If Only in My Dreams Page 9

  "How is Sunny?" Ca­le lo­oked fa­intly amu­sed.

  "She's fi­ne. She has a dar­ling lit­tle girl na­med Lilly whom she adop­ted abo­ut two ye­ars ago," Qu­inn told him, won­de­ring if he'd be­en eaves­d­rop­ping. "When she di­vor­ced her hus­band, she let him buy out her sha­re of the­ir bu­si­ness-a mo­ve we all qu­es­ti­oned at the ti­me, but she was ada­mant. Right now, she's lo­oking for so­met­hing el­se to do. Even­tu­al­ly, I ima­gi­ne she'll pro­bably start anot­her bu­si­ness."

  "And yo­ur ot­her sis­ters?" Ca­le sat in the high-back cha­ir, and Qu­inn to­ok a se­at on the so­fa, pus­hing the pi­le of blan­kets asi­de to ma­ke a spa­ce.

  The ca­bin was oddly qu­i­et, the boys ha­ving go­ne to bed wit­ho­ut fuss af­ter Ca­le told them a ro­using, tho­ugh slightly em­bel­lis­hed, story abo­ut how the ghost town of Set­tler's He­ad re­al­ly got its na­me.

  "Li­za has her own ra­dio talk show in Se­at­tle-I gu­ess Val told you that-and Ce­Ce is haw­king jewelry on te­le­vi­si­on." She grin­ned.

  "She's what?"

  "Ce­Ce is a sa­les host on a shop­ping chan­nel."

  "You're kid­ding." He la­ug­hed.

  "No, I am not. And if you see her, you will be wi­se to wi­pe off that smirk. She ta­kes her job very se­ri­o­usly, and lo­ves every bles­sed mi­nu­te of it. She's ha­ving a bet­ter ti­me than she ever did re­por­ting the news in Abi­le­ne."

  "Well, I'm glad to he­ar that she's happy. I al­ways li­ked Ce­Ce. She was sort of li­ke ever­yo­ne's big sis­ter. I re­mem­ber when she used to catch for Sky and me when Tre­vor wasn't aro­und."

  "I re­mem­ber. You wo­uld ne­ver let me play."

  "Not whi­le you we­re lit­tle, an­y­way," he sa­id, an­ci­ent me­mo­ri­es flo­oding back, of Qu­inn thro­wing wobbly pit­c­hes to Ca­le, which he wo­uld hit in­to the wo­ods. Of the two of them, cha­sing af­ter the ball and ta­king the­ir ti­me in fin­ding it…

  So long ago.

  She blus­hed, as if she'd lif­ted the me­mory from his mind.

  Sen­sing her dis­com­fort, he chan­ged the su­bj­ect ab­ruptly. "You we­re gre­at with the boys to­day."

  "They re­al­ly are a lot of fun, Ca­le. I enj­oyed them."

  And you. I lo­ved be­ing with you aga­in. Lo­ved wat­c­hing yo­ur fa­ce and ma­king you la­ugh, lo­ved se­e­ing you co­ve­red with flo­ur, and wat­c­hing yo­ur sons ta­king turns pat­ting you on the back to ma­ke lit­tle whi­te han­d­p­rints on the back of yo­ur swe­ater. It's bre­aking my he­art all over aga­in, but I wo­uldn't tra­de a mi­nu­te of this ti­me with you. I'll carry the­se days with me fo­re­ver…

  "I've spent mo­re ti­me do­ing things with them this we­ek than I ever did be­fo­re," Ca­le was sa­ying, "and I ha­ve to ad­mit, it has be­en fun."

  "I think the sec­ret may be just to ke­ep them busy with so­met­hing they li­ke to do."

  "I'm just star­ting to le­arn what they li­ke to do." His fa­ce sank in­to a frown. "I ha­te ad­mit­ting that, that my sons are fo­ur ye­ars old al­re­ady and I hardly know them at all."

  "So­me fat­hers ne­ver get to know the­ir chil­d­ren," she told him.

  "Daddy, I can't sle­ep." A very small vo­ice emer­ged from the dark hall.

  "What's the mat­ter, lit­tle buddy?" Ca­le's fa­ce sof­te­ned as Evan ap­pe­ared ten­ta­ti­vely, his fa­ce flus­hed, his fis­ted hands rub­bing his eyes.

