Where Dreams Are Written

by M. L. Buchman

  Before Melanie could begin to explain, Joshua rested a hand on Perrin’s arm and drew aside her attention. Melanie wanted to snap at him for interfering.

  “The first question, Perrin,” he withdrew his hand as the sandwiches arrived. “Is do you want to do those things? I heard you absolutely killed at the opera, but did you enjoy it?”

  “Are you kidding?” Perrin waved her panino in the air in her sudden excitement. “The chance to build a three-hundred piece collection was fabulous. Defining the anchoring three styles and fifteen main costumes. And big weddings are just another grand story. If I could only…”

  Joshua cut her off with one of his marvelous laughs; Melanie could really get to like that laugh. It made her feel cheerful, though she was irritated with his interruption.

  “So, do it!” Joshua told her.

  He was right. He had cut directly to the core. Did Perrin even want this? That was the key success factor and she hadn’t even thought to bring it up.

  Perrin stopped chewing and stared at him. Her body, normally vibrating with energy had suddenly gone still.

  “How?” It was barely a whisper.

  “Not a clue.”

  Perrin gasped, swore in a quite unladylike way, then stuck her tongue out at him.

  “But,” then Joshua turned those warm, dark eyes on Melanie. “I’ll bet she knows.”

  Now it was her turn to be stunned to silence. People only ever learned the hard way that Melanie was a businesswoman first and a model second. She had studied, even paid for two night courses and private tutoring from an attorney to make sure she understood contract law well enough to negotiate her own. Her contracts were the best in the business. She’d seen the crap offered to most other models and, after soliciting Melanie’s advice, they took them; which was often head-shakingly stupid, but not unusual.

  But no one had ever seen that about her until they were on the wrong side of the negotiating table. With Joshua she’d shared two meals and a mutual scare and somehow he saw—

  “Do you?” Perrin was asking her. That wide-eyed innocent girl shining through despite her dark past.

  Melanie took a bite of her own panino to buy herself a moment. Oh, Angelo was so good. The taste of the simple toasted sandwich unfolded in layers. She shook off the invitation to a playful journey that the food attempted to lead her along, and shifted her attention back to the discussion of Perrin’s business.

  Her friend’s talent, work ethic, and dedication to the craft weren’t a question. She was one of the most innovative yet effective designers working today. She understood how to elevate both everyday wear and wedding wear without forcing them onto the runway. Melanie herself had worn some of Perrin’s styles out on the streets of New York and simply felt fabulous, not out of place.

  And she knew how to make a woman look incredible; she really understood the female form. And not just the model thin; she’d seen Rubenesque women shining in Perrin’s dresses.

  The demand was there as evidenced by Raquel’s numbers and the folder of requests resting in Melanie’s handbag. And if there were e-mails in addition to those… She began calculating assets. Russell had already done some ads for Perrin—his fashion-photography name still had immense clout in the industry. She’d need—

  Melanie pulled back, would have sat back except for the years she’d spent training herself into a perfect posture. It was a fascinating puzzle, but not one she was a part of.

  “Do you?” Perrin asked again in the voice of hers that none could deny.

  “It’s not a small project.”

  “I get that,” suddenly the business side of Perrin was at the table as well. This was a woman Melanie had only glimpsed the once before. “Do you, Melanie, know how to do this?” This was no longer a vague question by a hopeful excited beginner. This was a fellow professional.

  “No, I don’t,” Melanie had to be honest. She’d never taken a design house to market before.

  Perrin looked deflated.

  Joshua looked at her as if he didn’t believe her. He even had a bit of a smile. Then he said, “But…” and left it hanging.

  “But,” Melanie conceded, “I do know what it would take to figure out.”

  Chapter 4

  Hours later, Melanie still didn’t know why she’d said that. It had unnerved her enough that she hadn’t rejoined Perrin at the shop. Instead she’d gone down to Elliot Bay Books at the south end of Pioneer Square, a few blocks past the condo.

  As promised, it was a magnificent store; a labyrinthine collection set in interconnected lofty, bright spaces. A little wooden ramp led up to Pacific Northwest history and women’s fiction. At the far end of the ramp, bookcases of age-worn wood were crammed to bursting with an excellent humor collection.

  In the room beyond ranged a vast collection of science fiction, romances, mystery, and more, simply poised and awaiting their moment to leap from the shelf into a patron’s hands. She found new books by two of her favorite mystery authors, and a military romantic suspense that she didn’t know but promised a strong heroine. She did enjoy reading about strong women.

  She and her stack of books had ended up downstairs in the coffee shop with a pot of peppermint tea and a Bing cherry biscotti—another carb, but at the moment, she needed it. It looked as if Seattle might have been founded in this very room. Age-darkened wood tables, stout but comfortable chairs, and soft lighting perfect for reading and relaxing. Just beyond lay a line of heavy wood pillars supporting the floor above, a large array of chairs and a podium for author readings; she’d need to get a schedule to see if there was anyone interesting in the next few days. And everywhere there were colorfully filled bookcases wrapping the walls and defining spaces.

  This was as close to heaven as Melanie had been in a long time. She poured her tea and settled in to choose which book she would read first, and thought of Joshua.

