Holding the Dream (2 page)

“What?” Kate yelped before Laura could shush her.

“Quiet.” She hurried back across the blue-and-white-tiled floor toward Kate and Margo. “I don't want Mom and Dad to hear. Not yet.”

“Laura, you can't seriously be thinking of marrying Peter Ridgeway. You barely know him, and you're only seventeen.” A million reasons against the idea whirled through Margo's mind.

“I'll be eighteen in a few weeks. It's just a feeling, anyway. Promise me you won't say anything.”

“Of course not.” Kate reached the bottom of the curving staircase. “You won't do anything crazy, will you?”

“Have I ever?” A wistful smile played around Laura's mouth as she patted Kate's hand. “Let's go in.”

“What does she see in him?” Kate mumbled to Margo. “He's old.”

“He's twenty-seven,” Margo corrected, worried. “He's gorgeous and treats her like a princess. He has. . .” She searched for the word. “Polish.”

“Yes, but—”

“Ssh.” She spotted her mother coming down the hallway, wheeling a cart laden with hot chocolate. “We don't want to spoil tonight. We'll talk later.”

Ann Sullivan's brow furrowed as she studied her daughter. “Margo, I thought that dress was for Christmas Day.”

“I'm in a holiday mood,” Margo said breezily. “Let me take that, Mum.”

Far from satisfied, Ann watched her daughter roll the cart into the parlor before she turned to Kate. “Miss Kate, you've been overworking your eyes again. They're bloodshot. I want you to rest them later with cucumber slices. And where are your slippers?”

“In my closet.” Understanding the housekeeper's need to scold, Kate hooked her arm through Ann's. “Come on now, Annie, don't fuss. It's tree-trimming time. Remember the angels you helped us make when we were ten?”

“How could I forget the mess the three of you made? And Mr. Josh teasing the lot of you and biting the heads off Mrs. Williamson's gingerbread men.” She lifted a hand to touch Kate's cheek. “You've grown up since. Times like this I miss my little girls.”

“We'll always be your little girls, Annie.” They paused in the parlor doorway to survey the scene.

It made Kate grin, just the look of everything. The tree, already shining with lights, soared a good ten feet. It stood in front of the tall windows that faced the front. Boxes of ornaments brought out of storage sat ready to be opened.

In the lapis hearth decked with candles and fresh greenery a sedate fire flickered. Scents of apple wood and pine and perfume filled the room.

How she loved this house, she thought. Before the decorating was done, every room would have just the right touches of holiday cheer. A bowl of Georgian silver filled with pine-cones would be flanked by candles. Banks of poinsettias in gilt-trimmed pots would crowd all the window seats. Delicate porcelain angels would be placed just so on glossy mahogany tables in the foyer. The old Victorian Santa would claim his place of honor on the baby grand.

She could remember her first Christmas at Templeton House. How the grandeur of it had dazzled her eyes and the constant warmth had soothed that ache just under her heart.

Now half of her life had been lived here, and the traditions had become her own.

She wanted to freeze this moment in her mind, make it forever and unchangeable. There, she thought, the way the firelight dances over Aunt Susie's face as she laughs at Uncle Tommy—and the way he takes her hand and holds it. How perfect they look, she thought, the delicate-framed woman and the tall, distinguished man.

Christmas hymns played quietly as she took it all in. Laura knelt by the boxes, lifting out a red glass ball that caught the light and tossed it back. Margo poured steaming chocolate from a silver pot and practiced her flirting skills on Josh.

He stood on a ladder with the lights from the tree glinting in his bronze hair. They played over his face as he grinned down at Margo.

In this room filled with shining silver, sparkling glass,
polished old wood and soft fabrics, they were perfect. And they were hers.

“Aren't they beautiful, Annie?”

“That they are. And so are you.”

Not like them, Kate thought, as she stepped into the room.

“There's my Katie girl.” Thomas beamed at her. “Put the books away for a while, did you?”

“If you can stop answering the phone for an evening, I can stop studying.”

“No business on tree-trimming night.” He winked at her. “I think the hotels can run without me for one night.”