  "I had a bad dre­am."

  "O­ops." Ca­le wal­ked to his son and pic­ked him up, res­ting the lit­tle he­ad on his sho­ul­der. "May­be ghost sto­ri­es at bed­ti­me we­ren't such a go­od idea, af­ter all."

  "Will you stay with me?" Evan yaw­ned in­to his fat­her's neck.

  Ca­le lo­oked at Qu­inn and she nod­ded. "I'm kind of ti­red an­y­way," she told him. "I'll just get re­ady for bed and turn in."

  "Well…" He he­si­ta­ted for just a se­cond, then nod­ded slowly, sa­ying, "I gu­ess I'll see you in the mor­ning."

  "Su­re. Go­od night, Ca­le." She sto­od and pat­ted the lit­tle boy gently on the back. "Go­od night, Evan."

  " 'Night, Qu­inn," was the sle­epy reply.

  Ca­le's fo­ot­fall ec­ho­ed softly on the old pi­ne flo­or as he car­ri­ed his son back to his bed. Qu­inn pi­led logs on­to the fi­re, and chan­ged in­to the clot­hes she had worn to bed the night be­fo­re. Not stylish, cer­ta­inly not sexy, she no­ted, but they we­re warm. And warm was no small thing in the midst of the storm that con­ti­nu­ed to ra­ge out­si­de the ca­bin. She ho­ped that it wo­uld stop to­mor­row. She just didn't know how much lon­ger she co­uld stand be­ing he­re with him. She had held on so tightly to the pa­in he had in­f­lic­ted on her that, for ye­ars, it had be­en all she had left of him.

  Now, be­ing he­re with him, se­e­ing his fa­ce, he­aring his la­ug­h­ter aga­in, he­aring him say her na­me, had ero­ded the wall she had bu­ilt to ke­ep him out, to ma­ke cer­ta­in that he-that no one-ever ca­me clo­se to her he­art aga­in. But it was no use, she knew.

  If an­y­t­hing, she tho­ught as she sig­hed and pun­c­hed her pil­low, the past two days had ta­ught her so­met­hing she had sus­pec­ted for ye­ars.

  If lo­ve is de­ep eno­ugh, true eno­ugh, it ne­ver di­es. No mat­ter what

  Chapter Nine

  "What are we go­ing to do to­day?" Evan po­un­ced upon Ca­le from be­hind.

  "The­re is not­hing to do," Eric whi­ned.

  "Chris­t­mas is in two days." Evan co­un­ted on his fin­gers. "This is the worst Chris­t­mas ever."

  "How do you fi­gu­re that?" Ca­le as­ked.

  "We're stuck in this dumb ca­bin. San­ta Cla­us will ne­ver find us he­re." Eric's eyes wi­de­ned at the re­ali­za­ti­on.

  The twins lo­oked at each ot­her in hor­ror.

  "No Chris­t­mas pre­sents?" Evan whis­pe­red.

  "We don't even ha­ve a tree," Eric mo­aned.

  "I wish we'd ne­ver co­me he­re," Evan an­no­un­ced. "I want to go ho­me."

  "We want to go ho­me," Eric re­pe­ated.

  Just fi­nis­hing up was­hing the bre­ak­fast dis­hes-Ca­le ha­ving ma­de his wor­ld-fa­mo­us gloppy eggs that mor­ning-Qu­inn pa­used at the sink, then dri­ed her hands on the to­wel.

  "Get yo­ur co­ats on, boys," she told them.

  The boys gro­aned in uni­son.

  "NO. Not a walk," Eric pro­tes­ted. "Daddy, don't let her ma­ke us go for a walk!"

  "We are go­ing to bu­ild a snow­man on the front porch," she told them. "The­re's plenty of snow. Co­me on."

  Wit­ho­ut gi­ving an­yo­ne an op­por­tu­nity to pro­test fur­t­her, she pus­hed the boys to the do­or and as­sis­ted Ca­le in get­ting them dres­sed for the out­si­de. Af­ter bun­d­ling them­sel­ves up, Ca­le and Qu­inn led the twins thro­ugh the front do­or on­to the porch.

