Dandelion Dreams (2 page)

He frowned and lowered the novel. “It just came out.”

“My mother wrote it,” I explained.

The man with golden blond hair and a tall, slender physique gazed at me in surprise. “Really? What are the odds? I’m Connor Lancaster.” He held out his hand, and I shook it.

“Sage. Sage Harper.”

“And, your mother is Penny Harper, and she wrote a book.”

“She wrote a book,” I agreed, the day no longer annoying me.

“Do you want to get a cup of coffee?”

I tilted my head to one side. “Will you excuse me a second? I’ll be right back.” Not waiting for an answer, I went to the counter and a moment later returned with a pen.

I grabbed the book out of his hands, flipped it open to the first blank page, and wrote down my number before handing it back to him. “I can’t right now, but I will go out to dinner with you—when you finish the book. Have to have something to talk about.”

Connor smiled. “How’s tomorrow night?”

“You’ll be done with it in a day?”

“What can I say? You’ve motivated me.”

I laughed. “As it turns out, I’m free tomorrow night. Bring notecards.” With a jaunty grin, I hoisted my bag higher on my shoulder and left the bookstore.

•••

The door to the apartment burst open and Jules, my best friend since high school, stood in the doorway. Black curls framed large blue eyes in an expressive pixie face that flickered from thought to thought like pictures on an old film reel.

“About time you got here,” Jules said as I stepped inside and stripped off my coat.

I headed to the bathroom and turned on the shower faucet. “Sorry, you know I hate riding the train at rush hour.”

“I still can’t believe you buy real books.” Jules lurked in the doorway while I sat on the edge of the tub and ran hot water on my feet.

“E-readers make books look cheap, and they hurt my eyes. Besides, real men read real books, and I met one today at the store.”

Jules raised an eyebrow. “Go on...”

I chuckled. “We’re having dinner tomorrow night.”

“Let me guess: tall, blond, blue eyes.”

“Oh damn, I’ve become predictable.”

“Great, I have to go to a boring seminar, and you get to have dinner with a hot guy who can actually read.”

I laughed. “You’ve been talking about this seminar for six months, and you’ve never once said it would be boring.”

Jules taught theater to middle schoolers in upstate New York. The small town didn’t have a lot of culture—not like the city, which was culture on steroids. Jules came down every chance she could get and always stayed with us; she even had a key.

“You talk to Penny today?”

Sighing, I collapsed onto the couch and looked at my friend. Picking up a full wine glass, I downed a healthy swallow. “Briefly.”

“How’s the book tour going?”

“Fast and furious, as always.”

“Was your conversation still riddled with things unsaid?”

“Oh, believe me. Things have been said. Nothing ‘
un’
about it.” My tone was drier than the wine in my glass. “She found my manuscript and wants to show it to her agent.”

“What? What manuscript? You’ve been writing again?”

I sighed heavily. “Yeah, but I wasn’t going to show it to anyone.”

“You want to tell me about it? Or let me read it?”

“No.” I closed my eyes, thinking back to the dialogue with my mother a week ago. We’d existed in uncomfortable silence until she’d left for her book tour. It wasn’t the first time we’d had that kind of conversation. In fact, they’d been increasing over the last year, but this one felt different—it was painted with new shades of my mother’s disappointment.

Jules turned on the TV, but I didn’t see the screen. I thought about my mother and the manuscript under the mattress. So much for thinking I had any secrets.

•••

Connor took me to a candlelit wine bar on the Upper East Side, where we talked about Mom’s new book and other things. Connor asked if I was a writer like my mother. I didn’t know what to tell him.

Mom had been telling me I was a writer for as long as I could remember. It was hard to accept my fate when someone else was forcing it down my throat. I wrote my thoughts down in notebooks with no intention of letting anyone read them.

I let Connor hold my hand as we walked the streets of Manhattan. Bars were full of people laughing, the thought of finding a distraction for one night clouding their judgment.

We stopped by a bodega. Connor slipped inside and came back with a bouquet of flowers. The blooms were three days old and had lost their fragrance, but I smiled and thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

“So you’ll remember me tomorrow,” he said.

