If Only in My Dreams Read online

  Eric po­in­ted to Qu­inn and sa­id darkly, "She's an in­va­der."

  "He me­ans an in­t­ru­der."Evan nod­ded.

  "Boys, this is no way to tre­at com­pany."

  "She's not com­pany. She's a girl."

  "Ye­ah." Eric nod­ded. "A stran­ger girl."

  "Well, this girl just hap­pens to be an old fri­end of mi­ne, so she's not a stran­ger at all." Ca­le un­lo­ose­ned the ro­pe with fin­gers that we­re clo­se to sha­king at the sud­den ne­ar­ness of this wo­man who had ap­pe­ared in his dre­ams so many ti­mes he knew every li­ne of her fa­ce, every cur­ve of her body.

  He cle­ared his thro­at and hel­ped her up, as if was the most na­tu­ral thing in the world to ha­ve the wo­man of his dre­ams show up, bo­und and gag­ged, on the so­fa in a re­mo­te ca­bin in the Mon­ta­na hills in a blin­ding bliz­zard.

  "Boys, you ob­vi­o­usly do not know who this wo­man is," Ca­le told them, for­cing his eyes on­to them and away from her. From tho­se gre­en eyes that still, he had no­ti­ced, held that spark of gold.

  They sho­ok the­ir he­ads and as­ked in uni­son, "Who?"

  "This is the da­ug­h­ter of Hap Hol­lis­ter," he an­no­un­ced gra­vely.

  "Hap Hol­lis­ter!" one gas­ped.

  "The gre­atest Lit­tle Le­ague co­ach in the world!" the ot­her ex­c­la­imed.

  "The very one."

  Qu­inn lo­oked down at the two small fa­ces that we­re sta­ring up at her, open-mo­ut­hed and wi­de-eyed. She won­de­red what Ca­le had told them abo­ut her fat­her.

  "My sons." Ca­le tur­ned to her. "Eric and Evan. Boys, say hel­lo to Qu­inn Hol­lis­ter. Then apo­lo­gi­ze."

  "Hel­lo. Sorry." Eric sta­red at his fe­et, from which dark socks tra­iled.

  "Li­ke you me­an it." Ca­le's eyes nar­ro­wed.

  "We're sorry. We tho­ught you we­re a rob­ber."

  "Well, I gu­ess I can un­der­s­tand why you might ha­ve tho­ught that, fin­ding a stran­ger sle­eping on yo­ur so­fa. But didn't you he­ar me when I ca­me in? I cal­led…"

  "We we­re out cold," Ca­le sa­id over his sho­ul­der as he di­sap­pe­ared thro­ugh a do­or­way mo­men­ta­rily. "Nap­ping. I to­ok the boys for a long walk this mor­ning, and I gu­ess it knoc­ked us all out."

  "You to­ok yo­ur sons out to play in a bliz­zard?" she as­ked. "Isn't that a form of child abu­se?"

  "It was be­fo­re the bliz­zard hit. Ever spend three days in a re­mo­te ca­bin with no TV and two fo­ur-ye­ar-olds who ha­ve had elec­t­ro­nic baby-sit­ters all the­ir yo­ung li­ves?" He re­tur­ned and han­ded her a glass of wa­ter.

  "Can't say that I ha­ve." She ac­cep­ted the glass and drank gre­edily, ho­ping the wa­ter wo­uld wash away the lint that had at­tac­hed to the ro­of of her mo­uth.

  "Wal­king in the snow is the only thing that ke­eps them mo­ving and ti­res them out eno­ugh that they're not bo­un­cing off the walls." He smi­led, and Qu­inn felt so­met­hing in her chest be­gin to tig­h­ten.

  He still had a kil­ler smi­le. It was im­pos­sib­le not to no­ti­ce.

  "But what," he was sa­ying, "are you do­ing up he­re in the midst of a bliz­zard?"

  "I went up to put the wre­ath on Eli­za­beth's ca­bin. Every ye­ar, one of us…"

  "I re­mem­ber," he sa­id softly, re­cal­ling a ti­me when he had ac­com­pa­ni­ed her to do that very task. Had she for­got­ten?

