Holding the Dream

by Nora Roberts

  The blinds were closed on the window behind the desk. She'd often left them that way herself, she realized. Working in artificial light, never taking notice of the view.

  The shelf was a handy stretch away from the desk and would have held her research books, tax manuals, supplies. No tchotchkes, she thought. No distractions. And, she decided with an inner sigh, no style. Just another bee in the hive.

  Good God, she was boring.

  "Kate."

  She turned, shaking off the moment of self-pity. "Hello, Roger."

  "What are you doing?"

  "Taking a good look in the mirror." She gestured toward her empty office. "No one's using it."

  "No." His smile was a little weak as he glanced in. "There's talk about hiring a new associate. There's a lot of talk," he added, looking back at her face.

  "Is there," she said coolly. "And?"

  "I'm just surprised to see you here. That cop's been around a lot."

  "That doesn't worry me, Roger. I didn't do anything to be worried about."

  "No, of course you didn't. I never believed it. I know you too well." He glanced over his shoulder, the movement jerky and ripe with nerves. "Bittle Senior called a full staff meeting last week, made the announcement that you'd been cleared of any implication. Now everybody's looking at everybody else. Wondering."

  "That's not surprising, is it?" Curious, she studied his face. "Still, only one person should be worrying as well as wondering. Don't you think, Roger?"

  "The finger pointed at you," he said. "Who knows who it might point to next?''

  "I think Detective Kusack knows how to do his job. Then there's the FBI."

  "What do you mean, the FBI?"

  "Tampering with tax forms is a federal offense."

  "Nobody tampered with the forms filed with the IRS. Nobody fucked with the government."

  "Just with me, and a few clients. You bastard."

  His head snapped back as if she'd slapped him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "You're sweating. You know, I don't believe I've ever seen you sweat before. Not in bed. Not when you told me one of my top accounts was transferring to you. But you're sweating now."

  When she started to pass him, he grabbed her arm. "Don't be ridiculous. Are you actually accusing me of doctoring files?"

  "You son of a bitch. You knew where I kept all my records. You knew just how to pull it off and point the finger at me. You found out about my father, too, didn't you?" Fury was pouring through her hot blood. "And you had the nerve to come on to me again after what you'd done. I couldn't figure out why you were suddenly interested in me again. Just another way to cover your ass."

  "You don't know what you're talking about."

  Yeah, he was sweating, she noted. Scared. Scared as a fucking rabbit caught in oncoming headlights. She hoped to God he suffered. "Take your hand off me, Roger. And do it now."

  He only tightened his grip, leaned closer. "No way you can prove any of this. If you try to put this off on me, you're going to look like a fool. I dumped you. I got that account because I'm better, I'm more innovative. I work harder."

  "You got that account because you slept with a lonely, vulnerable woman."

  "Like you never slept with a client," he said in a furious undertone.

  "No, I never did. And you took the money because you were greedy, because it was easy, and you'd found a way to set me up."

  "I'm warning you, Kate, if you go to Bittle and try to put me on the hot seat, I'll—"

  "What?" she tossed back, her eyes alight with eager challenge. "Exactly what?"

  "Is there a problem here?" Newman glided down the hall in her eerily silent way. Her mouth was pursed, as usual, in disapproval.

  Kate sent her a feral smile. "I don't believe there is." She jerked her arm out of his loosened grip. "Is there, Roger? I believe Mr. Bittle's expecting me, Ms. Newman. I called in on the car phone."

  "He'll see you now. Your phone's ringing, Mr. Thornhill. If you'll come with me, Ms. Powell." Newman glanced over her shoulder once, measuring Roger as he stood grim-faced in the hall, then looked down when Kate rubbed her aching arm. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine." She drew in a breath as Newman opened the door to Bittle's office. "Thank you."

  "Kate." Bittle rose from behind his desk, held out a hand in welcome. "I'm very glad you called." He closed both hands around hers. "Very glad."

  "Thank you for seeing me."

  "Please, sit. What can we get you?"

  "Nothing. I'm fine."

  "Ms. Newman, inform the partners that Kate is here."

  "No, please, that's not necessary. I'd like to speak just with you."

  "As you wish. That'll be all, Ms. Newman." He took the chair beside Kate rather than the one behind his desk. "I wish I could tell you about the progress on the investigation. But Detective Kusack asks more questions than he answers."