I laughed.

“When can I see you again?” Connor asked, as we stopped at the subway station that would take me home. Chivalry was a rarity in New York men; most were in too much of a hurry to open doors or hail us cabs. A lot of New York women didn’t want it anyway, or so we pretended. It was odd what we’d grown to accept. Maybe Connor was a change from the norm.

“How about a late Sunday afternoon walk through Central Park?” Jules was leaving early that morning.

He smiled and leaned in to kiss me. It was nice, nothing magical, but nice nonetheless.

I didn’t need magic; I lived in reality. And the reality was I didn’t want to be a writer, I didn’t want to dream.

Chapter 3

Sage

When I’d been dating Connor for six months, I introduced him to my mother. We ordered Chinese takeout and sat at the kitchen table of the Park Slope apartment. Connor was urbane, sophisticated, and polite. He had a job where he wore suits. His haircuts cost two hundred dollars, and his shoes were Italian leather. He was out of place among the eclectic, eccentric furniture and decor. His polish made me uncomfortable, but I couldn’t say why.

Watching my mother and boyfriend interact was strange. I was the only commonality. They were two people who peered down the kaleidoscope of life and saw different things, wanted different things.

Which way would I lean? Would I be pulled in one direction over the other? Was there even a chance I could find my own way?

After Connor kissed me goodbye, I closed the door after him and turned to look at Mom, who watched me with steady gray eyes. “Just tell me.”

“He’s very nice.” It was her version of saying nothing.

“Why am I not surprised? Can’t you say something substantial?”

“What does Jules think of him?” she asked. Answer a question with a question—it was the way of Harpers.

Jules met Connor a while ago, and now that I recalled their encounter, she hadn’t said a lot either. Oh, she listed off his
on paper
qualities like they were something to be admired, but I hadn’t been able to tell what Jules thought. And Jules was full of thoughts.

Both of them seemed to be thought-
less
when it came to Connor.

 
I was missing something, I was sure of it.

“He’s very driven—very wrapped up in his work.”

“So are you,” I pointed out.

“It’s different.”

“I don’t want to debate the difference between an artist and an investment banker.”

“He’s not who I would’ve picked for you.”

I rolled my eyes. “Who would you have picked for me?”

“I don’t know. Someone else. Someone who understands you.”

“Connor understands me,” I protested.

“He understands who he thinks you are.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that life is long, and you’re six months in. Soon he’ll know the real you, and he won’t get it—he won’t get you.”

“You’re the one that doesn’t get it.” I kept waiting for the wash of my anger, but it never came. Her words infiltrated the walls of my mind, moved in, put up curtains, and did a little dance that wasn’t subtle in its mockery. Like illegal squatters, I couldn’t evict them.

•••

Connor never asked if my mother liked him. He didn’t seem to care if he received her mark of approval or not. I admired him for it; he was secure in who he was and what he wanted. He wasn’t a boy. He was a man who knew what he had to offer.

Later that week, I slept at his place, which wasn’t unusual. We were spending most of our nights together. I had a few outfits hanging in his closet, and my commute to work was easier from his Midtown apartment. It was convenient.

I woke up, and took a moment to study his sleeping face. He was handsome in that all-American boy-next-door kind of way. He was familiar, comfortable. I wished our relationship didn’t feel like sitting in an old lumpy chair that needed to be reupholstered.

That wasn’t my thought, I reasoned, but my mother’s.

Climbing out of bed, I went into the bathroom to shower. It was large and luxurious, the size of many people’s entire apartments. Still, we had never showered together, even though there was plenty of space for two. I’d tried to convince him once, but he’d refused, claiming to like the time to himself. I didn’t ask again.

By the time I finished, Connor was awake and drinking coffee at the custom designed kitchen table. I gave him a perfunctory kiss before getting my own cup.

“Do you want to meet for lunch?” I asked, wishing for spontaneity. Maybe I could convince him to have a quick tryst before going back to the banal routines of our day. It was easy to get stuck in a self-made rut.

He shook his head. “I can’t. Working through it,” he explained. “It will probably be a late night, too.”

