The Dream Wedding

by MJ Rodgers

  “Briana, when you look in the mirror, what do you see?”

  “I may be crazy, but I’m not blind. The face I’m wearing now looks like one of those gorgeous airbrushed ones that grace the covers of fashion magazines.”

  “How do you feel when you look at it?”

  “Like Santa Claus answered all those letters I’ve been writing to him since I was six.”

  “Bnana, the reasons for your not recognizing your face are undoubtedly related to your reasons for not remembering the last three weeks. Don’t worry about what you look like on the outside right now. Think about how you feel on the inside.”

  “I feel like Alice when she fell into the rabbit hole. The world doesn’t make sense to me anymore. Nothing I know is out there. Where is Hazel, Michael? Why can’t I find her? What’s happened to her?”

  “We’ve checked everywhere we could to locate her,” he said calmly. “If there is something else, somewhere else that you can think of our checking, we’ll do it. Is there?”

  “No.”

  “Then do you believe that you have done all you can?”

  “Yes. But I’m still worried.”

  “Remember our discussion of last night? People who fill their moments worrying about things over which they have no control live very unpleasant lives.”

  “But my thoughts keep turning to her.”

  “Then we need to find something else to occupy them.”

  He rose and held out his hand.

  She slipped her hand inside his large one. Michael drew her gently to her feet. His hold on both her eyes and hand was wonderfully steady.

  “It was too dark last night for you to see the Institute of Dreams properly. Would you like to see it now?”

  She nodded, falling into step beside him, aware that he was deliberately slipping his hand out of hers. Still, there was a lovely, comforting warmth left in its wake.

  “I don’t believe in insisting on an unnatural formality between doctor and patient,” Michael said. “That just erects walls to understanding. But I do believe in ethical, professional behavior. You will be absolutely safe here.”

  Briana knew exactly what he was telling her. He was her doctor now. And, as her doctor, he would be making no personal advances toward her. A wall might not be between them, but he had definitely drawn a line.

  She realized it had to be this way—that he had to be this way. He was being true to both his profession and himself.

  Bnana found the Institute of Dreams to be an enormous building full of gleaming white marble walls and floors. In sharp contrast to the richness of Michael’s art deco apartment, its interior was clean-lined, ultramodern, with four large wings radiating out of a huge glass-domed central rotunda. Each wing was marked by a phase of the moon inscribed above its door.

  Michael led Briana down the long, spotless white hallways of the wings. Feeding off them were sleep labs, libraries, lounges, conversation centers, computer hubs and many offices, all deserted on this Christmas day.

  Briana was struck by the calmness of it, certain that the impression of unhurried relaxation would still pervade it even when it was filled with people.

  Michael walked her through his wing last. A full moon adorned its entryway. Briana stopped to read aloud the words etched into the golden plaque that hung beside the door to his private office.

  “’Discover Your Dreams and Discover Yourself.’”

  “Do you mean that literally, Michael?”

  “Yes. I believe that to really know ourselves we first have to know our dreams.”

  “Is that what you do for your patients—help them to discover themselves in their dreams?”

  “I haven’t had a patient since I started the institute. But it is partially what I do for my clients.”

  “The ones who are successful politicians, entertainers?”

  “Yes, some use what they learn in their dreams to attain such ends, or to enhance their abilities in those fields. The confidence that comes with knowing who you are is tremendously empowering. With it, you can achieve a great deal.”

  He leaned in front of her to open the door, bringing that rich scent of balsam with him.

  “What have you achieved with yours?” she asked.

  “Everything I want,” his deep, mesmerizing voice answered.

  His office had that same spacious, calm feeling that pervaded the rest of the building—as though the quiet expanse of the desert had been coaxed indoors.

  “So, what do you think of the institute?” Michael asked.

  “It’s very impressive, Michael.”

  “Only…?” he invited, appearing to be perfectly aware of the qualification she had so carefully kept out of her words.

  “Except for the spectacular rotunda reaching for the sky, I get the impression of a blank, white canvas, lacking that splash of color that would give it focus.”

  “And that is exactly why the institute was designed the way it was, Briana. It is the canvas. The insightful dreams that take place here are those splashes of color, the events that give it meaning and focus.”

  “People have insightful dreams here?”

  “People have insightful dreams everywhere. Still, there is something about the stillness of this high desert and the isolation at the institute that seem particularly suited to encouraging the unconscious to come forth and introduce itself.”

  “Is that how you define an insightful dream?”

  “I try not to limit an insightful dream by trying to define it. All dreams have the capacity to be insightful if the dreamer cares enough to delve deeply into them. You’ll spend tonight in my sleep lab, Briana. Tomorrow we’ll work on the dreams we discover.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  “In the meantime, it will be best not to fill your mind with worry. It helps not at all. And it hurts. As your doctor, I’m prescribing some sun and exercise. Do you like to swim?”

  “Very much. But I haven’t done it in a while. Is there a pool nearby?”