  "I'm not here about that." She thought of Roger. No, she wouldn't point the finger, not yet. She would let him stew, and sweat, and she would find a way to prove what he'd done. Then she'd watch him fry. "I came about your offer."

  "Good." Pleased, he sat back, folded his hands. "We're very anxious to have you back. We're all agreed that the partners could use some fresh young blood. It's too easy for a firm such as this to become stodgy."

  "It isn't stodgy, Mr. Bittle. This is a good firm. I've just started to realize how much I benefited from my years here."

  Without any idea of what she was going to say, she, too, folded her hands in her lap. "First, I want to say that I've thought about what happened a great deal and come to the conclusion that under the circumstances you did what you had to do. What I would have done in your position."

  "I appreciate that, Kate, very much appreciate it."

  "My mistake was in not facing it, and maybe I'm starting to give myself a break about that, too. I can't always handle things by myself. I don't always have all the answers." She let out a little breath. That was a tough one to admit.

  "Mr. Bittle, I had one goal when I got my M.B.A. That was to work my way up in this firm to a partnership. Working for you was one of the best experiences of my life. I knew that if I made it here, if I met your standards and became a partner, it meant I was the best. It was very important to me to be the best."

  "This firm has never had an associate with a finer work ethic. While I realize the timing of our offer might worry you, I'll assure you again that our regret for your involvement in this police matter has nothing whatever to do with the terms of partnership."

  "I know that. It means a great deal to me to know that." She opened her mouth, acceptance hovering on her tongue. Then shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bittle, I can't come back here."

  "Kate." He reached out to take her hand again. "Believe me when I say I understand your discomfort. I expect that you'd be reluctant to accept until this matter is completely cleared up. We're certainly willing to give you time."

  "It's not a matter of time. Or maybe it is. I've had time to readjust, reevaluate. For the past few months I've deviated from the path I set for myself when I was still in high school. I like it, Mr. Bittle. No one's more surprised than I am that I'm happy running a secondhand shop on Cannery Row. But I am, and I'm not willing to give it up."

  He sat back, tapping his fingertips together as he did when he faced a knotty problem. "Let me talk to you a moment as an old friend, someone who's known you most of your life."

  "Of course."

  "You're goal-oriented, Kate. You've put all your time and effort into achieving success in your chosen field. A field, I might add, that you're eminently suited for. Now perhaps you've needed a break. We all do from time to time." He spread his fingers, tapped them together again. "But to lose sight of that goal, to settle in a position you're not only over-qualified for, but unsuited for, is a waste of time and talent. Any adequate bookkeeper could handle the daily finances of a shop, and a high-school girl can ring up sales."

  "
You're right." Delighted to hear it all put into logical, unemotional terms, she smiled at him. "You're completely right, Mr. Bittle."

  "Well, then, Kate, if you'd like a few more days to sort out your thoughts—"

  "No, I've got them sorted. I've told myself basically the same thing you've just said to me. What I'm doing makes absolutely no sense. It's illogical, irrational and emotional. It's probably a mistake, too, but I have to make it. You see, it's our shop. Margo's and Laura's and mine. It's our dream."

  Chapter Twenty

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  She copped a bottle of champagne from the shop, then decided to go one better and attempt to cook a meal. She had a tacit agreement with Byron that he would cook and she would wash up, as he was light-years ahead of her in culinary skills. But since this was to be a celebration of a new stage of her life, she wanted to give it a shot.

  She'd always considered cooking a kind of mathematical skill. She could handle the formulas, like calculus, calculate the answer, but she didn't particularly enjoy the process.

  Wrapped in a bib apron, her sleeves rolled up past the elbows, she lined up her ingredients like elements in a physics lab.

  First the antipasto, she decided, and warily eyed the mushrooms she'd washed. It couldn't be easy to stuff them with cheese, but the recipe claimed it could be done. She removed the stems and chopped them fine, as directed. Following the steps she cooked them with the green onions and garlic and found herself smiling at the scent.

  By the time she'd finished with the bread crumbs and cheese and spices, she was enthralled with herself.

  It wasn't long before she was happily smearing the stuffing mixture into the caps, then popping them into the oven.

  There were cucumbers to marinate, peppers to slice, tomatoes to deal with. Oh, right—and the olives. She fought with the lid on a jar of plump black olives, cursing it as the oven timer beeped. Out came the mushrooms.