  Igno­ring the re­fe­ren­ce to anot­her Chris­t­mas, when they had not be­en stran­gers, she sa­id, "Whi­le I was in­si­de, the storm ca­me up, and I got stuck co­ming back down the mo­un­ta­in. My brot­her told me that Val was co­ming back for Chris­t­mas, so I tho­ught I'd see if she was he­re. The do­or was open, so I ca­me in and bu­ilt up the fi­re and wrap­ped up in the blan­kets. I was very cold."

  "You're lucky you ma­de it. Qu­inn, what ever pos­ses­sed you to get out of the car in a storm li­ke this? How co­uld you ha­ve se­en the ca­bin from the ro­ad in all this snow?" His eyeb­rows ar­c­hed up­ward just slightly, the right hig­her than the left, in a ges­tu­re she sud­denly re­mem­be­red all too well.

  "My car is right the­re, at the end of the la­ne. It's not that far. And I ha­ve a very go­od sen­se of di­rec­ti­on." Her chin lif­ted just a bit. No po­int in tel­ling him abo­ut Eli­za­beth…

  His eyes ca­ught hers and she tur­ned away from his ga­ze, which she was not re­ady to me­et. He­re was the man who had bro­ken her he­art and chan­ged her li­fe. The very le­ast she de­ser­ved was to fe­el hard, cold an­ger.

  All she felt at that mo­ment was aw­k­ward and un­p­re­pa­red to sha­re the con­fi­nes of a ca­bin with him.

  All she wan­ted was to get away, to ret­re­at from tho­se ha­zel eyes that chan­ged with the light, and that we­re now tur­ning a soft blue.

  Not re­ady, she told her­self. I'm not re­ady for this.

  She for­ced her eyes from his fa­ce-dam­mit, the very le­ast he co­uld ha­ve do­ne was to ha­ve go­ne bald and pa­un­c­hy-for­ced her­self to lo­ok aro­und for her bo­ots. The­re. By the do­or. Right whe­re she left them. "I ha­ve to go."

  Ca­le wal­ked to the win­dow and drew asi­de a dark gre­en and whi­te chec­ked cur­ta­in. "Qu­inn, you wo­uldn't ma­ke it ten fe­et from the do­or in this storm."

  "I ha­ve to get ho­me." She felt aw­k­ward and ner­vo­us, wan­ting to flee.

  "Not for a whi­le, I'm af­ra­id."

  Wal­king to the front do­or, Qu­inn pe­ered out on­to a to­tal­ly whi­te world. Ca­le was right. She wo­uldn't ma­ke it past the porch wit­ho­ut lo­sing her di­rec­ti­on. She sta­red in­to the den­se whi­te­ness, se­ar­c­hing for a sha­dow. Per­haps Eli­za­beth wo­uld co­me back, and le­ad her away from he­re. But the­re we­re no sha­dows to be fo­und, no dark fi­gu­res wa­iting to gu­ide her from the ca­bin and back to her car. With a sigh she tur­ned back to the ro­om, the words she had be­en abo­ut to spe­ak for­got­ten in the blink of an eye.

  Ca­le was ten­ding the dying fi­re, bu­il­ding it up to send warmth and light in­to the ro­om. The dark blue swe­at­s­hirt stret­c­hed ac­ross his bro­ad back and sho­ul­ders as he lif­ted one log af­ter anot­her and stac­ked them evenly. Even as a te­ena­ger his arms had al­ways be­en strong and hard, over­de­ve­lo­ped from ba­se­ball. She won­de­red how much mo­re so now, af­ter twel­ve se­asons of pla­ying in the ma­j­ors. He lo­oked won­der­ful. Ever­y­t­hing abo­ut him lo­oked won­der­ful.

  She won­de­red whe­re his wi­fe was. Still nap­ping, no do­ubt, in one of tho­se ro­oms at the end of the hal­lway.

  Wit­ho­ut war­ning, he tur­ned and smi­led at her, to­tal­ly di­sar­ming her with that sa­me warm smi­le she had li­ved for on­ce upon a ti­me. To­uc­hed in ways that ter­ri­fi­ed her to re­call, Qu­inn bac­ked up in­vo­lun­ta­rily as if to pla­ce as much dis­tan­ce bet­we­en them as pos­sib­le. So many ti­mes thro­ug­ho­ut the ye­ars she had dre­amed of this mo­ment when she wo­uld see him aga­in, had so ca­re­ful­ly plan­ned what she wo­uld say. And tho­ugh she might want to grab him by the thro­at and de­mand an ex­p­la­na­ti­on, of co­ur­se, she wo­uld not. She'd ne­ver gi­ve him the sa­tis­fac­ti­on of kno­wing how de­ep the pa­in had go­ne, how long it had lin­ge­red. Oh, no. She'd be ma­tu­re. Witty. Sop­his­ti­ca­ted.

