Where Dreams Are Written

by M. L. Buchman

  Dog. That’s what the sketch was. “Un peu alarming, n’est-ce pas?”

  “More than a little bit. We’re having such a fun time settling in that the kids are almost melting down. And me too. We all just have to keep our head in the game. Bill has one more opera before the summer break. Once it’s over and the kids are out of school, then we’ll get our honeymoon.”

  “South of France? A Caribbean island?” Melanie had done many shoots in both and wasn’t sure which she’d prefer.

  “We were thinking of Disneyland. The kids haven’t been in years, not since their mom died, and I’ve never been. It sounds like fun.”

  Melanie laughed. She couldn’t help herself. Perrin made it sound fun, and, of course, it would be with her involved. She pictured Tamara charging around Disneyland with her brother. And her parents. Melanie had only been a few years older when she landed her first magazine cover. Teen Vogue had offered her one great prize in addition to the exposure; it had shifted her thoughts into plotting her escape from her mother. Disneyland. How different their worlds were. How glad she was for Tamara.

  “Perhaps I shall stow away in one of your valises.”

  “Nah, all dark and cramped in there. You wouldn’t like it.” Perrin’s smile made Melanie feel welcome and as if she belonged here. Which she did as much as anywhere. She should be getting out of Carlo’s hotel room—she really didn’t want to spend another night there—but she had nowhere else to go except back to her apartment in New York. There was nothing to do there either. She’d blocked out a long window of time for the swimsuit issue and now had nothing to take its place. But that didn’t mean she should impose.

  “I should leave so you can work on something other than a dog coat.” Melanie began to rise but Perrin waved her back down.

  “I’m interviewing a seamstress in a few minutes anyway, several of them I think. I just can’t keep up. Before the success of the opera we were already selling stock far faster than I could sew. And with a family now, it’s completely overwhelming. I won’t miss sewing the same thing over and over anyway; I’d rather design. But the business side and marketing and everything else is so overwhelming I can’t think. I’m afraid I’m going to have to give up some control, but I hate doing that.”

  So did Melanie, yet another thing they had in common.

  Melanie enjoyed watching the interview. She started as an observer. But she could see Perrin hit a wall far too soon. So, Melanie asked a question, eliciting Perrin’s near-panicked relief. After that, they both ran the interview.

  Karissa was smart, quiet, and loved to sew. She knew her own limitations, had tried designing and simply not taken to it, but she loved the feel of a well-crafted garment and appeared to know what that meant. Her interview dress was a piece of immaculate construction of her own doing, but not much imagination.

  Melanie too knew her own limitations. She’d only ever loved one thing, the business and process of modeling. Some models enjoyed nothing more than the clothes. Others wanted the fame, going for the bad press with wild flings and parties when they couldn’t generate the good press.

  She’d tried, in the safe seclusion of her Upper East Side apartment, to both design and sew. The Sudanese supermodel Alek Wek had done just that and created her fabulous line of Wek handbags, one of which sat at Melanie’s feet. While Melanie had managed some bit of skill, neither had held her interest nor sparked her imagination.

  Perrin was all set to hire Karissa on the spot, but Melanie suggested one last step. Karissa was sent to the fabric racks and then the other end of the big cutting table to reproduce one of Perrin’s designs, but in a size four instead of a size two—using no pattern but the dress hanging before her.

  Raquel, Perrin’s store manager, had lined up four candidates who arrived at half hour intervals. The next two seamstresses didn’t make it as far as the sewing test: one due to poor skills, and the other one had irritated them both so much that they’d simply shown him the door. Even Karissa had sighed quietly with relief from her assigned sewing machine when the bombastic East European was gone.

  The last one, a young gay man named Clem, arrived in a flamboyant suit that bordered on the ridiculous, jacket lapel points almost up to his ears and Capri-length suit pants in dark pinstripe with white socks and cordovan shoes, but the construction was amazing even if the taste level was a bit bizarre. He landed at the machine beside Karissa to create a size six. In moments they were chatting and teasing each other, despite the competition of the interview.

