Dream 3 - Finding the Dream (4 page)

The Templetons' longtime housekeeper stepped inside the room, carrying a fully loaded breakfast tray accented with a vase of Michaelmas daisies.

"Breakfast in bed!" Scrambling to reorganize her schedule, which had room for a quick cup of coffee at best, Laura sat back. "I feel like a queen."

"It isn't every day a woman turns thirty."

Laura's attempt at a smile wobbled. "Tell me about it."

"Now don't you start that nonsense."

Brisk and efficient, Ann settled the tray over Laura's lap. She'd seen thirty herself—and forty, and Lord help her, she'd just run smack into fifty. And because she understood just how those decades affected a woman, she brushed Laura's sigh aside.

She had been fretting after this girl, as well as her own and Miss Kate besides, for more than twenty years. She knew just how to handle them.

Ann went to rekindle the fire in the hearth not only to chase away the January chill but to add light and cheer. "You're a beautiful young woman with the best of her life ahead of her."

"And thirty years of it behind her."

Ann methodically pushed the right buttons. "And nothing to show for it but two beautiful children, a thriving business, a lovely home, and family and friends who adore you."

Ouch, Laura thought. "I'm feeling sorry for myself." She tried the smile again. "Pathetic and typical. Thank you, Annie. This is lovely."

"Drink some coffee." As the fire caught, crackling briskly, Ann poured the coffee herself, then patted Laura's hand. "You know what you need? A day off. A full day just for yourself, to do exactly as you choose."

It was a fine fantasy, and one that not so many years before she would have been able to indulge. But now, she had the girls to ready for school, a morning in her office at Templeton Monterey, and an afternoon at Pretenses, the shop she and Margo and Kate had started together.

Then it was a quick dash to take the girls to their dance class, time out to go over the bills and to pay them. Then there was homework to oversee, as well as dealing with any and all of the myriad problems her daughters might have encountered during the day.

And she needed to carve out time to check on old Joe, the gardener. She was worried about him but didn't want him to know it.

"You're not listening, Miss Laura." At the faintly censorious tone, Laura pulled herself back. "I'm sorry. The girls need to get up for school."

"They're up. As a matter of fact…" Pleased with her surprise, Ann walked to the door. At the signal, the room filled with people and noise.

"Mama." The girls came first, rushing in to jump on the bed and rattle plates on the tray. At seven and ten they weren't babies any longer, but she cuddled them just the same. Kayla, the younger, was always ready for a hug, but Allison had been growing distant. Laura knew the extended embrace from her elder daughter was one of the best gifts she would receive that day.

"Annie said we could all come and start your birthday off right." Kayla bounced, her smoky gray eyes bright with excitement. "And everybody's here."

"So they are." With an arm around each girl, Laura grinned at the crowd. Margo was already passing her three-month-old son to his grandmother so she could supervise as Josh opened a bottle of champagne. Kate slipped away from her husband to help herself to one of the croissants on Laura's tray.

"So how does it feel, champ?" Kate asked with her mouth full. "The big three-oh?"

"It was feeling lousy until a minute ago. Mimosas?" She raised a brow at Margo.

"You betcha. And, no," she said, anticipating Ali, "straight o.j. for you and your sister."

"It's a special occasion," Ali complained.

"So, you're going to drink your o.j. in a champagne flute." With a flourish, she passed juice to the girls. "For a toast," she added, then hooked an arm through her husband's. "Right, Josh?"

"To Laura Templeton," he began, "a woman of many talents—which includes looking pretty great for a kid sister on the morning of her thirtieth birthday."

"And if anyone brought a camera in here," Laura said, pushing back her tumbled hair, "I'll kill them."

"I knew I forgot something." Kate shook her head, then shrugged. "Well—let's get to the first gift. Byron?"

Byron De Witt, Kate's husband of six weeks and the executive director of Templeton California, stepped forward. He touched his glass lightly to Laura's and grinned. "Ms. Templeton, if I see you anywhere on hotel property before midnight tonight, I'll be forced to pull rank and fire you."

"But I have two accounts I have to—"

"Not today you don't. Consider your office closed. Somehow Conventions and Special Events will have to limp along without you for twenty-four hours."