  "Qu­inn's right," the­ir fat­her told them, "the­re's mo­re than eno­ugh snow for a go­od snow­man."

  So­on the snow­man be­gan to ta­ke sha­pe, and the boys wan­ted fe­atu­res for the frosty fa­ce. A pi­le of pi­ne­co­nes fo­und un­der the snow in one cor­ner of the porch sup­pli­ed eyes, no­se, and mo­uth. The boys ad­mi­red the­ir cre­ati­on, but, cold and bo­red, now that the dis­t­rac­ti­on had en­ded, they be­gan to com­p­la­in aga­in.

  "We want a Chris­t­mas tree, Daddy," Evan told him so­lemnly. "If we ha­ve a tree and San­ta do­es find us, he'll ha­ve a pla­ce to le­ave our pre­sents."

  Ca­le had plan­ned on chop­ping one of the small pi­nes from the back to bring in­to the ca­bin. He hadn't co­un­ted on a bliz­zard. A Chris­t­mas tree wasn't too much for his sons to ask, he knew. Of co­ur­se, if Val co­uldn't get he­re with the­ir pre­sents, the­re wo­uldn't be an­y­t­hing to put un­der the tree, but he'd worry abo­ut that la­ter.

  "Guys, go in­si­d
e with Qu­inn and warm up. I'll be in in a few mi­nu­tes."

  "What are you go­ing to do, Daddy?"

  "It's a sur­p­ri­se. Go on." Ca­le ope­ned the do­or and sho­ved them thro­ugh. "May­be Qu­inn can ma­ke so­met­hing hot for you to drink."

  "Su­re, Ca­le, but what are you…?" she as­ked as he sco­oted her thro­ugh the do­or be­hind the boys.

  "You just go on." Ca­le mo­ti­oned for her to fol­low be­hind his sons, and clo­sed the do­or. He tur­ned to the snow­man and as­ked, "What wo­uld Chris­t­mas be wit­ho­ut a tree?"

  "Well, boys, what do you think?" Ca­le sto­od the lit­tle tree upon its cut trunk and ga­ve it a twirl.

  The boys lo­oked at it in hor­ror.

  "What's wrong?" he as­ked.

  "What's that?" They frow­ned.

  "This," Ca­le told them, "is our Chris­t­mas tree."

  " That's not a Chris­t­mas tree!"

  " That's a twig!"

  Cres­t­fal­len, Ca­le step­ped back to ta­ke anot­her lo­ok at the lit­tle tree he had chop­ped from whe­re it had grown at the fo­ot of the porch steps, trying to see it thro­ugh his sons' eyes. It had be­en the only tree he co­uld get to wit­ho­ut run­ning the risk of be­ing lost in the storm.

  It was a bit… scraggly.

  "Why, that tree's just right," Qu­inn an­no­un­ced, ha­ving se­en the lo­ok of di­sap­po­in­t­ment cross Ca­le's fa­ce. "It'll be won­der­ful, on­ce we de­co­ra­te it You'll see, guys. It'll be per­fect."

  "'We don't ha­ve any de­co­ra­ti­ons," Evan wa­iled.

  "Then we'll ma­ke them," she told them. "Eric, get out that art kit of yo­urs."

  "Oh, brot­her," the boys mo­aned joy­les­sly.

  "He­re." Qu­inn han­ded Eric a pa­ir of scis­sors and a pi­le of con­s­t­ruc­ti­on pa­per. "You cut out strips, li­ke this." She fol­ded the pa­per in­to strips of equ­al width, then cut out the first two.

  From the art kit, she wit­h­d­rew a con­ta­iner of pas­te and, re­mo­ving the lid, told Evan, "And you can glue the strips to­get­her in­to a cha­in, see?"

  She de­mon­s­t­ra­ted, then held up the two re­sul­ting cir­c­les. Cut­ting one mo­re strip, she ad­ded the third cir­c­le and han­ded them to Evan.

  "We used to do that, Val and I did," Ca­le sa­id softly from be­hind her. "With our gran­d­mot­her. We ne­ver had an­y­t­hing on our tree that we hadn't ma­de."