I nodded, wondering why I wasn’t disappointed. Shoving my thoughts aside, I went to the bedroom and got dressed. I grabbed my shoulder bag by the front door and kissed Connor one more time before departing.

I left early, knowing I had some time before work. After getting off the subway, my feet carried me into a bookstore. I wandered the aisles, reaching out to touch the leather bound notebooks. Their beauty taunted me, and my desire for them crescendoed the more I tried to ignore them. I bought one of each.

It was one of those rare, perfect days in New York, sunny but not too hot, and not a cloud in the sky. The idea of being cooped up in a small cubicle in a gigantic building grated on me. Pulling out my cell phone, I called my office, saying I was sick.

Maybe I was sick—I was doing things and having thoughts I’d never had before: Connor might not be the one for me, and I had a need to hold a pen in my hand and write until the ink ran dry.

This was my mother’s fault.

•••

I opened the door to the restaurant where I was meeting Connor for dinner. He chose his favorite spot to celebrate our one-year anniversary. It was dimly lit, and complete with white tablecloths and tiny portions. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I thought it was pretentious. I would’ve been happier ordering Thai takeout.

But Connor hated Thai.

I wore my favorite dress, a small black slip that showed my back and hit above the knee. It made me feel elegant and luxurious.

“If you’ll follow me, Miss Harper. Mr. Lancaster is already at the table,” the maître d’ said. I followed him through the restaurant. Connor stood, looking nervous as he leaned over and kissed me.

“Bottle of champagne, please. The best,” Connor said after the maître d’ pulled out my chair.

“Champagne?”

Connor smiled.

The waiter brought a vintage bottle of Dom Pérignon and opened it, pouring half a flute for each of us before putting it in an ice bucket and leaving us alone.

“A toast,” Connor said, raising his flute. I did the same. “To milestones.”

“What sort of milestones?”

“To anniversaries, for one. To promotions, for another.”

“You got the promotion? I’m so proud of you.” My words felt generic, like some actor’s line in a mediocre play.

He reached across the table, grabbed my hand, and held it. “Your support means the world to me. I’m so excited about what life will bring.”

I had stopped listening. Sometimes Connor would talk and talk, and I had no idea where he was going. But then he pulled out a black velvet jewelry box, and my vision narrowed on it.

His hand tightened on mine. “Sage? Will you marry me?” When he opened it, my breath wedged in my throat. The two-carat solitaire caught the candlelight, reflecting its brilliant perfection. I looked up into Connor’s expectant face.

He was everything a woman could hope for. Smart, driven, handsome, and wealthy enough that I’d never have to worry about my future or our life together. But Connor felt like a consolation prize. Had he even spoken of love during his proposal?

I opened my mouth, unsure of what to say, yet what came out made him ecstatic. “Yes, Connor, I’ll marry you.”

•••

“I’m engaged.”

My mother took her time to look up from her computer.

“Say something.”

“Does he make you happy?”

“Yes,” I stated, though I couldn’t be sure.

“Does he make you laugh?”

“Sometimes.”

Mom sighed, removed her glasses, and pinched the bridge of her nose as if a headache was coming on.

“Say you’re happy for me.”

“Okay, I’m happy for you.”

“Say it like you mean it,” I demanded.

“I won’t.”

“You don’t like Connor.”

“I like him fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I never claimed to be a good one. Why do you care what I think anyway?”

“You’re my mother.”

“So what? You’re going to do what you want, so what does it matter what I think?”

“Why can’t you be happy for me? Why can’t you be like other mothers and squeal for joy and start talking about wedding plans?”

“Because that’s not who I am. It’s not who you are, either. Life with Connor will be like forcing your feet into shoes that are too small. Do you think marriage to an investment banker is going to fulfill you? You’ll be jogging down the road toward divorce before you know it.”

I wished there was some sort of accusation in my mother’s voice, but there was only truth—unyielding, remarkable truth. I didn’t want to hear it.

I picked up my bag. “Thanks for the congratulations.”

I stormed out of the Park Slope apartment where I’d grown up, wondering if I’d grown up at all.