Borrowed Dreams (Debbie Macomber Classics) (7 page)

“Believe me, I know. But the wedding won’t be anything fancy. It’d be ridiculous for me to march down the aisle at this point. Barney and I want you here. It’s important to both of us.”

Disappointment made Carly’s hand tighten around the receiver. “I can’t, Diana,” she said, with an exaggerated sigh. “Why couldn’t you have made up your mind before I left Seattle?”

“Barney insists on paying your airfare. Now, before you say a word, I know about that pride of yours. But let me tell you from experience, it’s better not to argue with Barney and all his money. So plan right now on being here.”

Carly would have enjoyed nothing more. “But I can’t ask for time off from work. Hamlyn would have my head.”

“Threaten to quit,” Diana returned smoothly. “If Hamlyn gives you any guff, tell him where to get off. By this time he’s bound to recognize what a jewel you are.”

“Diana, I don’t know.”

Some of the teasing quality left Diana’s voice. “You’re the closest thing I’ve got to family, Carly. I’ve been married twice, and both times I’ve stood before a justice of the peace and mumbled a few words that were as meaningless as the marriage. I want this time to be right—all the way.”

Carly understood what Diana was saying. She hadn’t been present at either of her friend’s other weddings. “I don’t care what it takes,” Carly replied staunchly, “wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

“Great. I’ll let you know the details later. We’re seeing a minister tonight. Imagine me in a church!” She laughed. “That should set a few tongues wagging!”

“I’ll phone sometime next week,” Carly promised, as she replaced the receiver. A smile softened the tense line of her mouth. Diana a mother! The mental picture of her friend burping a baby was comical enough to lighten anyone’s mood. But she’d be a good one. Of that Carly had no doubt.

*  *  *

The days flew past. Carly dreaded seeing Brand, but she didn’t doubt that he’d be true to his word. The next time they were together could prove to be uncomfortable for them both. He wouldn’t avoid a confrontation—that she recognized.

Friday afternoon, George casually mentioned that Brand was on a flying assignment and wouldn’t be back until the following day. Carly breathed easier at the short reprieve. At least she would have more time to think about what she wanted to say to him. One thing was sure: It would be better if they didn’t continue to see each other. Even for
non-
dates. She didn’t know what unseen forces were at work within her, but Brandon St. Clair was far too appealing for her to remain emotionally untouched. He needed a woman. But not her. She’d make that clear when she saw him. Once it was stated, she could go back to living a normal, peaceful life. She might even investigate learning to knit. By the time Diana was pregnant, Carly might have the skill down pat enough to knit booties, or whatever it was babies wore.

*  *  *

Carly was sorting through her mail late Friday afternoon, still thinking about motherhood and how pleased she was for her friend. As she shuffled through several pieces of junk mail, a handwritten envelope took her by surprise. Glancing at the return address, she noted it was from the Purdy Women’s Correctional Facility. The name on the left-hand corner was Jutta Hoverson.

Memories of the proud child in the oil painting ruled Carly’s thoughts as she clutched Jutta Hoverson’s reply. Disappointment washed through her. The letter had been direct and curt. Jutta hadn’t bothered with a salutation. I TOLD THE PEOPLE TO SAY THAT THE PAINTING IS NOT FOR SALE. I DON’T WANT TO SELL THIS ONE. Her large signature was scrawled across the bottom of the lined paper. And then, as if in afterthought, Jutta had added: I HAVE OTHER PAINTINGS. She’d provided no information. No prices. Not that it mattered; Carly wanted only the one.

She must have read Jutta’s brusque words a dozen times, seeking a hidden meaning, desperately wanting to find some clue that the woman was willing to sell the self-portrait. There hadn’t been many things in her life that Carly had wanted more than that painting. A week after the art show, the small child remained vivid in her memory; she could still envision the proud tilt of her chin and the hidden tear in the corner of one eye. So many times in her life Carly had joked about her past. If someone had questioned her about being raised as she was, Carly’s flippant reply was always the same: Superman had foster parents. Even in the bleakest moments of her life, Carly had forced herself to be optimistic. Her childhood had made her emotionally strong and fortified her fearless personality. But tonight, with the letter from Jutta in her hand, Carly didn’t feel like playing a Pollyanna game. She felt like eating twenty-seven chocolates, soaking in the bathtub, reading a book, and downing an aspirin … all at the same time. Diana would get a kick out of that.