  Qu­inn tur­ned to him, wan­ting to put her arms aro­und him. From so­mew­he­re ac­ross the ye­ars, the old Ca­le had co­me back. She re­cog­ni­zed every fi­ber of him now, re­cal­led all the hurts he had sha­red with her, all the pa­in of his mot­her le­aving and his gran­d­mot­her dying, the sha­me of ha­ving a fat­her who ca­me ho­me only when he had now­he­re el­se to go.

  "We ma­de things, too," she told him as she sor­ted thro­ugh the pi­le of co­lo­red pa­per un­til she fo­und the whi­te. Sit­ting next to him at the tab­le, she cut wi­de strips, then fol­ded the strips in­to squ­ares, over and over un­til the en­ti­re strip was lit­tle mo­re than two in­c­hes wi­de. With the scis­sors, she clip­ped and trim­med, then un­fol­ded the strip and held it up for him to see.

  "It's a cha­in of he­arts," Qu­inn sa­id simply, hol­ding it out to him.

  He met her eyes from ac­ross the tab­le, then re­ac­hed out and to­ok the sim­p­le gift she of­fe­red, his hand lin­ge­ring on hers for just a mo­ment.

  "He­arts are for girls," Eric sa­id, lo­oking over his fat­her's sho­ul­der.

  Ca­le frow­ned, and be­gan to fold one of the whi­te strips that Qu­inn had cut and la­id upon the tab­le. When the pa­per was not­hing mo­re than a squ­are, he cut as he had se­en her do, then held the pa­per up so that the he­arts un­fol­ded, as hers had do­ne. Smi­ling, she to­ok his cha­in and pas­ted it to the one she had ma­de, and for a long mo­ment, it se­emed that ti­me sto­od still, and they we­re alo­ne.

  "Daddy, are you go­ing to let her hang he­arts on our tree?" Eric as­ked sus­pi­ci­o­usly.

  "I wo­uld let her hang wha­te­ver she wants on our tree," Ca­le sa­id softly.

  "Boy," Evan grum­b­led, won­de­ring what had got­ten in­to his dad.

  "How might Chris­t­mas co­oki­es lo­ok on the tree?" Qu­inn as­ked.

  "Chris­t­mas co­oki­es?" The boys as­ked in uni­son. Now she had the­ir at­ten­ti­on. "Li­ke the ones we ma­de yes­ter­day?"

  "Dif­fe­rent ones to­day. Spe­ci­al ones to put on the tree," she told them.

  "Yea!" They clap­ped the­ir hands, and the lit­tle de­mons tur­ned back in­to lit­tle boys aga­in.

  "You guys fi­nish the cha­in," she in­s­t­ruc­ted. "And whi­le you do that, I'll ma­ke us so­me lunch and get stuff re­ady for co­oki­es."

  "How long do­es the cha­in ha­ve to be?" Eric frow­ned.

  Qu­inn tri­ed to ga­uge how long it wo­uld ta­ke her to ma­ke so­up from a can and the first batch of co­okie do­ugh.

  "The cha­in sho­uld re­ach from the do­or to the so­fa." She nod­ded, fi­gu­ring that ought to buy her a lit­tle ti­me and ke­ep the boys oc­cu­pi­ed.

  Ca­le wat­c­hed her la­ter as she wor­ked with his sons, as she rol­led out the do­ugh and pa­ti­ently sho­wed them how to cut sha­pes. He wat­c­hed the small fa­ces of the boys, so in­tent on le­ar­ning the new skills, so ple­ased with the­ir ef­forts, so eager for Qu­inn's at­ten­ti­on and ap­pro­val. The­ir fa­ces we­re won­ders to be­hold, the boys' and the wo­man's, and the sim­p­le joy of the sce­ne set­tled aro­und him. As the warmth of the day spre­ad thro­ugh him, it oc­cur­red to him that he co­uld not re­mem­ber the last ti­me he had be­en this happy. He wan­ted to hold on to it with both hands. In­s­te­ad he le­aned aga­inst the co­un­ter and wil­led him­self not to we­ep at the sight of the be­a­uti­ful wo­man and the two be­a­uti­ful boys who we­re busy cut­ting une­ven stars out of co­okie do­ugh.

  It was all exactly the way he had dre­amed it wo­uld be. He won­de­red if it was true what they sa­id, that it was ne­ver too la­te for dre­ams to co­me true.