“Never as well as they run with you and Aunt Susie.”

Margo lifted a brow as she passed Kate a cup of hot chocolate. “Somebody's bucking for another present. I hope you've got something in mind other than that stupid computer you've been drooling over.”

“Computers have become necessary tools in any business. Right, Uncle Tommy?”

“Can't live without them. I'm glad your generation's going to be taking over, though. I hate the blasted things.”

“You're going to have to upgrade the system in Sales, across the board,” Josh put in as he climbed down the ladder. “No reason to do all that work when a machine can do it for you.”

“Spoken like a true hedonist.” Margo smirked at him. “Be careful, Josh, you might actually have to learn how to type. Imagine, Joshua Conway Templeton, heir apparent to Templeton Hotels, with a useful skill.”

“Listen, duchess—”

“Hold it.” Susan cut off her son's testy remark with an upraised hand. “No business tonight, remember. Margo, be a good girl and pass Josh the ornaments. Kate, take that side of the tree with Annie, will you? Laura, you and I will start over here.”

“And what about me?” Thomas wanted to know.

“You do what you do best, darling. Supervise.”

It wasn't enough to hang them. The ornaments had to be
sighed over and stories told about them. There was the wooden elf that Margo had thrown at Josh one year, its head now held on its body with glue. The glass star that Laura had once believed her father had plucked from the sky just for her. Snowflakes that Annie had crocheted for each of the family members. The felt wreath with silver piping that had been Kate's first and last sewing project. The homey and simple hung bough by bough with the priceless antique ornaments Susan had collected from around the world.

When it was done, they held their collective breath as Thomas turned off the lamps. And the room was lit by firelight and the magic of the tree.

“It's beautiful. It's always beautiful,” Kate murmured and slipped her hand into Laura's.
 

Late that night when sleep eluded her, Kate wandered back downstairs. She crept into the parlor, stretched out on the rug beneath the tree, and watched the lights dance.

She liked to listen to the house, the quiet ticking of old clocks, the sighs and murmurs of wood settling, the crackle of spent logs in the hearth. Rain was falling in little needle stabs against the windows. The wind was a whispering song.

It helped to lie there. The nerves over her exam the following day slowly unknotted from her stomach. She knew everyone was tucked into bed, safe, sound. She'd heard Laura come in from her drive with Peter, and sometime later Josh returned from a date.

Her world was in order.

“If you're hanging out for Santa, you've got a long wait.” Margo came into the room on bare feet and settled down beside Kate. “You're not still obsessing over some stupid math test, are you?”

“It's a midterm. And if you paid more attention to yours, you wouldn't be skimming by with C's.”

“School's just something you have to get through.” Margo slipped a pack of cigarettes out of her robe pocket. With
everyone in bed, it was safe to sneak a smoke. “So, can you believe Josh is dating that cross-eyed Leah McNee?”

“She's not cross-eyed, Margo. And she's built.”

Margo huffed out smoke. Anyone not struck blind could see that compared to Margo Sullivan, Leah was barely female. “He's only dating her because she puts out.”

“What do you care?”

“I don't.” She sniffed and smoked and sulked. “It's just so . . . ordinary. That's something I'm never going to be.”

Smiling a little, Kate turned to her friend. In a blue chenille robe, with her tumbled blond hair, Margo looked stunning and sultry and sleek. “No one would ever accuse you of being ordinary, pal. Obnoxious, conceited, rude, and a royal pain in the ass, yes, but never ordinary.”

Margo raised a brow and grinned. “I can always count on you. Anyway, speaking of ordinary, how stuck do you think Laura really is on Peter Ridgeway?”

“I don't know.” Kate gnawed on her lip. “She's been dreamy-eyed over him ever since Uncle Tommy transferred him out here. I wish he was still managing Templeton Chicago.” Then she shrugged. “He must be good at his job or Uncle Tommy and Aunt Susie wouldn't have promoted him.”

“Knowing how to manage a hotel has nothing to do with it. Mr. and Mrs. T have dozens of managers all over the world. This is the only one Laura's gone over on. Kate, if she marries him . . .”