  “Do you need two?” Melanie had taken Perrin aside after she watched Clem ask for guidance from Karissa and how easily they each gave and took direction.

  “I don’t know, really. Let’s go out front and ask Raquel.”

  The front of Perrin’s shop was such a treat; a 1950s diner of chrome and red leatherette, populated by amazingly well-attired mannequins. Melanie always made a point of spending time here each trip to tour the display booths. Everything had changed once again. Prohibition was back, and she’d added Cotton Club and speakeasy posters to the décor. Glam flapper dresses, updated with modern colors sat next to Zoot suits rethought for women.

  The best of it were the two booths at the end where she always did her wedding displays. There, snuggled together, looking as if they were waiting for their ice cream, were the sleek wedding dresses. They had the lace shoulders, sleek profiles, and tea-length hemline of the 1930s, and the elegance of Perrin’s Glorious Garb. A mannequin poised as a waitress was shockingly attractive in the demure pink satin that didn’t feel the least bit demure.

  Melanie forced her attention back to Raquel—a striking and buxom redhead, an exemplar of the tradition of that name. With an admirable efficiency, she laid out the orders. Already there was a two-week wait for dresses and business suits that weren’t in stock in a particular size. Wedding dresses were booked for two months out.

  Melanie glanced at the store’s racks, they’d been sufficiently ravaged that Perrin’s Glorious Garb was in danger of becoming a custom-to-order shop with nothing to satisfy the impulse or tourist buyer. When a customer strolled in, they needed to be greeted with an abundance of options. A glory of them. Not the almost painfully thin displays she now had.

  “Deux,” Melanie informed Perrin.

  “But that’s two salaries.”

  “You need two.”

  Raquel nodded agreement then set out a sales chart representing the last four quarters.

  Melanie inspected it for several long moments. She’d rarely seen such a growth curve. She shared a look with Raquel and they both laughed.

  “I know! I’ve been telling her.”

  Melanie turned to Perrin, “You had need of two seamstresses two months ago. How have you been doing this by yourself? You’ll need another in a month. They’ll pay for themselves twice over based on these orders. Restocking the racks and working on the new designs... Assurément! Deux. Let us go and see how it is they do.”

  Neither was done, Perrin’s designs weren’t simple. But based on the work so far, and with Melanie’s confirming nod, Perrin hired them both on the spot with instructions to return tomorrow and finish the dresses.

  When the buoyantly giddy pair had been turned over to Raquel for paperwork and the studio was once again quiet, they dropped onto stools to catch their breath.

  Melanie was thrilled. The depression that had skirted close beside her for the last two days, as it always did whenever she contemplated her past, had been driven back down into the depths where it belonged.

  As they chatted back and forth, oddly about the coat design for Figaro, Perrin’s opera-named Cairn terrier presently asleep in a small doggie bed under the table, Melanie had mentioned her need to get out of the hotel room she’d shared with Carlo.

  “Oh, you must stay in town until your next contract. Please Melanie? We’ll have so much fun.” Perrin had grabbed her phone without awaiting a reply and called Mama Maria.

  In an eyeblink, Melanie was a bit bef
uddled to find herself heading off to check out of the hotel. Maria would meet her in half an hour in Pioneer Square. Angelo had a condo there, at the south end of downtown, that he had lived in before marrying Jo. Maria had, in turn, lived there before marrying and moving in with Hogan.

  “See,” Perrin had insisted, “maybe it will bring you good luck as well.”

  Why it was that married people always thought their unmarried friends couldn’t help but want what they had? Melanie would like to be married someday. But though her career had stumbled, it was far from over and she had no intention of slowing down anytime soon.

  That wasn’t the issue. She liked the idea enough to let Perrin sweep her along. Besides, the woman was an unstoppable force anyway so resistance really was pointless. The problem was that she didn’t know what was now expected in return. Help with a few interviews didn’t balance a pleasant and free accommodation in the heart of Seattle’s old town district.