  "The tree lo­oks pretty go­od, fel­las," Qu­inn com­men­ted as Ca­le pre­pa­red to carry one yo­ung boy un­der each arm in­to the wa­iting tub of warm wa­ter.

  "It's a gre­at tree," Eric sang gle­eful­ly, "and we ma­de it our­sel­ves."

  "It do­esn't ha­ve any sparkly lights," no­ted Evan.

  "It do­esn't ne­ed lights." Eric tri­ed to swat at his brot­her. "It's li­ke a pi­one­er tree, and pi­one­ers didn't ha­ve 'lec­ti­city. Right, Dad?"

  "Right, son." Ca­le ho­is­ted the slip­ping boy a lit­tle hig­her and he­aded down the hal­lway.

  Whi­le Ca­le was ten­ding to his sons, Qu­inn cle­ared up the kit­c­hen and ma­de two cups of tea, which she pla­ced on the tab­le ne­ar the fi­re. It was all so right, it all felt so right, that she wan­ted to cry. She felt too much at ho­me he­re. If things had tur­ned out dif­fe­rently, she might ha­ve ac­tu­al­ly be­lon­ged he­re, be­en a re­al part of the­ir li­ves.

  She to­uc­hed the or­na­ments gently, one then the next. The boys had be­en so cu­te ma­king the­ir lit­tle co­okie or­na­ments. Lac­king fo­od co­lo­ring to ma­ke co­lo­red do­ugh, they had ad­ded co­coa to so­me of the bat­ter, and from the light brown do­ugh had ma­de lit­tle be­ars and wol­ves, and de­er li­ke the ones they had se­en in the mo­un­ta­ins. Then, from the pla­in bat­ter, they had ma­de ba­se­bal­ls and bats to hang on the tree for the­ir fat­her. Lastly, they had ma­de mit­tens in the sha­pe, of the­ir hands out of red and blue con­s­t­ruc­ti­on pa­per, in­sis­ting that Ca­le and Qu­inn tra­ce and hang the­ir hands, too. Then they had hung them all on the tree to­get­her.

  They lo­oked so de­ar to her, the fo­ur hands of co­lo­red pa­per, li­ke Pop­pa Be­ar, Mom­ma Be­ar, and the two Baby Be­ars. De­ar eno­
ugh to set her he­art to bre­aking if she dwel­led too long on the sight. She won­de­red what wo­uld hap­pen to the de­co­ra­ti­ons on­ce Ca­le to­ok his sons back to Mar­y­land.

  "The boys wo­uld li­ke you to co­me say go­od night," Ca­le told her as he ca­me in­to the qu­i­et ro­om.

  "Okay," she sa­id, and set off to­ward the end of the hall.

  It was twenty mi­nu­tes be­fo­re she re­tur­ned to the front of the ca­bin, the boys ha­ving tal­ked her in­to a story be­fo­re let­ting her turn out the light. Ca­le was stac­king wo­od on the fi­re and had al­re­ady ma­de her bed for her.

  "The boys had such a gre­at ti­me to­day," he sa­id wit­ho­ut tur­ning aro­und. With the boys in bed, the­re was lit­tle to fo­cus on but Qu­inn. On her eyes, on her fa­ce. On her body. It was only a lit­tle less dif­fi­cult if he co­uldn't see her. Kno­wing she was the­re, be­hind him, was hard eno­ugh.

  "I had a gre­at ti­me, too. They are re­al­ly a lot of fun," she sa­id to his back. "When they're not tying you up, of co­ur­se."

  "I'm sorry abo­ut that." Ca­le la­ug­hed, then ma­de the mis­ta­ke of tur­ning to fa­ce her. The ne­ar­ness of her pi­er­ced him to his so­ul.

  His la­ug­h­ter di­ed in his thro­at and he res­ted the fi­re po­ker aga­inst the sto­ne of the fa­ce of the fi­rep­la­ce.

  "Qu­inn…" He se­ar­c­hed for words, then re­ali­zed he wasn't even cer­ta­in of what he had wan­ted to say, be­yond spe­aking her na­me. He cle­ared his thro­at. "Thanks for all you did with the boys to­day. I can't re­mem­ber when I saw them ha­ve so much fun. I'll see you in the mor­ning."