“Yeah.” Kate blew out a breath. “It's her decision. Her life. Christ, I can't imagine why anyone would want to get tied down that way.”

“Neither can I.” Stubbing the cigarette out, Margo lay back. “I'm not going to. I'm going to make a splash in this world.”

“Me, too.”

Margo slanted Kate a look. “Keeping books? That's more like a slow drip.”

“You splash your way, I'll splash mine. This time next year I'll be in college.”

Margo shuddered. “What a hideous thought!”

“You'll be there, too,” Kate reminded her. “If you don't tank your SAT.”

“We'll see about that.” College wasn't on Margo's agenda. “I say we find Seraphina's dowry and take that trip around the world we used to talk about. There are places I want to see while I'm still young. Rome and Greece, Paris, Milan, London.”

“They're impressive.” Kate had seen them. The Templetons had taken her—and would have taken Margo as well if Ann had allowed it. “I see you marrying a rich guy, bleeding him dry, and jet-setting all over.”

“Not a bad fantasy.” Amused by it, Margo stretched her arms. “But I'd rather be rich myself and just have a platoon of lovers.” At the sound in the hall, she shoved the ashtray under the folds of her robe. “Laura.” Blowing out a breath, she sat up. “You scared the wits out of me.”

“Sorry, couldn't sleep.”

“Join the party,” Kate invited. “We were planning our future.”

“Oh.” With a soft, secret smile, Laura knelt on the rug. “That's nice.”

“Hold on.” Eyes sharp, Margo shifted and took Laura's chin in her hand. After a moment's study, she let out a breath. “Okay, you didn't do it with him.”

Flushing, Laura batted Margo's hand away. “Of course I didn't. Peter would never pressure me.”

“How do you know she didn't?” Kate demanded.

“You can tell. I don't think you should have sex with him, Laura, but if you're seriously thinking marriage, you'd better try him on first.”

“Sex isn't a pair of shoes,” Laura muttered.

“But it sure as hell better fit.”

“When I make love the first time, it's going to be with my husband on our wedding night. That's the way I want it.”

“Uh-oh, she's got that Templeton edge in her voice.” Grinning, Kate tugged on a curl falling over Laura's ear.
“Un-budgable. Don't listen to Margo, Laura. In her head, sex is equated with salvation.”

Margo lit another cigarette. “I'd like to know what tops it.”

“Love,” Laura stated.

“Success,” Kate said at the same time. “Well, that sums it up.” Kate wrapped her arms around her knees. “Margo's going to be a sex fiend, you're going to search for love, and I'm going to bust my ass for success. What a group.”

“I'm already in love,” Laura said quietly. “I want someone who loves me back, and children. I want to wake up each morning knowing I can make a home for them and a happy life for them. I want to fall asleep each night beside someone I can trust and depend on.”

“I'd rather fall asleep at night beside someone who makes me hot.” Margo chuckled when Kate poked her. “Just kidding. Sort of. I want to go places and do things. Be somebody. I want to know when I wake up in the morning that something exciting is right around the corner. And whatever it is, I want to make it mine.”

Kate rested her chin on her knees. “I want to feel accomplished,” she said quietly. “I want to make things work the way I think they should work. I want to wake up in the morning knowing exactly what I'm doing next, and how I'm going to do it. I want to be the best at what I do so that I know I haven't wasted anything. Because if I wasted it, it would be like . . . failing.”

Her voice broke, embarrassing her. “God, I must be overtired.” Because her eyes were stinging, she rubbed them hard. “I have to go to bed. My exam's first thing in the morning.”

“You'll breeze through it.” Laura rose with her. “Don't worry so much.”

“Professional nerds have to worry.” But Margo rose as well, and patted Kate's arm. “Let's get some sleep.”

Kate paused at the doorway to look back at the tree. For a moment she'd been shocked to discover that a part of her wished she could stay here, just like this, forever. Never have to worry about tomorrow or the next day. Never have to
concern herself with success or failure. Or change.

Change was coming, she realized. It was barreling down on her in the dewy look in Laura's eyes, the edgy one in Margo's. She turned off the lights. There was no stopping any of it, she realized. So she'd better get ready.