"I appreciate the thought, Byron, but—"

"All right." He sighed. "If you insist on going over my head. Mr. Templeton?"

Enjoying himself, Josh joined ranks with Byron. "As executive vice president, Templeton, I'm ordering you to take the day off. And if you've got some idea about going over my head, I've already talked to Mom and Dad. They'll be calling you later."

"Fine." When she discovered she was getting ready to pout, she shrugged instead. "It'll give me a chance to—"

"Nope." Reading Laura well, Kate shook her head. "You're not setting foot in the shop today."

"Oh, come on. This is just silly. I can—"

"Lie in bed," Margo continued, "walk the cliffs, read a book, get a facial." Over the sheets, she grabbed Laura's foot, waggled it. "Pick up a sailor and…" Remembering the girls, she backtracked. "Go for a sail. Mrs. Williamson is planning an elaborate birthday feast for you tonight, to which we have all invited ourselves. At that time, if you've been a good girl, you'll get the rest of your presents."

"I have something for you, Mama. I have something and so does Ali. Annie helped us pick them out. You have to be good so you can open them tonight."

"Outnumbered." Laura took a contemplative sip of her mimosa. "All right, I'll be lazy. And if I do something foolish, it'll be your fault. All of you."

"Always willing to take the credit." Margo took J. T. back as he began to fuss. "He's wet," she discovered and, laughing, handed him to his father. "And it's your turn, Josh. We'll be back at seven sharp. Oh, and if you decide on that sailor, I'll want to hear every detail."

"Gotta go," Kate announced. "See you tonight."

They went out as quickly and as noisily as they had come in, leaving Laura alone with a bottle of champagne and a cooling breakfast.

She was so lucky, she thought, as she settled back against the pillows. She had family and friends who loved her. She had two beautiful daughters, and a home she had always called her own.

Then why, she wondered as her eyes swam with sudden tears, did she feel so useless?

The trouble with having free time, Laura decided, was that it reminded her of the days when most of her free time had been eaten up by committees. Some she had joined because she enjoyed them—the people, the projects, the causes. Others, she knew, she'd involved herself with because of pressure from Peter.

She had, for too many years, found it easier to bend than to stand.

And when she had rediscovered her backbone, she had also discovered that the man she had married didn't love her, or the children. It had been the Templeton name he had married; he had never wanted the life she dreamed of.

Sometime between Ali's birth and Kayla's, he dropped even the pretense of loving her. Still, she stuck with it, maintained the illusion of marriage and family. And the pretense was all hers.

Until the day she walked in on that most pathetic of clichés: her husband in bed with another woman.

Thinking of it now, Laura crossed the beautifully tended lawn, strolled through the south gardens and into the grove beside the old stables. The rain had subsided to a mist that merged with the swirl of fog crawling along the ground. It was, she thought, like walking through a cool, thin river.

She rarely walked here, rarely had time. Yet she had always loved the play of sunlight or shadow through the trees, the scent of the forest, the rustling of small animals. There had been times during her youth when she imagined it was a fairy-tale woods and she was the enchanted princess, searching for the one true love who would rescue her from the spell cast upon her.

A harmless fantasy, she thought now, for a young girl. But perhaps she had wanted that fairy-tale ending too badly, believed in it too strongly. As she had believed in Peter.

He had crushed her. Quite literally he had crushed her heart with simple neglect, with casual disinterest. Then he had scattered the pieces that were left with betrayal. At last, he had eradicated even the dust when he had taken not only her money but the children's too.

For that, she would never forgive or forget.

And that, Laura thought as she wandered a path under an arch of lazily dripping branches, made her bitter.

She wanted to swallow the taste of that bitterness once and for all, to get beyond it, fully, and move ahead. Perhaps, she decided, her thirtieth birthday was the time to really begin.

It made sense, didn't it? Peter had proposed to her on her birthday twelve years before. On a starry night, she remembered, raising her face to the misting rain. She'd been so sure then, so positive that she knew what she wanted, what she needed. Now was the time to reevaluate.

Her marriage was over, but her life wasn't. In the past two years she'd taken quite a few steps to prove that.