  But now, so unex­pec­tedly fa­ce-to-fa­ce, she co­uld not re­call even one word of the cle­ver mo­no­lo­gue she'd ca­re­ful­ly re­he­ar­sed so many ti­mes over the ye­ars.

  A crash from the back of the ca­bin ma­de her jump.

  "Ex­cu­se me," Ca­le sa­id with a grim ex­p­res­si­on as he he­aded down the hal­lway.

  He was back in two mi­nu­tes with one small boy un­der each arm. He de­po­si­ted one at each end of the so­fa and sa­id sternly, "And you will sit the­re un­til I say you can get
up."

  Two small frec­k­led fa­ces le­vi­ed si­lent cur­ses in Ca­le's di­rec­ti­on.

  "So." Ca­le tur­ned to Qu­inn and fol­ded his arms. "I bet you'd li­ke so­met­hing warm to drink. Can I get you so­me tea? Cof­fee? Co­coa?"

  "Well, a cup of tea wo­uld be gre­at. My mo­uth is still a lit­tle dry," Qu­inn sa­id, une­asily awa­iting the ap­pe­aran­ce of the boys' mot­her at any mo­ment. She co­uldn't pos­sibly sle­ep thro­ugh the rac­ket her sons had ma­de. Qu­inn kept one eye on the do­or­way, wa­iting for Ca­le's wi­fe to ap­pe­ar. What did she lo­ok li­ke? What was she li­ke? Qu­inn was at on­ce dying to know and sick with the tho­ught of me­eting the wo­man who had, af­ter all, ta­ken her pla­ce in Ca­le's li­fe.

  He wal­ked thro­ugh the do­or­way be­hind her in­to the small kit­c­hen. She he­ard a cup­bo­ard do­or open, then clo­se.

  "Re­gu­lar or her­bal?" he as­ked.

  "What kind of her­bal?"

  "Umm, let's see." Ca­le lo­oked up to see her in the do­or­way, and he held up se­ve­ral bo­xes of te­as. "Val has so­me mint, so­me cha­mo­mi­le, and so­met­hing cal­led 'Ro­ast-aro­ma.'"

  Sud­denly clumsy, he drop­ped all three bo­xes on the flo­or. Qu­inn bent to pick them up at the sa­me ti­me he did.

  Trying to ig­no­re the fact that she was clo­se eno­ugh that he co­uld smell so­me de­li­ca­te, en­ti­cing scent-li­lac, may­be?-he stac­ked the bo­xes of tea, which his sis­ter had bro­ught at Hit­ler's Ge­ne­ral Sto­re back in No­vem­ber, on­to the co­un­ter, and step­ped back, away from her.

  "Mint is fi­ne. Thank you." She tri­ed to be ca­su­al, and tho­ught she wasn't do­ing too badly, right then.

  He fil­led the blue ena­mel pot with wa­ter and set it atop the sto­ve. "I don't know why Val didn't rep­la­ce this old wo­od sto­ve," he mut­te­red.

  "Pro­bably so that when you lo­se elec­t­ri­city up he­re, you can still eat."

  "Well, it's a pa­in in the butt." He re­ac­hed in­to a lar­ge black buc­ket by the back do­or and pul­led out a few pi­eces of wo­od. Ope­ning a do­or in the front of the sto­ve, he stuf­fed in the wo­od, which had be­en cut to fit per­fectly.

  Cut to fit by my brot­her, she co­uld ha­ve told him.

  "When's din­ner?" Eric po­ked his he­ad aro­und the do­or-jamb.

  "What did I say abo­ut sta­ying on the so­fa till I sa­id you co­uld get up?"

  "We're hungry." Evan ap­pe­ared be­hind him.

  "Okay. I'll start din­ner."

  "What?" They eyed him sus­pi­ci­o­usly.

  "Spag­het­ti."

  "You ma­de spag­het­ti last night. It was hard."

  "We want piz­za."

