Simon snickered. “You’re too late. We’ve already had Scrooge—both the Alastair Sim and Albert Finney versions—the George C Scott and Patrick Stewart versions, Scrooged, and the Muppet Christmas Carol. There can’t be any more out there.” He grinned. “Now I know why you’ve stayed away until today.”

  “Hey, I was working!” Jake said indignantly. He’d spent the past week or so trying to drum up business, not that he’d had all that much success. “Anyway, let’s give Dad his present.” He couldn’t wait to see his dad’s face when he opened the gift. Jake pulled the box from beneath the tree, and placed it in his dad’s lap. “Here you go, Dad. One last present. Merry Christmas.”

  His dad’s face lit up. “Aw, another one? You boys have spoiled me this year.” He tore eagerly at the wrapping paper, just like a little kid. When he saw the clear plastic lid of the box, covering the brightly-colored carriages and lanterns, he caught his breath. “Oh wow.” He inclined his head toward the kitchen. “Sue? Get in here and take a look at this.”

  Jake’s chest constricted. “Mum’s… a little busy right now.” He didn’t have the heart to correct his dad. Fortunately, Dad’s thoughts turned down another of the mind’s culs-de-sac.

  “What’s on the telly? Anything good? Only, not another Christmas film. I swear, every time I’ve looked up recently, it’s been another bleeding version of Scrooge.”

  Taylor coughed. “I’m sure there’ll be something on to interest you.” He went over to switch on the set. Dad put aside the box and focused on the screen.

  Jake couldn’t stay in there another minute. He hurried into the kitchen and closed the door, shutting out the sound of the TV. The nine years since their mum had died had reduced the sharpness of his grief to a dulled ache, but it was still there. He hated those moments when the disease took away his dad’s lucidity.

  The door opened, and Simon entered, his face tight. “You okay?”

  Jake nodded. “That wasn’t quite the reaction I’d hoped for.”

  “Aren’t they the ones we had on the tree when we were little?”

  He smiled. “Yup. I’d hoped they’d help him remember happy times. Except those memories would include Mum, of course. Only natural.” Jake gazed at Simon. “He is getting worse, isn’t he? I’m not imagining it.” The frequency of those times when his dad lost track of the present, had increased lately.

  Simon glanced toward the living room, then nodded. “The drug-free route isn’t working. And he seems to be getting worse, faster.”

  Jake’s stomach churned. “We have no idea how much longer we’re going to have him around. So here’s what we do. We make every second count, starting right now.”

  Simon touched his arm. “Don’t go back to your place tonight. Stay?” He grinned. “You can share my bed, providing you don’t snore.”

  Jake chuckled. “I’ll take the couch. I’ll be warm enough if I stoke up the fire before I go to sleep.” He didn’t want to go home anyway. His little cottage seemed cold and empty, compared to the warmth and light that filled his dad’s house.

  A delicate aroma wafted from the oven, and Jake smiled. “There’s nothing like the smell of a roasting turkey to make you think of Christmas.”

  “Then we’d better get out of here and let Taylor do his stuff.” Simon chuckled. “Otherwise, he’ll have us peeling vegetables and doing God knows what else.”

  Jake snorted. “Only if he wants gravy that needs help to get out of the pan.” Cooking wasn’t his strong suit.

  “Hey! What are you two doing out there? Elf is on TV.”

  Simon rolled his eyes, and Jake laughed. “You can’t complain. At least it’s not another Scrooge.”

  “Thank God.” Still chuckling, the brothers went to join Taylor and their dad.

  J
ake didn’t want to waste any of the precious minutes that remained.

  Jake stirred, awoken by a noise. He lifted his head from the pillow and glanced around the living room. Dad knelt in front of the fire, adding a log to it, wrapped up in his dark red robe.

  “Dad?” The clock above the fireplace showed it was two in the morning. “Why aren’t you in bed?” Jake rubbed his eyes and sat up, yawning.

  His dad got up from the rug and sat in his favorite armchair. “I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep. I was going to make myself a warm drink, only when I peered in here, the fire had almost gone out. I didn’t want you to be cold.” He peered at Jake over his glasses. “And speaking of beds, why aren’t you at home in yours?”