  She was in control, she told herself as she sucked on the thumb she'd brushed against the hot baking dish. It was just a matter of efficiency. What the hell came next?

  She sliced cheese, struggled over the perfect consistency for the basil and olive oil she wanted for the bread she intended to serve.

  An emergency call to Mrs. Williamson, the cook at Templeton House, calmed her down enough that she could arrange the antipasto meticulously on a platter.

  Where the hell was Byron? she wondered and nibbled her nails over the recipe for pasta con pesto. "Coarsely chopped basil leaves," she read. What the devil did "coarsely chopped" mean, exactly? And why the hell did you have to grate Parmesan when anybody with half a brain could buy a nice can of it in the market? And where was she going to find pine nuts?

  She found them in a labeled canister in his cupboard. She should have known he would have them. The man had everything that had to do with eating, preparing to eat, and serving eats. The carefully measured ingredients went into the blender. Deciding that a little prayer couldn't hurt, she closed one eye, sent it up, and hit the switch.

  Everything whirled satisfactorily.

  Smug now, Kate put water on to boil for the pasta and set the table.

  "Excuse me," Byron said from the kitchen doorway. "I seem to have walked into the wrong house."

  "Very funny."

  The dogs, who had been keeping her company, and keeping an eye out for scraps, dashed to greet him. Since he'd followed his nose and his curiosity straight into the kitchen, he still had his briefcase with him. He set it aside now to pet the dogs and grin foolishly at Kate. "You don't cook."

  "'Don't' doesn't mean 'can't.' " Anxious for feedback, she took a mushroom off the platter and popped it into his mouth. "Well?"

  "It's good."

  "Good?" She arched a brow. "Just good?"

  "Surprisingly good?" he ventured. "You're wearing an apron."

  "Of course I'm wearing an apron. I'm not getting splatters all over me."

  "You look so… domestic." He slid his hands over her shoulders, kissed her hello. "I like it."

  "Don't get used to it. This is pretty much a one-shot deal." She went to the refrigerator to take out the champagne. "I remember when Josh went through this phase and wanted to marry Donna Reed."

  "Donna Reed." After opening the door to let the dogs streak out, Byron settled on a stool. "Well, she did look pretty hot in those aprons, now that I think about it."

  "He got over it and decided he'd rather go for Miss February." With a quick, efficient twist, she popped the cork. "Of course, he always wanted Margo anyway. Donna and Miss 42-D Cup were just distractions."

  She took flutes out of the cabinet and turned back with a wicked grin. "Now, if I have the line right, I say, 'And how was your day, dear?'"

  "It was good. This is better." He took the glass she'd filled for him, toasted her. "What's the occasion?"

  "I'm glad you realize there has to be one for me to go through this mess." She blew out a breath as she looked around the kitchen. No matter that she'd tried to be careful, there was a hell of a cleanup in store. "Why do you do it? You know, cook."

  "I enjoy it."

  "You're a sick man, Byron."

  "Your water's boiling, Donna."

  "Oh, right." She picked up the clear canister of pasta, frowned at it. "You take this stuff out of the box and put it in here. Okay for aesthetics, I guess, but how am I supposed to know how much is ten ounces?''

  "Estimate. I know that goes against the grain for you, but we all have to live dangerously now and again."

  He watched her worry over it, started to tell her she was putting in too much, then shrugged. It was her dinner, after all. In any case, he found himself easily distracted by the way the neat bow of the apron strings accented her tidy little butt.

  Just how would it look if she was naked under that sturdy white apron?

  At his laugh, she glanced around. "What?"

  "Nothing." He drank more wine. "Just an unexpected and slightly embarrassing fantasy. It passed. Mostly. Why don't you tell me what happened to set you off on this domestic campaign?''

  "I'll tell you. I was—Shit, I forgot the bread." Her brow furrowed as she slid the pan into the oven, adjusted the heat and timer. "There's no way you can hold a conversation and deal with all the details of a meal in progress. Why don't you put on some music, light the candles. Do that kind of stuff while I finish this."

  "All right." He rose, started out, turned back. "Katherine, about that little fantasy…" Amused at himself, he shook his head. "Maybe we'll try it later."

  Too preoccupied to pay attention, she waved him away and got back to business.