  Despite her misgivings, between Perrin, a very helpful concierge, and Maria, Melanie soon found herself ensconced in a charming condominium just off Seattle’s Pioneer Square. On the seventh floor, it peeked over the present Alaskan Way Viaduct elevated roadway, offering a stunning view of Elliott Bay and the Olympics.

  “Imagine the view when they finish the tunnel,” Maria had said, “and they take down the Viaduct.”

  It would be stunning. It would offer a premier view in a premier location. Pioneer Square was the founding site of Seattle. And while it was small and quaint, it felt more like New York than much of the city. The area burst forth with more tiny shops and galleries than Soho. Restaurants and bars were tucked in out-of-the-way corners.

  Maria told her the best bookstore in the city was just two blocks away and had a coffee shop; Melanie would have to be very careful there—bookstores were a major hazard to her careful budget. The International District offered a small Chinatown that guaranteed good eating. If she had to be somewhere in Seattle, this would do nicely.

  That the condo sat empty most of the time was apparent by the emptiness of the refrigerator, but Melanie preferred to eat out anyway. She only cooked on rare occasion and then very simply. Fruit and yogurt would cover most of her at-home needs; she could practically live on fresh-made smoothies.

  It had rich, oak-wood flooring, a heavy-beamed ceiling—high enough to feel open rather than oppressive, and sunny yellow walls sporting pretty framed pictures of Italy: Tuscany, Liguria, and the Piedmont. The living room furnishing could have been her own, an IKEA selection. She’d never felt the need for more in her own personal space.

  The masterpiece of the décor was the kitchen. Everything else was comfortable yet little more. But the corridor kitchen clearly belonged to a chef with its generous space, built-in cutting boards, and fierce-looking stove. It had a large walk-in pantry with northern light that stood mostly empty. The two bedrooms were done prettily. She found them to be cozy and took the one that had clearly been Maria’s based on the feminine touches in bedspread and art.

  Maria fussed and pampered her, which was very kind and did indeed make Melanie feel welcome. If only she didn’t have the constant kneejerk reaction against every possible form of mothering. But she did, and she had to suppress it hard and often. Maria is not your mother, don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react. And she didn’t; at least not on the outside.

  Permission to stay at the condo also added another checkmark on the ledger sheet of life; she now clearly owed Maria as surely as she owed Perrin. She had no concept of how she’d ever repay either of them.

  “As long as you like, Melanie. We have no plan to sell it. It is so convenient, we just haven’t found a use for it at the moment. It’s free-and-clear and costs us almost nothing, so it is yours to use. No guilt,” she’d waggled a finger before Melanie could protest, forcing her to keep her guilt to herself. “It’s obvious, young girl, that you need somewhere to stop and breathe for a moment. This is where.”

  She did turn down an invitation to dinner with Maria and her husband, but carefully accepted the hug Maria offered. Such kindness was so rare and precious. And she simply couldn’t bring herself to trust it.

  Melanie unpacked into one corner of the generous master closet and the built-in dresser designed properly to accommodate a woman. Men always thought four drawers covered all needs—which was all she needed for her current suitcase-sized wardrobe—but she appreciated the design. She liked this room very much and settled in for a quiet evening. She actually didn’t need much dinner, and for some reason she was so exhausted that an energy bar with a cup of tea was all she could really stomach. A luxurious rose-scented bath and she was in bed with a book by eight and asleep by nine.

  Josh parked his Beemer in the garage. He grabbed his computer and a pack with some clothes, figured everything else could just wait for tomorrow. At this point he simply needed somewhere to collapse.

  This morning he’d woken up six hours and a speeding ticket away in Spokane, after crossing the country in five remarkably long days behind the wheel—the Great Plains went on for bloody ever—without any tickets. Welcome to Washington. Some greeting.

  He hadn’t driven across the whole country since a college road trip when he and two buddies had punched straight through from New York to San Francisco in just fourteen minutes under two days. It was Spring Break so they’d spent five days freezing their asses off on the fog-bound coast and then turned around and hammered back. Clancy had gotten the speeding ticket on that trip.