  "Sorry, boys. No piz­za up he­re. But I will try to ti­me the spag­het­ti bet­ter to­night. I pro­mi­se. Now, back on the so­fa. You're still do­ing pe­nan­ce for ha­ving ti­ed up Qu­inn and stuf­fed a sock in her mo­uth."

  De­j­ec­ted and grum­b­ling, the two lit­tle boys shuf­fled sul­lenly back in­to the li­ving ro­om.

  "We're bo­red."

  "We want TV."

  Ca­le gri­ma­ced and shrug­ged his sho­ul­ders. "It's hard to ke­ep them amu­sed so­me­ti­mes. They're used to vi­deo ga­mes and car­to­ons."

  I'm su­re yo­ur wi­fe will ha­ve so­me ide­as to ke­ep them busy," Qu­inn le­aned aga­inst the do­or­way.

  "Oh, she has so­me ide­as, all right," Ca­le la­ug­hed grimly. "All of which con­ve­ni­ently le­ave her out of the pic­tu­re."

  Qu­inn lo­oked at him blankly, not com­p­re­hen­ding.

  "My wi­fe left me. We're di­vor­ced." He sa­id it simply, with the sa­me amo­unt of emo­ti­on as when he had told his sons what was on the din­ner me­nu.

  "I see," she sa­id, not at all se­e­ing how any wo­man co­uld le­ave a man li­ke Ca­le.

  The­re was a crash from the li­ving ro­om.

  Then aga­in, Qu­inn si­lently ac­k­now­led­ged, the­re may ha­ve be­en ot­her con­si­de­ra­tions.

  Chapter Six

  The wa­ter in the te­apot be­gan to bo­il, emit­ting a hos­ti­le whis­t­le. On his way in­to the li­ving ro­om to as­sess the la­test da­ma­ge in­f­lic­ted by his of­f­s­p­ring, Ca­le he­si­ta­ted, de­ba­ting which to tend to first.

  "You fi­nish with the tea. I’ll see what's go­ing on in the­re," Qu­inn sa­id, gra­te­ful for an op­por­tu­nity to flee the kit­c­hen's clo­se qu­ar­ters and the over­w­hel­ming ne­ar­ness of him. It was far too much too so­on, af­ter way too long.

  He­aring her ap­pro­ach, the boys scur­ri­ed back to the­ir pla­ces on eit­her end of the so­fa.

  "So, guys," Qu­inn as­ked as she rig­h­ted the lamp, "what's do­ing?"

  "We are be­ing bo­red," the one on the right told her, his arms fol­ded ac­ross his chest in much the sa­me way as Ca­le had do­ne ear­li­er.

  "Ye­ah," sa­id the one on the left, nar­ro­wing his eyes me­anin­g­ful­ly, "and you know what hap­pens when lit­tle kids get bo­red."

  "No." She pul­led up a small ot­to­man and sat down fa­cing them. "What hap­pens when lit­tle kids get bo­red?"

  "They bo­un­ce off walls," one sa­id, re­pe­ating the phra­se he had he­ard his fat­her use ear­li­er.

  "They get car­ri­ed away," the ot­her told her.

  "Well, I wo­uldn't know, not ha­ving any lit­tle kids," she sa­id. "But if I did, the­re wo­uld be no wall-bo­un­cing. And no one wo­uld ha­ve ti­me to get car­ri­ed away."

  "Why not?" they as­ked in uni­son.

  "They'd be much too busy."

  "Li­ke wat­c­hing TV and stuff, rfcht?" One nod­ded ap­pro­vingly.

  She sho­ok her he­ad. "We'd be do­ing much mo­re fun things."

  They ex­c­han­ged an une­asy glan­ce. Grown-ups ne­ver re­fer­red to TV as a fun thing.

  "Li­ke what?"

  "Ye­ah, what's mo­re fun than wat­c­hing car­to­ons?"

  "Who's art kit is that on the tab­le?" Qu­inn po­in­ted to a box on the tab­le un­der the front win­dow.

  "It's Eric's," the boy on the left told her.

  Qu­inn smi­led. Now she knew that Eric had the cow­lick and Evan did not.

  "Eric, may I lo­ok at it?" she as­ked.

  "Su­re." He shrug­ged. "I don't use it. My Aunt Val sent it to me."

  Qu­inn ret­ri­eved the box and un­s­nap­ped the clo­su­re. "Ah, lo­ok at all the­se go­odi­es."

