Borrowed Dreams (Debbie Macomber Classics) (5 page)

Falling back against her pillow, Carly released a long, tortured sigh. Who did she think she was kidding? Introduce Brand to another woman? She nearly laughed out loud.

The phone rang just as she stepped into the shower. Wrapping a towel around herself, she hobbled into the living room, leaving a trail of water behind her.

“Yes,” she breathed irritably into the receiver.

“Carly?” It was Brand. “You sound angry. What’s wrong?”

“Some idiot phoned and got me out of the shower.”

“Don’t tell me you’re standing there naked.” His voice became low and slightly husky.

“I am standing in a puddle of water, catching a chill.”

His warm chuckle quickened her heartbeat. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t changed your mind about this afternoon.”

“I probably should. But no, I’ll be ready when you get here.”

Carly dressed in designer jeans, cowboy boots, and a Western-style plaid shirt. She was putting the finishing touches on her makeup when the doorbell rang. A hurried glance in the mirror assured her that she looked fine.

“Good afternoon,” she said, and smiled a greeting. Her heart warmed at the sight Brand presented in gray slacks and a loose-fitting blue V-neck sweater. The long sleeves were pushed up past his elbows.

“I’m not dressed too casually, am I?” They were attending an art show. Diana thought Carly’s generally informal dress outrageous. But Carly was herself and wore what she wanted, where she wanted. Cowboy boots and jeans sounded fine for an art show to her.

“Not at all.” He smiled, holding her gaze for several seconds. He wrinkled his nose appreciatively and sniffed the air. “What smells so good?”

“Probably my perfume,” she said, and playfully exposed her neck to him.

“It smells like clams.”

Carly released a heavy sigh. “I hope you realize that you’re going to have to learn to be a little more romantic than that. I had a bowl of clam chowder for lunch.”

“I’ll try thinking romantic thoughts, then. That’s good advice.” He helped her into her three-quarter-length leather jacket.

“Tell me about the art show. I’m not much into the abstract stuff, but I like the Impressionists.”

His hand snaked out across her shoulder. “You’ll like this show,” he promised. “I don’t want to tell you too much. I want your opinion to be unbiased.”

“I know what I like.”

“Spoken like a true expert.”

*  *  *

The Anchorage Civic Center was crowded when they arrived, and they were forced to park several blocks down the street. Inside, people were clustered around a variety of paintings and sculptures.

With Brand at her side, Carly wandered from one exhibit to another. Not until she was halfway through the show did she see the painting of the child. Abruptly, she stopped, causing Brand to bump against her. He murmured something, but she didn’t hear him as she walked to the lifelike oil painting.

The child was no more than five. Vulnerable, lost, hurting. Her pale pink dress was torn, the hem unraveled. Her scuffed shoes had holes, and one foot was dejectedly turned inward. The tousled hair needed to be combed. But it was the eyes that captured Carly’s attention. Round, blue, and proud. So proud they defied her circumstances.

Carly stared at the painting for a long time before she noted that, in the far corner of one of the child’s eyes, a tear had formed. Emotion rose within her. This was Carly as a child; this was the little girl in the nightmare.

The dream was always the same. It ran through her mind like flickering scenes from a silent movie. She was small, not more than five, and hungry. So hungry that her stomach was empty and hurting. It was morning and she couldn’t wake her mother. Several times she’d gone into the other bedroom and pulled at her mother’s arm, but to no avail. At first Carly crawled back into her bed and cried, whimpering until she fell asleep. When she woke a second time, her stomach rumbled and gnawed at her. Sitting up, she decided she would cook her own breakfast.

The refrigerator was almost empty, but she found an egg. Mother always cooked those, and Carly thought she knew how. Filling the pan with water, she placed it on the stove and turned the knob. Then, afraid of a spanking, she ran into her mother’s room and tried to shake her awake. But the dark-haired woman growled angrily at Carly and said to leave her alone.

Standing on a kitchen chair, Carly watched the egg tumble in the angry, boiling water. She didn’t know how long Mother cooked things. Her mistake came when she pulled the pan from the stove. The bubbling water sloshed over the side and burned her small fingers. When she cried out and jerked her hand away, the pan of boiling water slid to the edge of the stove and toppled down her front.