  Angelo had dragged Josh into the restaurant kitchen for dinner. He’d served a venison and baby squash skewer drowned in a morel mushroom sauce with a slow, spicy heat that built and warmed without burning. It almost made Josh wish he was still working as a food writer so that he could dedicate a whole article to this one dish. Russell had called his wife Cassidy to join them. The three of them had spent a merry evening harassing Angelo and his crew from a side prep table while they made dinner service look like an art form rather than a duty.

  Angelo’s kitchen was a magazine photo-worthy creation; Josh knew because he’d done a feature article on just that kitchen. At the far end was the patissier station that Angelo’s mother Maria ruled over. It was now occupied by the night service chef, but all the prep had been done hours before by Maria.

  The friturier hovered over his fryers and the grill master and soup potager hovered to Angelo’s other side. He anchored the center of the line passing prepared plates to the aboyeur Louisa, who cajoled, pleaded, demanded, and absolutely controlled the final dressing of each plate. She also made sure the timing would have the product hit the tables at its very peak moment of perfection.

  Josh had avoided most of the unwanted questions by sticking close to Russell so that Graziella couldn’t get him aside. And he kept his left hand out of Cassidy’s sight as much as possible. When she finally rolled her eyes at him, he caught on that she’d noticed right away: both the missing ring, and his lack of interest in discussing it. After that he relaxed a little.

  He’d stayed through closing and cleanup because of the company, but now he just needed to sleep. Angelo had insisted that he could stay in the condo for as long as he wanted. It was just sitting empty. Angelo said he’d sell it once the old Alaskan Viaduct roadway had finished coming down which would shoot up the property value.

  So tired he could barely stay upright, he let himself in, dumped his computer on the first chair he spotted, and headed for the bedroom, not bothering with a light—there was enough light coming in through the uncovered living room window to steer around large objects. He opened the door to pitch darkness. As he reached for a light switch, a small suitcase slammed him square in the chest.

  More due to surprise than the force of impact, he crashed backward to the hardwood floor, good thing he’d already dumped his computer on the chair, and had a brief impression of long legs sprinting by as he struggled to catch his breath.

  “Who the hell are you?” A woman. Pissed woman. From New Jersey by
the accent. Wasn’t he in Seattle?

  Josh rolled up on one elbow as the light flicked on, temporarily blinding his weary, night-adapted eyes. In between cautious eye blinks and narrow squints, he was offered a sideways view of the legs that had flashed by a moment before. They were even longer than his first impression. Atop them was a faded t-shirt with “Versace” across it in large, scripted letters. He was on the verge of admiring the great stream of tousled blond hair that covered the woman’s face when he focused on her hands.

  They were clasped directly in front of her and were aiming a…Taser.

  “Whoa!” Josh held his hands palm out.

  “Answer the question, you bastard!”

  He sat up very slowly, keeping his hands in view. A shake of her head flipped most of the bounty of hair back over her shoulder. He recognized her immediately. You couldn’t be anywhere near the print magazine industry and not know Melanie, perhaps not anywhere on the planet. He’d only met her the once, while having lunch with Perrin on his last trip to Seattle a couple months before. He’d been unable to speak a word to the breathtaking beauty.

  Normally it was the truly amazing chefs he had trouble speaking with even though interviewing chefs had been part of his job. His first meeting with Eric Ripert had nearly killed him and he was sure that it was only because the man was so old-world civilized that he hadn’t declared Josh a complete idiot. It had been a total “fan moment.”

  But Melanie had been worse than that, so stunning and so impossibly real that he’d become totally awkward despite being happily married, or so he’d thought at the time. He could still remember the way she’d smelled from the moment when she had kissed him gently on the cheek in greeting. He’d planned to laugh with his wife over it, except she’d dropped the divorce bomb on him as soon as he walked back into their condo from that trip. Now he’d better get past being tongue-tied if he didn’t want to get zapped.