She got through the days and the nights and the work. There was no choice but to cope. And for the first time in her life, Kate felt there was no one she could talk to. Each time she felt herself tipping, needing to reach for the phone or run to Templeton House, she yanked herself back.

She could not—would not—pour out this misery, these fears to the people who loved her. They would stand by her, there was no doubt about that. But this was a burden she had to carry herself. And one she hoped she could hide in some dark corner of her mind. Eventually she would be able to let it rest, to stop feeling compelled to pick it up, again and again, and examine it.

She considered herself practical, intelligent, and strong. Indeed, she couldn't understand how anyone could be the latter without the two formers.

Until this, her life had been exactly as she wanted it. Her career was cruising along at a safe and, yes, intelligent speed. She had a reputation at Bittle and Associates as a clearheaded,
hardworking CPA who could handle complex accounts without complaint. Eventually she expected to be offered a full partnership. When that time came, she would ascend yet another rung on her personal ladder of success.

She had family she loved and who loved her. And friends . . . well, her closest friends were family. And what could be more convenient than that?

She adored them, had loved growing up at Templeton House, overlooking the wild, sweeping cliffs of Big Sur. There was nothing she wouldn't do for Aunt Susie and Uncle Tommy. That included keeping what she had learned weeks before in her office to herself.

She wouldn't question them, though questions burned inside her. She wouldn't share the pain or the problem with Laura or Margo, though she had always shared everything with them.

She would suppress, ignore, and forget. That, she had to believe, would be best for everyone.

Her entire life had been focused on doing her best, being the best, making her family proud. Now, she felt she had more to prove, more to be. Every success she had enjoyed could be traced back to the moment when they had opened their home and their hearts to her. So she promised herself to look forward rather than back. To go on with the routine that had become her life.

Under ordinary circumstances, treasure hunting wouldn't be considered routine. But when it involved Seraphina's dowry, when it included Laura and Margo and Laura's two daughters, it was an event. It was a mission.

The legend of Seraphina, that doomed young girl who had flung herself off the cliffs rather than face a life without her true love, had fascinated the three of them all of their lives. The beautiful Spanish girl had loved Felipe, had met him in secret, walked with him along the cliffs in the wind, in the rain. He had gone off to fight the Americans, to prove himself worthy of her, promising to come back to marry her and build a life with her. But he had not come back. When Seraphina learned he had been killed in battle, she had walked these cliffs
again. Had stood on the edge of the world and, overcome with grief, had flung herself over it.

The romance of it, the mystery, the glamour had been irresistible to the three women. And of course, the possibility of finding the dowry that Seraphina had hidden away before she leapt into the sea added challenge.

On most Sundays Kate could be found on the cliffs, wielding a metal detector or a spade. For months, ever since the morning that Margo, at a crossroads in her life, had found a single gold doubloon, the three had met there to search.

Or maybe they gathered not so much in hopes of uncovering a chest of gold as simply to enjoy each other's company.

It was nearly May, and after the jangled nerves she had suffered leading up to April 15 and the income tax deadline, Kate was thrilled to be out in the sun. It was what she needed, she was sure. It helped, as work helped, to keep her mind off the file she had hidden in her apartment. The file on her father that she had carefully organized.

It helped to block out the worries, and the ache in her heart, and the stress of wondering if she'd done the right thing by hiring a detective to look into a twenty-year-old case.

Her muscles protested a bit as she swept the metal detector over a new section of scrub, and she sweated lightly under her T-shirt.

She wouldn't think of it, she promised herself. Not today, not here. She wouldn't think of it at all until the detective's report was complete. She had promised the day to herself, for her family, and nothing would get in the way.

The gorgeous breeze ruffled her short cap of black hair. Her skin was dusky, an inheritance from the Italian branch of her mother's family, though beneath it was what Margo called “accountant's pallor.” A few days in the sun, she decided, would fix that.

She'd lost a little weight in the last few weeks of crunch time—and yes, because of the shock of discovering what her father had done—but she intended to put it back on. She
always had hopes of putting some meat on her stubbornly thin bones.