This was the point where Carly always woke, usually in a cold sweat, her body rigid with terror. The dream had always been vivid, so very real. She didn’t know if she had been burned as a child. No scars marred her body. There was only the dream that returned to haunt her at the oddest times.

“Carly.” Brand’s large hand rested on her shoulder. “Are you all right? You’ve gone pale.”

“I want to buy this picture.”

“Buy it?” Brand repeated. “It could run in the thousands of dollars.”

Carly shook her head and shrugged his hand from her shoulder. She didn’t want him near. Not now. She raised her fingertips to her forehead and ran them down the side of her face as she continued to study the portrait.

Of course, the child wasn’t really her; she recognized that. The eyes were the wrong
color, the hair too straight and dark. But the pain that showed so clearly through those intense eyes was as close to Carly’s own as she had ever seen.

“The program states that this painting isn’t for sale,” Brand said from behind her.

Frustration washed through Carly. “I’ll talk to the artist and change his mind.”

“Her,” Brand corrected softly. “Carly?” His voice contained an uncharacteristic appeal. “Look at your program.”

Forcefully, she moved her gaze from the painting that had mesmerized her and glanced down at the sheet she’d been handed as she walked in the center door. For a moment her gaze refused to focus on the printed description. The painting was titled simply
Girl. A Self-Portrait
by Jutta Hoverson.

“Is she here?” Carly was surprised at how weak her voice was. “I’d like to meet her.”

Brand placed his hand on her shoulder, as if to protect her from any unpleasantness, a gesture Carly found almost amusing. “I think you should read the front of your program,” he said gently.

He was so insistent that Carly turned it over to examine what it was Brand found so important. The instant she read the heading she sighed and sadly shook her head. The art show was a collection of works done by prisoners: murderers, thieves, rapists, and only God knew what else.

Carly lifted her gaze from the program to the oil painting. “I wonder what crime she committed.”

“I thought you knew.”

“It doesn’t matter. I still want this picture,” she murmured, noting the way Brand was studying her. She didn’t want to explain why this was so important to her. She couldn’t.

“You feel more than just art appreciation,” he said, as his gaze skimmed her face thoroughly.

“Yes, I do.” Levelly, she met his look, which seemed to pierce her protective shield. She opened her mouth to explain, but nothing came out. “I … I was poor as a child.” She couldn’t say it. Something deep and dark was restraining the words. Being raised in foster homes wasn’t a terrible tragedy. She’d been properly cared for, without the stigma that often accompanied girls in her circumstances. Having never known her mother might have been the best thing. The woman was a stranger, an alcoholic. For reasons of her own, her mother had never put Carly up
for adoption. Carly resented that; the right to a normal family life had been denied her because her mother had refused to sign the relinquishment papers. As an adult, Carly thought that it wasn’t love that had prompted her mother to hold on to her rights but guilt.

“You might write”—Brand hesitated as he turned the program over, seeking the artist’s name—“Jutta Hoverson and ask her to change her mind. It says here that she’s at the Purdy Women’s Correctional Facility. If I remember correctly, that’s somewhere near Tacoma.”

“I will,” Carly confirmed. Jutta Hoverson might be a stranger, but already Carly felt a certain kinship with her. She continued to stare at the painting, having trouble taking her eyes from something that so clearly represented a part of her past. “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” She hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud.

“What makes you say that?” Brand questioned.

Carly’s momentary glance of surprise gave way to a dry smile. “Several things.” She didn’t elaborate.

Although they spent another hour at the show, Carly’s gaze continued to drift back to the painting of the child. Each time she examined it she saw more of herself: It was all there, in the dejected stance, the way one small foot was turned inward … in the hurt so clearly revealed in the eyes, the solitary tear that spoke of so much pain. So often in her life Carly had resisted crying, holding herself back until her stomach ached with the need to vent her emotion. Tears were considered a sign of weakness, and she wouldn’t grant herself permission for such a display of helplessness.