  What had the man been writing? A novel, but he’d never said more. She’d never dated a writer; truth be told, she found them a little daunting. Her five new books—she’d managed to cut herself off at five—showed the diversity that could imply. The walls around her only reinforced that there was no way to guess.

  Nor could she guess how he had seen through her careful walls. No one saw past the supermodel. Jo had only seen the model who had loved Russell. Russell could see something of her emotions, but no matter how protective of her he was—which was quite charming as she really didn’t need it, but it was so kind that she let him think so—he saw her only as a celebrity and former lover.

  She and Perrin had designed a few dresses together, which had been an exciting and fascinating experience. Perrin’s creativity and her own knowledge of the industry had combined to make a truly special gown for the opera’s opening. Perrin had also shared Melanie’s own need to leave her past behind and start clean, something they’d easily recognized in each other. It made them compatible, but even Perrin didn’t see who she really was.

  Only Joshua walked right past the supermodel and addressed Melanie directly. It didn’t make sense, but it was the only way she could describe the feeling.

  She’d created a career based upon a chance crossing of genetics and an attitude she’d always known how to control and deliver. Those were the tools of the persona that she presented the world, and the world had paid her very handsomely for that. But the money had been paid to the exterior mask, not the woman within.

  Her business-side skills, those she had created from scratch through intensely hard work and painful experience. It was the business person who felt most like her because she’d earned every single bit of that knowledge on her own.

  Joshua had not only seen, but complimented the second woman. No man had ever seen past her beauty, not even Russell.

  Instead of settling in with her books, she slipped out the folder of Perrin’s letters and read through them more carefully. It was an interesting problem. Design houses were often based upon a single person’s genius. It was a matter of developi
ng a support system that both leveraged their skills and isolated them so that they could do whatever it was they did best. The finest designers possessed some kind of synaptic connections that were as unique as her own genes.

  Designers could be wildcards like Karan, eccentrics like the reclusive Zoran, or born marketers like Hilfiger. They could lead their own companies, for better or worse, or turn it over to a CEO who understood and worked with them.

  It was the shoestring years that were the problem. Perrin was trying to add the occasional seamstress, but she’d need to have a great deal of preparation in place to handle the requests now spread across the bookstore table. She’d been right to be afraid of these, but the opportunity nearly sizzled in Melanie’s fingers it was so hot. She could feel the potential radiating off them.

  Melanie left her tea for a moment to return upstairs and purchase an attractive, leather-bound journal she’d spotted earlier by the cash register. Back to her book-lined corner downstairs, she began sketching out just what it might take for Perrin’s Glorious Garb to climb the next level. Her tea was long gone cold by the time she remembered it.

  Josh had spent the afternoon doing a market run to stock the kitchen. There was nothing like it in New York City. The produce here should be on cooking shows, not sitting out for purchase. The freshness and unblemished quality was astonishing and he ended up buying far more than he needed.

  What did supermodels eat anyway? Thinking of Melanie’s healthy look, he’d guess that she ate less, but very high quality. She had none of the gauntness so common in her profession, so he worried less about calories and more about being nutrient dense and flavorful.

  He’d begin with a minestrone soup. He wandered Pike Place Market, selecting the root vegetables he’d need, spring spinach for iron, and fresh herbs. It was crowded with jostling shoppers browsing the stalls. He bought a fresh-orange gelato that tasted of California sunshine.

  And the flowers were everywhere in the Market. Spring in Seattle meant buckets of flowers. The strange weather this year had crossed late tulips and irises with early dahlias. He’d gone certifiably nuts, buying more flowers than food and then had to cart them all down the ten blocks to the condo.

  He didn’t know if Melanie was planning to be back for dinner or not, but he’d felt like cooking anyway. And he wanted to bring the Seattle spring indoors.

  If he stuck around Seattle at all, he’d see if he could find some herb plants so that he could have them right in the kitchen. The mid-afternoon light shining in the condo’s south and west windows would make a windowsill garden easy to cultivate.

  He built the soup and started it simmering as quickly as he could. Then he unloaded his car, stacking his meager collection of boxes along the wall. The new finish on the old wood floor shone in the spattered sunlight just begging for a few nice accent rugs and new furniture, especially a decent writing chair. He resisted the urge to unpack his boxes into the large bookcases Angelo had placed near the kitchen, obviously for a cookbook collection now probably in his high-rise home with Jo.

  For the moment, he pulled the laptop out on the dining room table, but made no new progress on the novel. His attempts to distract himself with his e-mail totally failed after deleting the few messages “congratulating” him on making the leap into the unknown. An inbox he’d never caught up with in the last decade was empty in minutes. Not a single message from Constance. He slapped the cover closed before he could ask why he was expecting one. Five years of marriage and all he’d proven was that he was even stupider about women than writing novels.

  He went to check on the soup, but it didn’t need anything other than more time.

