Dream 3 - Finding the Dream (33 page)

"Yeah, but…" Kate trailed off. "Look, this is a little too
Twilight Zone
for me."

"Open that accountant's mind for a minute." Impatient, Margo turned back to Laura and took her by the shoulders. "Are you in love with Michael?"

"That isn't—"

"I asked a direct question, Laura, and I'll know if you lie."

"All right, yes, but it doesn't—"

"Love matters," Margo said quietly. "We matter. Maybe that's the whole point." She released Laura and reached into her pocket, where she habitually carried her coin. "This matters." She placed it beside Laura's and looked at Kate, who rose and took her own out of her purse.

"It matters," Kate agreed when the three coins sat side by side. "We're still in it together. Have you told Mick, Laura?"

"No. And no, I don't know if I'm going to, or how I'll handle it. I can't plan things out like you, Kate, or run on instinct the way you do, Margo. I have to do it my way. Which means, I suppose, maintaining illusions and waiting to see what comes. And my emotions are my responsibility."

Then she smiled, traced a fingertip over all three coins. "A sign from Seraphina. Well, maybe it is. Maybe she's telling me not to put all my dreams into one man's hands this time."

"Or she might be telling you that you can find that dream if you know where to look." Margo draped an arm over Laura's shoulders. "Either way, you can't stop looking. It's the same as jumping off a cliff."

"1 haven't stopped looking." She patted Margo's hand before reaching for her coin. "And I think this calls for a celebration. Why don't we get together tonight and open some champagne?"

"Talked me into it." Kate pocketed her own coin. "I was coming over anyway. Poker night at the De Witts'."

"That's right." Laura grinned. "Dad's already rubbing his palms together. So, Margo, are you up for it?''

"I'll be there." Margo picked up her coin but held it. She hoped Laura wouldn't put hers—or her dreams—away too quickly. "Maybe we can get Mum and Mrs. T a little drunk and play some poker ourselves."

"I'm game. Why don't we—" Kate broke off at the brisk knock on the office door. The customer who poked her head in seemed annoyed and impatient.

"Excuse me, but is anyone working here?"

"I'm so sorry." All conciliatory smiles, Laura stepped over. "We had a small problem. What can I help you with?"

Michael had never been driven to a poker game in a limo, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. Not that he hadn't ever ridden in one before. After all, he'd worked in Hollywood for five years.

But to a poker game? It felt, well, pretentious.

Then again, as Josh had said when he came to the stables to fetch him, no one would have to worry about how many beers they knocked back.

Obviously at home in the plush surroundings, Thomas leaned back and tapped his finger on his knee in time with the aria playing on the stereo.

All Michael could think was that big limos, opera, and poker didn't mix. And he began to worry just what the hell he'd gotten himself into.

"I'm feeling lucky." Thomas wiggled his eyebrows. "I hope you two boys brought plenty of money."

Which made Michael realize that his idea of plenty of money and Thomas Templeton of Templeton Hotels' idea of plenty of money were unlikely to be in the same ballpark.

Jesus, he could lose his shirt, and his ego, in one fun-filled evening.

"My wife fell in love with a Tennessee walker you have down at the stables, Michael." Thomas crossed his legs at the ankles and decided to see how much of a rise he could get out of young Michael Fury. "Maybe I'll win him from you before we're done tonight."

"I don't bet my horses," Michael said easily, "or my friends. Nice watch, Mr. Templeton." He flicked a glance over Thomas's slim gold Rolex. "I could use a new watch."

Thomas let out a bark of laughter and slapped Michael on the knee. "A boy needs his dreams. I ever tell you about the time I played seven-card stud for thirty-six hours? That was in Chicago in '55. Now we—"

"Not the'thirty-six hours in Chicago' story," Josh moaned. "I'm begging you."

"Shut up, Harvard." Almost comfortable, Michael stretched out his legs. "Some of us haven't heard it."

Pleased, Thomas grinned at Michael. "Then I'll tell you, and you can be afraid."