She didn't have Margo's height or stunning build, or Laura's lovely fragility. She was, Kate had always thought, average, average and skinny, with an angular face to match her angular body.

Once she had hoped for dimples, or the dash of a few charming freckles, or deep-green eyes instead of ordinary brown. But she'd been too practical to dwell on it for long.

She had a good brain and skill with figures. And that was what she needed to succeed.

She reached down for the jug of lemonade Ann Sullivan had sent along. After a long, indulgent drink, Kate cast a scowl in Margo's direction.

“Are you just going to sit there all afternoon while the rest of us work?”

Margo stretched luxuriously on her rock, her sexpot body draped in what, for Margo Sullivan Templeton, was casual wear of red leggings and a matching shirt. “We're a little tired today,” she claimed and patted her flat belly.

Kate snorted. “Ever since you found out you're pregnant you've been finding excuses to sit on your butt.”

Margo flashed a smile and tossed her long blond hair behind her shoulders. “Josh doesn't want me to overdo.”

“You're playing that one for all it's worth,” Kate grumbled.

“Damn right I am.” Delighted with life in general, Margo crossed her long, gorgeous legs. “He's so sweet and attentive and thrilled. Jesus, Kate, we've made ourselves a baby.”

Maybe the idea of two of her favorite people being blindly in love, starting their own family, did bring Kate a warm glow. But she was bound by tradition to snipe at Margo whenever possible. “At least you could look haggard, throw up every morning, faint now and again.”

“I've never felt better in my life.” Because it was true, Margo rose and took the metal detector. “Even giving up smoking hasn't been as hard as I thought it would. I never
imagined I wanted to be a mother. Now it's all I can think about.”

“You're going to be a fabulous mother,” Kate murmured. “Just fabulous.”

“Yes, I am.” Margo studied Laura, who was giggling and digging at a patch of scrubby earth with her two little girls. “I've got an awfully good role model right there. This past year's been hell for her, but she's never wavered.”

“Neglect, adultery, divorce,” Kate said quietly, not wanting the fitful breeze to carry her words. “Not a lot of fun and games. The girls have helped keep her centered. And the shop.”

“Yeah. And speaking of the shop—” Margo turned the detector off, leaned on it. “If these past couple of weeks are any indication, we may have to hire some help. I'm not going to be able to give Pretenses ten and twelve hours a day after the baby comes.”

Always thinking of budget, Kate frowned. The upscale secondhand boutique they had opened on Cannery Row was primarily Margo's and Laura's domain. But as the third partner in the fledgling enterprise, Kate crunched numbers for it when she could squeeze out the time.

“You've got over six months left. That hits holiday shopping time. We could think about hiring seasonal help then.”

Sighing, Margo handed the metal detector back to Kate. “The business is doing better than any of us anticipated. Don't you think it's time to loosen up?”

“No.” Kate switched the machine back on. “We haven't been open a full year yet. You start taking on outside help, you've got social security, withholding, unemployment.”

“Well, yes, but—”

“I can start helping out on Saturdays if necessary, and I've got my vacation time coming up.” Work, she thought again. Work and don't think. “I can give Pretenses a couple of weeks full time.”

“Kate, a vacation means white-sand beaches, Europe, a sordid affair—not clerking in a shop.”

Kate merely raised an eyebrow.

“I forgot who I was talking to,” Margo muttered. “The original all-work-and-no-play girl.”

“That was always to balance you, the quintessential all-play girl. Anyway, I'm a one-third owner of Pretenses. I believe in protecting my investments.” She scowled at the ground, kicked it. “Hell, there's not even a bottle cap to give us a little beep and thrill here.”

“Are you feeling all right?” Margo's eyes narrowed, looked closer. “You look a little washed out.” And frail, she realized. Frail and edgy. “If I didn't know better I'd say you were the one who was pregnant.”

“That would be a good trick since I haven't had sex in what feels like the last millennium.”

“Which could be why you seem edgy and washed out.” But she didn't grin. “Really, Kate, what's going on?”

She wanted to say it, spill out all of it. Knew if she did she would find comfort, support, loyalty—whatever she needed. My problem, she reminded herself.