The apartment looked bleak and dingy when they returned. Carly paused just inside the door, unable to decide if it was the apartment itself or her mood. Brand had followed her inside, although she hadn’t issued an invitation.

“Carly.” Just the way Brand said her name caused a warmth to spread through her. One large hand rested on each of her shoulders from behind. “Won’t you tell me what’s troubling you? You’ve been pensive and brooding all afternoon. Ever since you saw the painting.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, as she unbuttoned her coat, forcing his hands from her shoulders as she slipped it from her arms and hung it in the closet. She couldn’t very well ask him to leave without being rude, but she wanted to be alone for now.

“I’m sorry the show brought back memories you’d rather forget. But I think this is just the kind of thing friends are for. I spilled my guts last night. Now it’s your turn.” He lowered his
long frame onto her sofa and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, lacing his fingers together. “Talk. I’ll try to be as good a listener as you were last night.”

“I …” Carly’s arms folded around her middle. “I … can’t.” She bit her lip. Brand’s frustration was in his eyes for her to read. Her own feelings were ambivalent. She wanted to be alone, yet in an inexplicable way she wanted him there. The intense longing she felt for him to hold her was almost frightening. “What I need is time. Alone, if you don’t mind.”

“No problem.” He jerked himself to his feet and was gone before she could say another word.

“Damn.” She was being stupid and she knew it. But that didn’t change the intensity of her feelings. Nor did it alter her black mood.

*  *  *

That night, Carly sat in the kitchen as she wrote a letter to Jutta Hoverson. Page after page of discarded attempts littered the table. There were so many things she wanted to say and no way she knew of putting them into words. After midnight, she settled on a few short sentences that simply asked Jutta if she would be willing to reconsider and sell the portrait.

Even after the letter was completed, Carly couldn’t sleep. She hadn’t meant to offend Brand, but she clearly had. He had revealed a deep and painful part of his own past, and she had shunned him this afternoon when it would have been natural to tell him why the painting had made such an impression on her.

She’d hesitated to open herself to him. The words had danced in her mind, but she’d been unable to say them. True, she didn’t make a point of telling people her circumstances, but she didn’t hide them, either. Something about the afternoon—and Brand—had made her reluctant to reveal her past.

*  *  *

No more sure of the answers when she awoke the next morning, Carly dressed and put on a pot of coffee. On impulse, she decided to phone Diana. Sometimes her friend could understand Carly
better than she did herself. After ten long rings, she replaced the receiver. Diana had probably spent the night with Barney. She wished those two would marry. As far as Carly could tell, they were perfect for each other. Barney was the first man Diana had ever loved who didn’t need to be rescued from himself. Invariably, Diana fell for the world’s losers; she apparently felt her undying love would redeem them. After two disastrous marriages, Diana was in no hurry to rush to the altar a third time. But Barney was different. Surely Diana could see that. He loved Diana. Barney might not be Burt Reynolds, but he was wonderful to Diana, and Carly’s friend deserved the best.

Carly spent the morning writing Diana a long letter, telling her about the painting and Jutta Hoverson. Almost as an afterthought, she decided to add a few lines about Brand and their … 
friendship
. She’d meant to say only a few things, but writing about her reactions to him helped her understand what was happening. A couple lines quickly became two long pages.

Both letters went in Monday’s mail.

*  *  *

By Wednesday, Carly still hadn’t heard from Brand. Apparently, he’d come into the office one afternoon while she was out, but had spoken with George and hadn’t left a message for her. That evening, Carly decided she couldn’t bear another night of television. Shopping was sure to cure even the heaviest of moods.

Before Carly knew where she was headed, she found herself on the sidewalk outside of Brand’s apartment house. His late-model car was parked against the curb. She didn’t know which apartment was his, but all she’d need to do was look at the mailboxes.

Her first knock was tentative. Coming to see him was a
friendly
gesture, she assured herself. And she did feel bad about the way she’d behaved Saturday.

“Yes?” The door was jerked open impatiently. Brand stopped abruptly as surprise worked its way across his handsome features. “Carly.” He whispered her name.