As it turned out, Carly didn’t do any of those things. She went to a theater and paid to see a movie she couldn’t remember. She sat in the back row and slouched so far down that she had trouble seeing the screen. After devouring a bag of popcorn, she returned home and downed half a jar of green olives and considered the popcorn and olives her dinner.

*  *  *

Carly woke the next morning depressed and slightly sick to her stomach. Her mood swings weren’t usually this extreme. She liked to think of herself as an even-keeled sort of person, although Diana claimed Carly was eccentric. Admittedly, she didn’t know anyone else who kept earmuffs on her nightstand in case of a storm so she wouldn’t hear the thunder.

What an ironic sort of person she was. Unafraid of change or danger, Carly often leaped into madcap schemes without thought.

She knew Diana had worried herself sick the weekend Carly had climbed Mount Rainier. The only mountain climbing she’d ever done had been that one weekend on Washington State’s highest peak. And yet Carly was frightened of a tempest.

A long walk that morning released some of the coiled tension. Her fingers pressed deep within the side pockets of her jeans, she kicked at rocks and pieces of broken glass along the side of the road. Something green flittered up at her. The reflection of the lazy rays of the sun flashed on a discarded and broken wine bottle. Carly stooped to pick it up. Its edges were worn smooth by time. Feeling a little like a lost child, Carly tucked the fragment into her pocket. A rush of emotion raced through her.
She
was like that glass. Discarded and forgotten by her mother, scoured by time.

Carly had followed her feet with no clear destination in mind, and soon found herself in a park. The happy sound of children’s laughter drifted toward her. She stood on the outskirts of the playground, watching. That was the problem with her life, she mused seriously. She was always on the outside looking in.

Well, not anymore
, her mind cried.
Not anymore
. With a determination born of self-pity, she ran to the slowly whirling merry-go-round.

“Hi.” A boy of about seven jumped off a swing and climbed onto the moving merry-go-round. “Are you going to push?”

“I might.” Carly started to trot around. The boy looked at her as if she were a wizard who had magically appeared for his entertainment.

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?” Carly asked him as she ran, quickly losing her wind. She climbed onto the ride and took several deep breaths.

“You got kids?” the boy countered. “I think it would be all right if you had kids.”

“Nope. There’s only me.” But Carly wasn’t trying to discourage his company. She had no desire to be alone.

The boy’s brows knit in concentration before he gave Carly a friendly grin. “You’re not a real stranger. I’ve seen you in the grocery store before.”

Carly laughed and jumped off the merry-go-round to head toward the swing set.

“I saw you buy Captain Crunch cereal.” He said it as if that put her in the same class as Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy. He ambled to the swing set and took the swing next to hers, pumping his legs and aiming his toes for the distant sky until he swung dangerously high. Carly tried to match him but couldn’t.

“I saw you pick up something on the path. What was it?”

“An old piece of glass,” Carly answered, still slightly out of breath.

“Then why’d you take it?” He was beginning to slow down.

“I’m not sure.”

“Can I see it?”

“Sure.” Using the heels of her shoes to stop the swing, she came to a halt and stood to dig the piece of glass from her pocket.

The young boy’s eyes rounded eagerly as she placed it in the palm of his hand. “Wow. It’s neat.”

It was only a broken, worn piece of a discarded wine bottle to Carly. Tossed aside and forgotten, just as she had been by a mother she couldn’t remember.

“See how the sun comes through?” He held it up to the sky, pinching one eye closed as he examined it in the sunlight. “It’s as green as an emerald.”

“Feel how smooth it is,” Carly said, playing his game.

The boy rubbed it with the closed palms of his hands and nodded. “Warm like fire,” he declared. “And mysterious, too.” He handed it back to her. “Look at it in the light. There’s all kinds of funny little lines hidden in it, like a treasure map.”

Following his example, Carly took the green glass and held it up to the sun. Indeed, it was just as the young boy had said.

The muffled voice came from the other side of the park.