  He’d noticed the way Melanie had left much of the bread from her panino behind at lunch. She hadn’t made a show of it, but it was there. So carbs were an issue, but you couldn’t have minestrone without good bread. Rather than a big loaf, he’d purchased small ciabatta rolls. Also, he left out the handful of pasta that he’d normally have tossed in for Constance. Constance’s mom had always done it for her little girl and it was the key ingredient of minestrone, according to his wife.

  No, his ex-wife.

  He had to brace himself against the counter and let his head hang while trying to remember how to breathe past the pain. It was no longer a constant companion, but it did slap him when he least expected it.

  “It smells wonderful in here.”

  Josh almost strangled himself as a gasp for breath—far too close to a sob for his taste—jerked him upright to see Melanie relocking the door behind her. He couldn’t speak as the vision floated toward him. Again, that soft, unconscious sway of hip and the natural smile.

  “I…” Get your shit together Josh! “…didn’t know if you’d be around for dinner, but I made plenty. I do have to warn you, it’s disgustingly healthy.”

  “As long as it smells the way it tastes, I’m all in.” She dropped her large, wood-handled, leather designer bag on a chair and came over to stare down into the pot and breathe in deeply, releasing it with a soft sigh.

  This close, he could smell her despite the aromatic minestrone. She smelled of…if you’re going to be a writer, you can find the right word…hope. Of glorious possibility. Simply being in her presence made him feel as if the world was a better place. Standing so close that he could easily have run his hand over her long, lovely hair, the world was filled with promise.

  He stepped back, “I’m such a mess.”

  “You are, how?”

  “I didn’t mean to say that aloud.”

  “Too late!” She leaned back against the counter, crossed her arms comfortably and looked at him with the bluest eyes on the planet. “Give.”

  Evade! “First let me say: this accentless New Yorker fits you better than the French.”

  He shouldn’t have said that. She tensed up as if he was the one now wielding the Taser.

  “The slightly French supermodel is strong, foreboding, unapproachable. I can see why you chose her; she is an exceptionally formidable woman positively radiating mystique. And I can see why you left behind the…other.” At least he had enough sense to not throw Paramus, New Jersey in her face.

  She tensed more anyway; her arms clenched so tightly he wondered if she’d hurt herself.

  “But this version of you, with the trace of Manhattan in your voice and leaning back comfortably—until I was dumb enough to start on your accent to avoid answering your question—is an equally wondrous and alarmingly attractive woman.”

  “Alarmingly?” She didn’t sound pissed. Okay, not only pissed. Melanie also sounded intrigued, though she was keeping it off her face with that perfect control of hers suddenly clamped into place.

  “Way!” was the only answer he felt safe giving before returning his attention to nursing along his soup. The silence stretched but he didn’t dare look up. He took a small taste of the rich broth and decided that a little salt…no, anchovy paste would bring it to life nicely.

  Speaking truth to power was said to be a very dangerous action undertaken only by the brave or the foolhardy. Well, he’d just made a total fool of himself, for what greater power was there over man than beauty? Maybe he could work that into his book somehow. Who was he kidding? If he ever managed to write one.

  “Alarmingly.”

  He nodded at her choosing to make it a statement, but didn’t look up.

  “And you think that by turning my own judgment of myself on its head is going to get you out of answering my question of how are you a mess?”

  This time when he glanced up, he could see the humor showing on her face.

  “I had kind of hoped.”

  She flashed that killer smile that was never seen in any of her ads or photo spreads or runway shows, then told him he was a, “Sucker! Now give.”

  He laughed. He couldn’t help himself. Something about her filled the world with a joy he’d forgotten existed.

  “How am I such a mess?” he reframed the question.

  “Yes.”


  “Because three months ago, on the day I first met you as a matter of fact, I had a wife who loved me, living together in a condo that we’d decorated just right for us, and a great career as a food writer. Within twenty-four hours I was well on my way to losing all three.”

  “I know the food reviewing part. I always read your articles and reviews first, just in case I didn’t have time to read the rest of the magazine. You write beautifully.”

  “Okay, I’ll try not to grow wings and float about the room on a sheer burst of ego.”

  She glanced at the heavy-beamed ceiling, then back down at him, her tone dead-flat serious. “Watch your head if you do.”

  Melanie couldn’t think of the last time she’d had a conversation like this with a man, or a woman. It was easy, fun. Even if Joshua had just torn off her mask by… How had he done it? By being nicely normal and making her soup.

  Men bought her sumptuous meals she didn’t want, hoping it would work in their favor—it never did. Men didn’t cook one of her favorite comfort soups from scratch or make a show of ducking their heads just in case they did sprout wings. No one understood her humor. But someone just had. How curious.

  So, he’d had a wife and a condo.

  “What happened?”

  “After five years together, Constance,” the poor man winced at merely saying her name aloud, “discovered she was more interested in members of her own sex. It was amicable, and yet I still—” He turned away, not even pretending to fuss at the stove. He braced both hands on the sink and bowed his head, much as he’d been standing when she entered.

  Melanie was unsure what to do, but she knew she couldn’t stand to witness such pain and do nothing. She moved up beside him and began rubbing her palm up and down his back. There was no fat on his frame. He wasn’t “built” like Russell or muscular from weight-lifting like Angelo. He was long, lean, handsome, and hurting.