  She thought she'd managed very well when they were settled at the table, scents wafting, candles flickering, and Otis Redding crooning on the stereo. "I could handle doing this," she decided after she'd sampled and approved the pasta. "About once a year."

  "It's fabulous, really. And very much appreciated. It's quite a feeling coming home to a pretty woman and a home-cooked meal."

  "I had some excess energy." She broke bread, offered him half. "I thought about just dragging you up to the bedroom when you walked in, then I figured that could wait until after dinner. Anyway, I was hungry. My appetite's definitely improved in the last few months."

  "So has your stress level," he commented. "You've stopped popping aspirin and antacids like candy."

  It was true, she admitted. She had. And she certainly felt better than she remembered feeling in years. "Well, I've done something today that is going to either keep me on that same route or send me back to the pharmacy." She took a hard look at the bubbles in her wine, swallowed some. "I turned down the partnership."

  "Did you?" He laid a hand over hers, toyed with her fingers. "Are you okay with that?"

  "I think so." Out of curiosity she said, "You don't sound very surprised. I didn't know I was going to turn it down until I was sitting in Mr. Bittle's office."

  "Maybe your head didn't know it, but your gut did. Or your heart. You'v
e wrapped yourself up in Pretenses, Kate. It's yours. Why would you give it up to be a part of something someone else had built?"

  "Because it's what I've always wanted, always aimed for." A bit unsure of him, she shrugged her shoulders. "It turned out it was enough just to know I was good enough. It's a little scary, changing directions this way."

  "It's not that radical a change," he corrected. "You're partners in a business, in charge of accounts."

  "My degree, all that education—"

  "You don't really believe that's wasted, do you? It's part of who you are, Kate. You're just using it in a different way."

  "I just couldn't go back to that office, to that—life," she decided. "It all seemed so rigid. Margo was in the shop today with the baby. People were fussing over him, and Margo was sitting there with the cradle beside her, and Laura had to look for this winged dragon, and I boxed a pocket watch and put away shoes…" Embarrassed, she trailed off. "I'm babbling. I never babble."

  "It's all right. I get the drift. You're having fun working there, being part of it. You're enjoying the surprises of something you helped create."

  "I never liked surprises. I always wanted to know the when, where, and how, so I could be prepared. You make mistakes if you aren't prepared, and I hate making mistakes."

  "Are you doing something that feels right to you?"

  "It looks that way."

  "Well, then." He lifted his glass, touched it to hers. "Go for it."

  "Wait until I tell Margo and Laura." The idea of it made her laugh. "Margo was gone when I got back, and Laura had to run pick up the girls, so I didn't have the chance. Of course, we're going to have to make some changes. It's ridiculous not to have a regular posted schedule of our work hours. And the pricing system needs to be completely overhauled. The new software I've just installed will completely streamline our—" She caught herself and found him grinning at her. "You can't change overnight."

  "You shouldn't change at all. That's the kind of thing they need you for. Play to your strengths, kid. Which apparently include Italian cooking. This pesto is terrific."

  "Really?" She sampled more herself. "It is kind of good. Well, maybe I could throw something together. On special occasions."

  "You won't get an argument from me." Thoughtfully, he twirled pasta on his fork. "Speaking of special occasions, now that you're going to continue to be self-employed, you should be able to flex your schedule a bit. For a variety of reasons, I'm not going to be able to get back to Atlanta for Christmas, so I'm making plans to take a few days for the trip over Thanksgiving."

  "That's nice." She refused to acknowledge the thud of dis appointment. "I'm sure your family will be happy to have you, even for a few days."

  "I'd like you to come with me."

  "What?" Her fork paused halfway to her mouth.

  "I'd like you to come to Atlanta with me for Thanksgiving and meet my family."

  "I—I can't. I can't just fly across the country like that. There's not enough time to—"

  "You have the best part of a month to arrange your schedule. Atlanta's not Bora Bora, Kate. It's Georgia."

  "I know where Atlanta is," she said testily. "Look, besides the time factor, Thanksgiving's a family holiday. You don't just bring someone and dump them on your family on Thanksgiving."

  "You're not someone," he said quietly. Oh, it was panic in her eyes, all right. He could read it perfectly. Though it irritated him, he determined to follow through. "It's traditional where I come from to invite the woman who's important to you to meet your family, to have them meet her. Particularly if it's the woman you're in love with and want to marry."

  She jerked back as if scalded, nearly knocking over the chair as she sprang