  As his dad’s words registered, Jake realized it was one of those lucid moments that seemed to be becoming rarer. “How about I make us those drinks?” he suggested.

  Dad smiled. “Avoiding the question?”

  Jake pulled on his sweater, and threw back the blanket that covered him to squirm into his jeans. “No—helping you to get back to sleep.” He got up from the couch and padded into the kitchen, wincing as his bare feet touched the cold stone floor. He filled two mugs with milk and then put them into the microwave to warm. When he got back to the living room, his dad was peering at the box of Christmas tree lights.

  “Wherever did you find these?”

  “In Peter’s shop.” Jake placed the mugs on the coffee table.

  Dad stroked the clear plastic. “I remember buying the first set with your mum. Woolworths in Swindon. It was our first married Christmas.” He smiled. “When you were old enough, you used to beg to help put them on the tree.”

  Jake had to smile too. “I remember. When I saw them in Peter’s shop, my first thought was of you and Mum, decorating the tree.”

  Dad let out a heavy sigh. “I miss her all the time, y’know, but it’s always worse at Christmas. Our first date was in late December, and we used to celebrate it as an anniversary.” He placed the box on the floor and picked up his mug, wrapping his hands around it. “So why are you sleeping on my couch, instead of in your own bed?”

  “Simon asked me to stay.” It was the truth, at any rate.

  Dad cocked his head to one side. “And why go home to be on your own at Christmas? It’s a time for being with family.” He heaved another sigh. “I worry about you, Jake.”

  He blinked. “Why? I’m doing okay.” Maybe that was an exaggeration, but his dad didn’t need to know that.

  “I’m not talking about your business, although that does concern me. No, I’m talking about the fact that you’re still single.”

  Jake bit back a smile. “Taylor and Simon are single too.”

  Dad nodded slowly. “But they’re not forty. Time’s slipping by, Jake. You need someone in your life. Someone to come home to, someone to make you laugh and smile. By the time I was your age, I had three kids.”

  “So I need to find someone because I’m getting on in years? Is that it?”

  His dad put down his mug and twisted in his chair to face Jake. “I don’t know whether you want children or not. That’s your business. But don’t tell me you’re happy on your own. You’ve had girlfriends—not many, I grant you, but there have been a couple. Can’t say I was all that fond of the last one, but then you broke up, so I kept my mouth shut.” His face tightened. “All the same, there was something about her I didn’t like. When she smiled, it never reached her eyes.”

  “Ancient history, Dad.”

  Dad nodded again. “But don’t let it put you off. Somewhere out there is the perfect woman for you.”

  Jake had to smile at that. “Like Mum was for you.”

  “Exactly. You’ll know her when you see her.” Dad yawned. “I think I’ll take this milk up to bed. Maybe it’ll help me get off to sleep again.” He got up from the chair, walked over to where Jake sat on the sofa bed, bent low and kissed the top of his head. “Good night, son.”

  Jake listened to the creak of the stairs, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. The unexpected intimate gesture seemed to have lanced right through his heart. He wasn’t sure why he was crying—for his dad, caught in a rare moment of clear thought, or for himself, caught by his dad’s sharp perception.

  He’s right, of course. Jake was happy with his own company, but that didn’t mean he didn’t long to share his life with someone. The idea that this someone was out there, waiting for him, provided a brief glimmer of hope. And if I’m really lucky, she’ll look a lot like Emily Darrow.

  That last thought took him by surprise. It seemed Emily had made quite an impression on him—well, subconsciously, at any rate. That would have been fine, if looks were everything.

  Jake wanted more than a pretty face.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Why have I never done this before?

  Emily closed her eyes and let go. She could almost feel the tension seeping out of every pore, while the sun’s heat sank deep into her bones, leaving her limp but totally at peace. The only sounds were the waves gently lapping the shore, the tinkling splash as a guest dove into the swimming pool, and the soothing lullaby of the warm breeze as it played with the palm trees high above her head.