It wasn't such a bad ride after all. And things looked up when they pulled into the driveway of the multi-decked house on Seventeen Mile and the uniformed driver unloaded two cases of Blue Moose beer—a Templeton product—from the limo's trunk.

"Now that's a hell of a beer," Michael said, then hooked his thumbs in his pockets and studied the wood and glass, the decks and gardens of the De Witt homestead. "And that's a hell of a house."

"Easy access to the beach, too," Josh added. "Kate recommended the property to Byron before they got together."

"Good call. It looks like her," Michael decided. "Streamlined, classy, unique. Man, oh, man! '65 Mustang. And it's cherry too." He walked over to the car, ran a loving hand over the fender. "What a beaut. And that 'Vette. First-round Sting Ray. Mmm, sweetheart, let me pop your hood."

"We going to play poker or are you going to make love to inanimate objects all night?"

He shot a look at Josh. "Inanimate, my ass. Honeys like this have more personality and sex appeal than half the women you dated."

"Shows that you haven't met the women I've dated."

"I dated some of them myself." Michael strolled toward the front door, glancing over his shoulder at the cars, then at Josh. "Including your wife."

Josh's grin faltered and so did his feet. "You never dated Margo."

"Didn't I?" Enjoying himself, Michael climbed the short flight of wooden steps. "I seem to recall a couple of interesting evenings in France."

"You're just trying to psych me out."

And it was working. "Ask her," Michael said mildly.

Damned if he wouldn't. His head reeling with visions he didn't want, Josh reached around and opened the door. Two big yellow dogs raced forward and flung themselves at the newcomers.

"Nip, Tuck, sit." Byron called out the order as he stepped into the wide living area. The dogs sat, butt to butt, and continued to vibrate. "You can put the beer in the kitchen. Thanks." He motioned the driver toward the kitchen. "Think you brought enough?"

"We run out," Josh said, "we send for more. Got food?"

"I whipped up a few things."

Unable to resist two lolling tongues and two pairs of adoring eyes, Michael crouched and made friends with the dogs. "You cook?"

"How do you think he got me to marry him?" Kate stepped out, smiled thinly.

"You still here?" Josh moved over to tug her hair. "Go play with your own kind."

She elbowed him away. "I was just leaving. But I want to say that the concept of the all-male poker game is a Neanderthal practice that I find insulting, particularly when it's taking place in my own house."

Being a wise man, Byron limited himself to rolling his eyes behind her back. But Michael didn't have to live with her. He straightened, grinned.

"Yeah, yeah, tell it to Gloria Steinem and get lost."

"I have no desire to stay and listen to a bunch of fools belch, snort, and tell lies about the women they've had." Chin lifted, she snatched her purse from a chair.

"And I was going to tell Byron all about that night I picked you up on Fisherman's Wharf and we—"

"Shut up, Mick." Her brows drew together, her color rose. "I'm leaving."

"Wait a minute." Her husband made a grab, missed. "What night?"

"It was nothing." She seared Michael with a look. "It was
nothing
."

"Aw, sugar," Michael murmured. "Now you've hurt my feelings."

"Men are pigs," she tossed back as she slammed the door behind her.

"Well, that got rid of her," Michael decided. "Where are the cards?"

"Margo and Kate?" Josh eyed him narrowly.

"Can't fault my taste, can you?" Michael tucked his hands in his pockets. "Like I said, where are the cards?"

"Men deserve their little rituals." Susan stretched out on the long arm of the conversation pit in the family room. "Just as we deserve ours."

"I don't mind." Snuggled back against a mountain of pillows, Margo nibbled from a bowl of popcorn. "Kate gets huffy."

"Where is Kate?" Wandering to the window, Laura looked out. "She should be here by now."

"Oh, she'd have waited to yank their chains before she left." Margo shrugged and reached for the champagne. "She'll be along. God knows this is better than poker and beer and a bunch of cigar smoke, but she's got to make her point. Ready for a glass, Mum?"