  The twins rol­led the­ir eyes. What was so ne­at abo­ut a bunch of pa­per and co­lo­red pen­cils and cra­yons and such?

  Qu­inn drew out a sketch pad and the co­lo­red pen­cils and smi­led.

  "Well, you boys may go back to wha­te­ver walls you we­re plan­ning on jum­ping on."

  " Bo­un­cing," Evan sa­id me­anin­g­ful­ly, cra­ning his neck to see what she was do­ing.

  " Off,"Eric ad­ded. " Bo­un­cing off."

  "Wha­te­ver," she sa­id ca­su­al­ly, wit­ho­ut ta­king her eyes from the sketch pad on her kne­es, and the li­nes and cur­ves she was ma­king with a light brown co­lo­red pen­cil.

  It wasn't long be­fo­re both boys had hop­ped down from the­ir per­c­hes to le­an over her sho­ul­der, as she had in­ten­ded.

  "It's Miss Jane Mo­use­wing." Eric po­in­ted to the fi­gu­re emer­ging from Qu­inn's ra­pidly mo­ving pen­cil.

  "How do you know how to draw Miss Jane so go­od?" Evan as­ked.

  "Be­ca­use that's what I do." She lo­oked up at them, and se­e­ing that they did not un­der­s­tand what she me­ant, she ad­ded, "I wri­te the Miss Jane sto­ri­es, and I draw the pic­tu­res, too."

  They lo­oked at each ot­her, then sa­id in uni­son, "S. Q. Hol­lis­ter wri­tes the Miss Jane bo­oks."

  "Right. Se­le­na Qu­inn Hol­lis­ter. That's me. Qu­inn is my mid­dle na­me, but I use it as my first na­me."


  "Why?" Eric le­aned ever clo­ser un­til he all but hung over her sho­ul­der, fas­ci­na­ted as the pic­tu­re of the lit­tle mo­use-girl be­ca­me mo­re de­fi­ned.

  "I gu­ess 'ca­use my mot­her li­ked it." She shrug­ged as Evan clo­sed in on her ot­her si­de. "And be­ca­use I ha­ve a co­usin na­med Se­le­na and it wo­uld be con­fu­sing if the­re we­re two of us."

  "Then why didn't yo­ur mot­her just na­me you Qu­inn? Why did she na­me you Se­le­na if she was go­ing to call you 'Qu­inn?"

  "Be­ca­use in my mot­her's fa­mily, the first girl is al­ways na­med Se­le­na, af­ter my mot­her's gre­at-aunt. But my mom's brot­her had a lit­tle girl be­fo­re I was born, and he had na­med her Se­le­na. So my co­usin got to be cal­led Se­le­na and I got to be cal­led by my mid­dle na­me."

  "Hmmm." They both nod­ded, and le­aned just a lit­tle clo­ser.

  "So, do you ha­ve any of the Miss Jane bo­oks?" Qu­inn as­ked.

  "No," Eric told her, "but our te­ac­her re­ad them to us at nur­sery scho­ol so­me­ti­mes."

  "They're girls' bo­oks," Evan sne­ered. "We dont re­ad girls' bo­oks."

  "Miss Jane is not just for girls." Qu­inn fi­xed him with a sta­re. "What ma­kes you think she's just for girls?"

  " 'Ca­use she's a girl mo­use. And be­ca­use she do­es girl things."

  "Li­ke what?" Qu­inn as­ked him, re­al­ly wan­ting to know.

  "Li­ke she al­ways we­ars a dress and dan­ces or plays the flu­te and stuff." Evan shrug­ged.

  Qu­inn lo­oked down at Miss Jane, a vi­si­on in a lit­tle flowy dress, her flu­te ra­ised to her lips.

  "She plays to the be­es and to the but­ter­f­li­es," Qu­inn told them, as if ne­eding to ex­p­la­in, "so that they can fly to mu­sic."

  "She has tea par­ti­es," Evan sa­id with a mild to­uch of dis­da­in.

  "She's a girl mo­use," Eric re­pe­ated, as if that sa­id it all.

  "Well, then, if you we­re wri­ting the Miss Jane bo­oks, what wo­uld you do to ma­ke them mo­re in­te­res­ting to boys?"

  Eric and Evan sat un­c­ha­rac­te­ris­ti­cal­ly still for an overly long mo­ment.