  “Right in our backyard. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  They stepped out into a lovely day. The temperature was in the sixties, with a light breeze and a bright yellow sun and a view that went on forever. Briana discovered to her delight that the institute sat atop a high, flat, enormous mesa, surrounded by the towering Virgin Mountains, a deep violet valley, and pale ribbon strips of cyan, carrot and cocoa in a parchment sky.

  The open spaces between the building’s four wings were shaped like pie wedges. Michael pointed out a gazebo in one wedge with white wrought iron and stained-glass globes, twinkling in the winter light like a Faberg egg.

  Another pie wedge contained a large circular pad with a helicopter. The third a parking lot.

  In the final pie-wedge sat an Olympic-size pool. Its blue water was shaded beneath a cream canopy and flanked by a row of swaying palms.

  Michael led the way to the pool through a carefully pruned landscape of jade and piñon pines. Briana looked out at the glowing day and expansive view around her

  “I have to admit there’s something special about the wideopen spaces and warmth of the desert. This time of year, where I live in Washington, the ground’s covered in snow and ice and the sky’s heavy with clouds that block out the light. I can’t believe this is Christmas and I’m standing in this incredible sunlight.”

  “What do you like about living in Washington?”

  “The way its towering trees scrub the air until it’s sparkling-clean. And the way a new season suddenly touches you.”

  “How does a season suddenly touch you, Briana?”

  “With the jubilant cries of the geese as they wing over the waterways, heading north to herald in the spring. Or with the scent of heavenly summer warmth from a hundred-year-old cedar tree anchored firmly in the rich earth of a forest. Or with the sight of an autumn dawn showering the chilly air with leaves of red and gold and amber light. Or when the enticing heat of a rare winter sunshine warms my skin as I trudge knee-deep through
snow.”

  “You do seem to know the seasons in Washington State quite well.”

  She turned to him. “You’ve been there?”

  “Several years ago. I can’t attest to what it’s like in summer and fall, but the rarity of sunlight in winter and that noisy arrowhead formation of geese following the waterways into Canada in spring are events I remember well.”

  “So you accept the fact that I live there.”

  “Or else you’ve read a lot of travel brochures,” he said with a smile. “I don’t want you to tire your muscles out when you swim. Just give them some gentle exercise. Concentrate on enjoying yourself. And do your best to dwell on the beauty of the day, not the darkness of worries.”

  “Is that your prescription for good dreams?”

  “For a good life in general. Regular physical activity also has a beneficial effect on dream recall.”

  “My physical activity isn’t all that regular,” Briana admitted. “Life just always seems to be too busy to fit it in.”

  “You’ll be fitting it in as long as you’re here. Doctor’s orders. That pink-striped cabana on the opposite end of the pool has an assortment of women’s bathing suits. You should find one that fits.”

  Briana followed Michael’s pointing finger to the dressing room and nodded.

  “When you’re finished swimming, you can change back into your things and meet me in the apartment”

  “You’re not going to join me in the pool?”

  “I’ll take my swim later. After you’re done, I’ll see what I can do about putting together some kind of Christmas dinner for us. You don’t happen to cook, by any chance?”

  “No, just an architect. But I know how to use a microwave, if you need any help.”

  “Have you always wanted to be an architect?” Michael asked, a quizzical look in his eyes.

  “Astronaut was my first choice,” she replied. “I saw my husband and myself living on a distant planet, giving birth to our brood of little astronauts. I probably read too much Isaac Asimov.”

  “When did you change your focus to earthly structures?”

  “When I started to notice that all the spaceships I envisioned had sunken tubs and skylights and I was having more fun designing them than fantasizing about talking off in them.”

  “What design would you say the institute reflects?” he asked, his questions taking on a more focused direction.

  “Frank Lloyd Wright meets Boeing Aircraft?”

  Michael chuckled.

  “It’s a complex of strong shapes blended to stand up to the sun and cast striking shadows,” Briana answered more seriously. “It reminds me of no one school of design, but rather seems to be a great white bird of architectural sophistication that has momentarily landed on this flat desert mesa in order to better enjoy the view.”

  “How is its dome-shaped ceiling in the rotunda portion achieved?”

  “The hemispheric shape is constructed on the principle of an arch, where the downward forces are transferred outward to the walls that support its weight.”

  “And now for the most important test, Ms. Berry. How many architects does it take to change a light bulb?”

  She smiled. “Just one. But now that I’ve taken a closer look at that light bulb, I can see that the beam supporting its socket will have to be replaced. Looks as though the job will cost at least triple my original estimate and will take at least three times as long to complete.”

  “You’re an architect, all right. Or at the very least a building contractor.”

  They grinned at each other before Briana turned and walked toward the cabana. She didn’t know how Michael had done it, but she already felt a whole lot better.

  She suspected that all he had really done was be Michael Sands. It felt good being around a man who didn’t let worry control him. A man who saw silver linings, not clouds. A man who appreciated the moment. A man who lived what he believed.

  A woman could be herself with such a man. No, a woman could be the best of herself with such a man.

  When Briana carefully waded into the water a few moments later, she was delighted to find it warm. She knew she was out of condition and expected to soon be out of breath as she kicked off from the side. But after three laps, her muscles weren’t at all tired and she still had wind and stamina.