“I gotta go,” the boy said regretfully. “Thanks for letting me see your glass.” Taking giant steps backward, he paused to glance apprehensively over his shoulder.

“Would you like to keep it?” Carly held it out for him to take.

His eyes grew round with instant approval, and just as quickly they darkened. “I can’t.
My mom will get mad if I bring home any more treasures.”

“I understand,” Carly said seriously. “Now, get going before you worry your mother.” She waved to him as he turned and kicked up his short legs in a burst of energy.

Carly’s hand closed around the time-scoured glass. It wasn’t as worthless as she’d thought, but a magical, special piece. What else was there that was as green as an emerald, as warm as a fire, and as intriguing as a treasure map? Tucking it back into her pocket, she strolled toward her apartment, content once again.

Stopping off at the supermarket, Carly returned home with a bag full of assorted groceries. The flick of a switch brought the radio to life. The strains of a classic Carole King song filled the small room with “You’ve Got a Friend.” Carly hummed as she unloaded the sack. Unbidden, the image of Brand fluttered into her mind. She straightened, her hand resting on her hip. Brand was her friend. The only real friend she’d made in Anchorage.

The soft beat of the music continued, causing Carly to stop and ponder. The song said all she had to do was call his name and he’d be there, because he was her friend.

But Brand was flying today. At least, George had said he wouldn’t be back until late afternoon.

Maybe she should phone him just to prove how wrong that premise was. Carly reached for her cell and punched out Brand’s number. Her body swayed to the gentle rhythm of the song and she closed her eyes, lost in the melody.

“Hello,” Brand answered gruffly.

The song faded abruptly. “Brand? I didn’t think you’d be back.” Her heart did a nonsensical flip-flop. “I … ah … how was your trip?” She brushed the bangs from her forehead, holding them back with her hand as she leaned her hip against the counter.

“Tiring. How are you?”

“Fine,” she answered lightly, disliking the way her pulse reacted to the mere sound of his voice. As much as she hated to admit it, Carly had missed Brand’s company. Then, to fill an awkward pause: “The radio’s playing ‘You’ve Got A Friend.’ ”

“I can hear it in the background.”

Carly could visualize Brand’s faint smile.

“I heard from Jutta Hoverson.” Her fingers tightened around the receiver.

“Jutta … oh, the artist. What did she say?”

Carly exhaled a pain-filled sigh. “She’s not interested in selling.”

“Carly, I’m sorry.” Brand’s voice had softened. “I know how much you wanted that painting.”

She appreciated his sympathy but didn’t want to dwell on the loss of the artwork. “I’ll bet you’re hungry,” she surprised herself by saying. “Why don’t you come over and I’ll fix you something? Friends do that, you know.”

He didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Brand sounded as surprised by the invitation as she was at making it. But it
was
understandable, Carly mused; she wanted to be around people. If she’d been in Seattle, she’d have wandered around the waterfront or Seattle Center. Setting up a tray of deli meats and a jar of olives, Carly realized that her mood required more than casual contact with the outside world. She wanted Brand. The comfort his presence offered would help her deal with Jutta’s refusal to sell the painting. Wanting Brand with her was a chilling sensation, one that caused Carly to bite her bottom lip. She didn’t want Brand to become a habit, and she feared being with him could easily become addictive.

The doorbell chimed. She glared at the offending portal, angry with herself for allowing Brand to become a weakness in her well-ordered life.

“Hi.” She let him in, welcoming him with a faint smile.

“Here—I thought these might brighten your day.” Brand handed her a small bouquet of pink and white carnations and sprigs of tiny white flowers. The bouquet wasn’t the expensive florist variety but the cheaper type from the supermarket.

Without a word, Carly accepted the carnations, her fingers closing over the light green paper that held them together. Brand’s gesture made her uneasy. Flowers were what he might bring a
date
. And George had mentioned something about the heavy medical bills Brand was paying off. His
wife’s
bills. She didn’t want him spending his hard-earned dollars on her. She frowned as she took the bouquet from him.

“What’s the matter?” Brand asked, and she was reminded anew how easily he read her.

Carly lowered her chin, not wanting to explain. “Nothing.”

“Are we back to that?” Irritation marked his words. “Have we regressed so far in such a short time?”