“Nothing.” Kate made herself look down her nose disdainfully. “Except I'm the one doing all the work and my arms are falling off while you sit on your rock and pose for a
Glamorous Mothers-to-Be
photo shoot.” She rotated her shoulders. “I need a break.”

Margo studied her friend for another moment, tapping her fingers on her knee. “Fine. I'm hungry anyway. Let's see what Mum packed.” Opening the nearby hamper, Margo let out a long, heartfelt moan. “Oh, God, fried chicken.”

Kate peeked in the hamper. Five minutes more, she decided, then she was digging in. Mrs. Williamson's chicken was bound to erase the nagging hunger pains. “Is Josh back from London?”

“Hmm.” Margo swallowed gamely. “Tomorrow. Templeton London did a little remodeling, so he's going to bring back some stock for the shop. And I asked him to check with some of my contacts there, so we may have a nice new supply. It would save me a buying trip.”

“I remember when you couldn't wait to get on a plane.”

“That was then,” Margo said smugly. “This is now.” She bit into the drumstick again, then remembered something and waved a hand. “Umm, forgot. Party next Saturday night. Cocktails, buffet. Be there.”

Kate winced. “Do I have to dress up?”

“Yes. Lots of our customers.” She swallowed again. “Some of the hotel brass. Byron De Witt.”

Pouting, Kate turned off the machine and grabbed a chicken thigh out of the hamper. “I don't like him.”

“Of course not,” Margo said dryly. “He's gorgeous, charming, intelligent, world-traveled. Absolutely hateful.”

“He knows he's gorgeous.”

“And that takes a lot of nerve. I don't really give a damn whether you like him or not. He's taken a lot of the weight off Josh here at the California hotels, recovered a lot of the ground Peter Ridgeway lost for us.”

She caught herself and glanced over toward Laura. Peter was Laura's ex-husband, the girls' father, and whatever she thought of him, she wouldn't criticize him in front of Ali and Kayla.

“Just be civil.”

“I'm always civil. Hey, guys,” Kate called out and watched Ali and Kayla's pretty blond heads pop up. “We've got Mrs. Williamson's fried chicken over here, and Margo's eating it all.”

With shouts and scrambling feet, the girls dashed up to join the picnic. Laura came after them and sat cross-legged at Margo's feet. She watched her daughters squabble over one particular piece of chicken. Ali won, of course. She was the older of the two and in recent months the more demanding.

Divorce, Laura reminded herself as Ali smugly nibbled her chicken, was very, very hard on a ten-year-old girl. “Ali, pour Kayla a glass of lemonade too.”

Ali hesitated, considered refusing. It seemed, Laura thought as she kept cool, calm eyes on her daughter's mutinous ones, that Ali considered refusing everything these days. In the end,
Ali shrugged and poured a second glass for her sister.

“We didn't find anything,” Ali complained, choosing to forget the fun she'd had giggling and digging in the dirt. “It's boring.”

“Really?” Margo selected a cube of cheese from a plastic container. “For me, just being here and looking is half the fun.”

“Well. . .” Whatever Margo said was, to Ali, gospel. Margo was glamorous and different; Margo had run away to Hollywood at eighteen, had lived in Europe and had been involved in wonderful, exciting scandals. Nothing ordinary and awful like marriage and divorce. “I guess it's kinda fun. But I wish we'd find more coins.”

“Persistence.” Kate flipped a finger from Ali's chin to her nose. “Pays. What would have happened if Alexander Graham Bell had given up before he put that first call through? If Indiana Jones hadn't gone on that last crusade?”

“If Armani hadn't sewed that first seam?” Margo put in and earned a fresh giggle.

“If
Star Trek
hadn't gone where no one had gone before,” Laura finished, and had the pleasure of seeing her daughter flash a smile.

“Well, maybe. Can we see the coin again, Aunt Margo?”

Margo reached in her pocket. She'd fallen into the habit of carrying the old Spanish gold coin with her. Ali took it gingerly, and because she was awed, as always, held it so that Kayla could coo over it too.