Ann paused in her perusal of the videotapes chosen for the marathon viewing. "Well… maybe just a little one."

They had champagne, popcorn, a platter of crudites, fresh fruit, three choices of dip, including white chocolate, and a stack of movies. The baby was sleeping in the nursery and her favorite women were here. Margo judged it the perfect girls' night out.

"I'm going to do your nails."

"I don't want the fussing."

Margo smiled at her mother. "It's fun, Mum. I've got the perfect shade for you. Red Hot Lover."

Ann snorted into her wine. "I won't wear any such thing. As if I'd be painting my fingernails anyway."

"Men go for it." To tease, Margo leaned closer. "And Bob the butcher's had his eye on you for years."

"He certainly has not." Her face flaming, Ann fumbled with the stack of tapes. "That's nonsense. We have a good customer relationship. Nothing more."

"He saves the leanest cuts for Miss Annie." Margo fluttered her lashes, then laughed. "You should give him a break one of these days. Oh, Laura, stop worrying about Kate. She'll be here."

"I'm not worrying, just watching." And thinking of Michael, she admitted. What was he doing? Why was it their paths hadn't crossed once since the night before? But she made herself come away from the window and pour a glass of champagne. "What are we going to watch first? I vote for
To Have and Have Not
."

"You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve?' " Susan sighed, dipped a moist red strawberry into creamy white chocolate. "The world's champion come-on."

"World's best brush-off," Margo said, continuing the theme. "Bette Davis. 'I'd love to kiss you, but I just washed my hair.'"

"Best wrenching good-bye." Laura said, getting into the swing. "Bogart to Bergman. 'We'll always have Paris.'"

When Kate came in ten minutes later, they were in a heated debate over the ten most dangerous men in cinema history.

"Newman," Margo insisted. "It's the eyes. Cold or hot and incredibly blue. You watch
The Long, Hot Summer, Hud
, or—"

"Grant." Susan sat up to make her point. "Dangerous because it's unexpected. The charm undermines a woman's defenses, and he has her."

"Bogart," Laura disagreed. "In anything. Raw, dangerous, elemental, a hero despite his instincts."

"I can't believe you're discussing men." Disgusted, Kate plopped down. "I just left those four baboons. Is that white chocolate?'' She reared up again and used her finger to dip in. "And," she continued, licking it, "they were already smug, superior, and sarcastic. Mick's the worst. I can't believe he brought up that time I ran into him on the wharf and we…"

"We?" Laura came to attention. "We what?"

"Nothing." She should have filled her mouth, Kate decided, and began to do so. "It was nothing. He was home on leave and he looked sort of… interesting. We went for a drive, that's all."

"You went for a drive?" Laura repeated. "With Michael? That's all?"

"Well, yeah, mostly." Done it now, Kate thought, as every eye in the room focused on her. "Well, okay, so maybe I experimented a little, for a minute. Who's in charge of the VCR?"

Before she could pop up to take charge herself, Laura clamped a hand on her shoulder. "Define 'experimented.'"

"I let him kiss me… a couple of times. That's it. Just that. Do we have
Bringing Up Baby
? I could use a laugh."

"You and Michael necked in his car?"

"Not necked, exactly. I wouldn't call it necking.

Margo—" She appealed to her friend for help.

"No, a couple of kisses does not constitute necking. I necked with him, so I know this to be true."

"You—'' Laura choked, grabbed the champagne bottle. "You—"

"I give him a ten on both technique and style. And since that was a number of years ago, I can only assume he's improved even that." She laughed, got up to pop a movie in. "Now Mrs. T is trying to figure out if she should make a comment or a statement of any kind, and Mum is sitting there steaming over the idea that the disreputable Michael Fury has had his very tasty lips clamped on all three of her girls."

"That's just the kind of talk I expect from you," Ann said with a sniff.

"And I'd hate to disappoint you. He's one of the dangerous men, all right." She leaned back and patted her mother's knee affectionately. "Thank God for them."

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