Did she mind the work she'd taken on to rebuild her life and her personal finances? Not the work itself, she decided, stepping over a fallen log and going deeper into the forest. Her position with Templeton Hotels was a responsibility, a legacy, that she'd neglected too long. She would damn well earn her keep.

And the shop. She smiled to herself as her boots squished on the soggy path. She loved Pretenses, loved working with Margo and Kate. She enjoyed the customers, the stock, and the sense of accomplishment. The three of them had built something there, for themselves, for each other.

How could she resent the hours and the effort that she put into raising her girls, seeing that they had a happy, healthy life? They were her heart. Whatever it took to make up for the loss of the home she had somehow helped break, she would try to do.

Kayla, she thought, her little Kayla. So resilient, so easy to please. A loving, happy child was Kayla.

But Allison. Poor Ali had needed her father's love so desperately. The divorce was hardest on her, and nothing Laura did seemed to help her adjust. She was doing better now, Laura thought, better than she had been during those first months, even the first year. But she had pulled in, and back, and was only rarely spontaneous with her affections, as she had been.

And wary of her mother, Laura thought with a sigh. Still blaming her mother for a father who had no interest in his daughters.________________________________________

Laura sat on a stump, closed her eyes, let the faint breeze that was the music of the forest surround her. She would handle it, she promised herself. She would handle all of it—the work, the rush, the worry, the children. No one was more surprised than she herself that she was handling it well.

But how, she wondered, how in God's name would she continue to handle the loneliness?

Later, she snipped deadheads out of the garden, did some pruning, hauled away the debris. Old Joe simply couldn't keep up any longer. And young Joe, his grandson, couldn't afford more than a few hours a week in between his college courses to add his help. Since it would cut too much into her budget, and old Joe's pride, to hire an assistant, Laura had convinced Joe that she wanted to take on some of the gardening tasks.

It was partially true. She had always loved the gardens of Templeton House—the flowers, the shrubs, the vines. As a child she had often dogged Joe, nagging him to teach her, to show her. And he would pull a pack of cherry Life Savers out of his pocket, thumb one out for her, and demonstrate the proper way to train a creeper, to deal with aphids, to prune a tea rose.

She had adored him—his weathered face, old even then, his slow, thoughtful voice, his big, patient hands. He had come to work in the gardens of Templeton House as a boy, in her grandparents' day. After sixty years of service, he had a right to his pension, to spend his days tending his own garden, to a life sitting in the sunshine.

And, Laura understood, it would break his heart if she offered it.

So she picked up the slack under the guise of wanting a hobby. When her schedule allowed, and often when it didn't, she would stand with Joe and discuss perennials and bonemeal and mulch.

Today, as afternoon faded to dusk, she took stock. The gardens of Templeton House looked as they should in winter: quiet, waiting, the hardiest blooms splashes of defiant color. Her parents had given the house into her hands for tending, and for cherishing. Laura did both.

She stepped out onto the skirt of the pool, nodded in approval. She maintained the pool herself. It was, after all, her indulgence. Whatever the weather, if she could squeeze in a few laps, she did so. She'd taught her children to swim in that pool, as her father had taught her. The water sparkled, a delicate blue, thanks to some of her recent dickering with the pump and filter.

The mermaid lived beneath, a mosaic fantasy of flowing red hair and glossy green tail. Her girls loved to dive down and touch that smiling, serene face, even as she had.

Out of habit, she checked the glass tables for smudges, the cushions of the chairs and lounges for dampness or dust. Ann would have already done so, but Laura didn't turn toward the house until she was certain everything was perfect.

Satisfied, she walked down the stone path and chose the kitchen door. Scents assaulted her, made her taste buds yearn. Mrs. Williamson, ample of hip and bosom, stood at the stove, as she had done for all of Laura's memory.

"Leg of lamb," Laura said and sighed. "Apple chutney. Curried potatoes."

Turning, Mrs. Williamson smiled smugly. She was well into her seventies. Her hair was the hard glossy black of a bowling ball and approximately the same shape. But her face was soft, full of folds and wrinkles and as sweet as her own cream centers.