  This was incredible. Not only did she have a new and improved face, she also had a new and improved pair of lungs and muscles.

  What next? Einstein’s I.Q.?

  “OUR MICHAEL SANDS found a bride beneath his Christmas tree?” Laura Lacen Quinn asked as she smiled across the table at her husband of two months.

  Nathaniel Quinn grinned back as he speared a piece of turkey with his fork.

  “Her unexpected appearance at the institute was the reason that our fearless leader ended up a no-show at the party last night.”

  Laura chuckled, thoroughly delighted with the thought. And thoroughly captivated by her husband’s smile. She knew she would never, could never, get tired of it. Or of seeing the way his dark hair curled errantly over the collar of his white dress shirt. Or the way the warmth in his gold-dust eyes poured through her like liquid sunshine.

  She loved Nathaniel Quinn with a passion that seemed to get deeper and more intense with each passing day. She was so filled and overflowing with happiness that she wanted everyone she liked to experience the joy that such a love could bring.

  Which was why she had tried so diligently to match Michael Sands to every one of her attractive, unattached women friends.

  All to no avail, of course. The suave and sophisticated Dr. Michael Sands had proved impervious to every feminine persuasion. He was not marriage material, he kept insisting. Which was why Laura was so tickled by the idea of someone sending him a bride.

  Whoever was behind this prank obviously had a marvelous sense of humor

  “Who did it, Nate?” Laura asked

  Nate shrugged his shoulders. “Michael doesn’t know.”

  “The bride won’t say?” Laura chuckled delightedly once again. “Good for her.”

  “I think it’s more the bride doesn’t know,” Nate said more seriously. “It appears she’s…unbalanced.”

  “Oh,” Laura said, disappointed to have what had seemed to be a merry tale end on a sad note.

  “Unbalanced?” Everett repeated the word, his voice rising to an odd pitch. “What do you mean, unbalanced? What did she say?”

  Laura looked over at her uncle’s pudgy face, and was more than surprised to see the pinpoints of interest in his light eyes. Everett seldom took an interest in things that didn’t fatten his pocketbook, his social standing or his stomach.

  “The woman has become Michael’s patient, Everett,” Nate answered Laura’s uncle. “It would be unethical of me to discuss the specifics of the case.”

  “Patient?” Everett repeated at the top of his voice. “Michael Sands made this bride his patient?”

  “Everett, what’s wrong with you?” Laura asked. “Why are you getting so upset?”

  “Upset? I’m not getting upset,” Everett said, his cheeks belying his protestation as they turned the same color as the cranberry on his plate. “I just want to know why Michael Sands thinks he has the right to involve the institute in this business!”

  “Thinks he has the right?” Nate repeated.

  “He shouldn’t have done that!” Everett shouted. “What does he know about this woman, or where she came from? She could be anyone, from anywhere!”

  “Everett, what are you talking about?” Laura asked, getting more and more alarmed at her uncle’s odd outburst and anger.

  “What do you mean, what am I talking about? Could I be any plainer? Sands is overstepping his authority!”

  “Michael Sands is the founder, chairman of the board and the chief stockholder in the Institute of Dreams,” Nate said, his voice not quite its normal calm. “Just whose head is he supposed to be going over?”

  “Naturally you’d come to his defen
se, Quinn.”

  “Michael doesn’t need defending,” Laura said “He hasn’t done anything wrong. Everett, you’re seriously overreacting to this situation.”

  “Overreacting?” Everett repeated, that odd strident pitch still riding his voice. “We’ll just see who’s overreacting. Sands is going to get the institute into trouble one of these days! You mark my words!”

  “Everett, what has gotten into you?” Laura asked, her exasperation coming through.

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore!” he said, his voice almost a shout “I’ve said all I’m going to say. Now let me eat my dinner in peace!”

  Laura watched as Everett’s rounded shoulders bunched around his head, as though he were a turtle suddenly trying to retreat into his shell. He began to ruthlessly cut his turkey breast into tiny little pieces.

  Laura looked across the table to see if Nate understood anything that Everett had just been ranting about. It was clear from Nate’s expression that he didn’t have any more of a clue than she did But Nate’s shoulder shrug was a signal to Laura that he’d just as soon let the subject drop.

  Laura understood. Nate hated engaging in pointless conversations with her Uncle Everett. Which for the most part meant any conversation with her Uncle Everett.

  But as they finished their Christmas dinner in silence, Laura couldn’t help wonder what was eating at her uncle.

  Could it be that he was behind the mysterious bride appearing beneath Michael’s tree? Had Everett sent her to the institute to spy?

  Laura would have sworn that Everett had given up on that silly business back in September, when he tried unsuccessfully to use her as his spy.

  But there was no denying that he was acting very strange tonight. Very strange. And if that wasn’t guilt written all over his pudgy face, then she was Santa Claus.

  What was Everett up to now?

  Chapter Four

  The single bed in the sleep lab was fairly comfortable, but Bnana looked at the black mask Michael held dubiously.

  “It’s feather-light,” he assured. “The latest technology. You’ll hardly know you’re wearing it.”

  “What’s its purpose?”