  I could get used to this. Then she reconsidered. Though maybe somewhere with a less exalted price tag. The resort was situated on the West Coast of Barbados, tucked in between tropical gardens and beaches of the purest white sand. Her ocean front suite was mere steps away from that sand, and she could choose whether she wanted to laze on it, or by the tree-lined pool under a parasol, a cocktail close at hand. The food was exceptional, and after one week of indulgence, Emily was sure she’d put on at least five pounds. Not that she cared. Her days were spent reclining on her private terrace, surrounded by lush flora, or gazing out at a panoramic view of the azure Caribbean Sea. Soft breezes caressed her sun-warmed skin, as she wondered for the umpteenth time why she’d never taken a holiday.

  Emily smiled to herself. Holidays as a child had meant Europe, traipsing around after her parents through cities of culture, bored out of her mind. She’d listen to the other children at school, chatting excitedly about going to Cornwall, or Devon, or Blackpool, their faces alight as they spoke of games on the beach, picnics in the woods, and other such wonderful pursuits.

  Emily lived for those long, long weeks when she was allowed to visit Aunt Jane. Her sanctuary. Her idea of heaven. It was never a holiday, more of an escape.

  Just then, a warm breeze wafted over her, and she let out a sigh of sheer contentment.

  “Now that is the sound of a happy woman.”

  Emily opened her eyes. To her left, several feet away, a woman reclined, an open book lying beside her, under the shade of a huge spreading tree, its leaves dark green and glossy. Her sunglasses perched on top of her head, the black frames stark against her short, blond hair. She appeared to be in her fifties, perhaps. Cool, intelligent eyes appraised Emily, her posture relaxed.

  Emily reached for her cocktail glass, and raised it. “I’ll drink to that.” She drained what little was left of her delicious rum-based concoction.

  The woman laughed. “And that is a great idea. I was just thinking, it must be time for a cocktail.” She signaled to the waiter, who hurried over. Once he’d left with her order, the woman got up from her lounger and strolled over to where Emily sat. She held out her hand. “Trish Benton.”

  Emily grasped it. “Emily Darrow.” She gestured to the empty chair beside her. “Would you like to join me?”

  Trish beamed. “I’d be delighted.” She sat down, stretching long, shapely legs in front of her, crossing them at the ankles. That appraising glance was back. “You have the look of someone who doesn’t get away from it all very often.”

  Emily laughed. “It’s that obvious?” She fell silent as the waiter approached with Trish’s drink. Emily ordered another cocktail, then relaxed against the towel that lay beneath her. She let out another sigh. “This feels so… decadent. Twenty-eight degre
es, when Britain is shivering under a blanket of snow.” Emily met Trish’s gaze and grinned. “Rather them then me.”

  “Oh, I’ll drink to that, sweetheart.” Trish took a sip from her glass. “So what brings you to the sunny shores of Barbados? Escaping the winter blues? The post-Christmas, back-to-work blues? Or just plain escaping?”

  Emily smiled. “I’ve been promising myself a holiday for years. This was the first chance I actually got to take one. What about you?”

  Trish stared out to sea. “This is my one break of the year. It doesn’t matter what is happening in my work life—these two weeks in January are sacrosanct.” She turned toward Emily and smiled. “I used to work in retail. Hated it. I stuck it out until I hit fifty, then I thought, ‘nope, no more. There has to be more to life than this.’ So… I left retail and started a new career, selling properties all over the world to ex-pats.”

  “That sounds like an interesting job.” Probably more interesting than running a B&B promised to be. There were moments when Emily wondered how she’d ever let Fran talk her into this venture. Then she remembered. It was Jane’s dream, Jane’s and Clare’s.

  “I know, it sounds so glamourous, doesn’t it?” Trish’s face tightened. “Whereas the reality is that I’ve merely swapped one straightjacket for another.” Then she gave a casual shrug. “Really, I don’t have anything to complain about. I get to travel, and I certainly don’t miss the English climate. Let’s be honest: most ex-pats choose to live in sunnier climes, so it’s rare to find myself somewhere cold.”

  “Do you have any family?” Emily imagined not. A lifestyle like Trish’s and family ties didn’t go together.

  “It’s just me, and that’s how I like it.”

  Emily regarded her keenly. “If this is too personal a question, please feel free to tell me to mind my own business, but… do you ever get lonely?”

  Trish’s eyes gleamed. “Oh, sweetheart. No woman need ever be lonely. There’s this wonderful breed of men out there. You may have heard of them. They’re called escorts, although they went by another name when I was younger.” She winked.