The Complete Where Dreams

by M. L. Buchman

  She led Russell up into the rock-wall terraced vineyards of Cinque Terre. The terraces were barely ten feet wide, each supporting a couple dozen vines in a few feet of soil. For a thousand years, grapes had been cultivated here. Cultivated just this way, in tiny little patches by hard labor. Ingenious, hip-wide monorail cars climbed from one terrace to another transporting the grapes and the more daring tourists.

  Russell’s camera snapped away, taking pictures of cliff-edge vineyards, restaurants, and fishing boats dragged up onto the miniature beaches.

  In Manarola, the fourth of the five little towns of Cinque Terre, they found a hidden ristorante—a true locals’ place. They were the only tourists there despite the warm October. Russell’s Italian was rusty, but he’d learned it at his cook’s knee and it came back quickly. Hers was much worse, just enough of it left from college to make it fun rather than a struggle.

  The owner bustled to their table in the middle of the meal and rattled off a flurry of Italian she had no chance of following.

  “What did he say?”

  “I dropped Angelo’s name; they know about him.”

  “Really? That’s great. Local boy made good, huh?”

  More Italian rattled back and forth, and then the owner jerked to stare at her, slapped his hands to his heart and ran back into the restaurant.

  “What? What did you do to him?”

  Russell just shook his head and shrugged. No grin. He didn’t appear to know. She looked away and checked again, still no grin. Okay, he was as mystified as she was.

  The owner came running back, the waiter and waitress, and a woman who had to be his wife in tow. He was also waving a worn newspaper over his head.

  He thumped it down on table, pointed his finger at an article then brought his fingertips to his lips and tossed the kiss into the air.

  They both leaned in. It was titled “Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth” and her picture sat at the head of the column. The rest was in Italian, definitely her writing though. Her agent had told her about Italy, she’d just never imagined the translation. It was the second of her three reviews. Down at the bottom, there it was.

  She wasn’t going to point it out.

  She didn’t need to.

  Russell’s groan filled the air much to the consternation of the owner who she quickly reassured. She couldn’t quite read the translation, but she didn’t need to. She’d written the words herself.

  Bring the person you love to this restaurant and you’ll never be forgotten for it. Ever.

  “In every language,” Russell moaned.

  “Why that’s terribly flattering.”

  Cassidy had been saying that a lot lately. California and Italy were in a bidding war for her expertise. Even hiding away on vacation, news of increased offers trickled her direction. Germany and France had both left lengthy voice messages, or rather a lengthy series of messages in two-minute chunks that Russell was very familiar with.

  He leaned against the stone parapet of the microscopic balcony. Barely big enough to stand in, but enough for him to stare down at the tiny harbor. It would be just big enough to tuck the Lady in among the fishing boats. Nutcase would love this place.

  He could hear Cassidy in the bedroom checking up on the latest flurry of offers. Cassidy Knowles was in play and the games had begun. Salaries, personal villas, cars, and personal assistants were being bandied about in a high stakes poker game that showed no sign of reaching its limit.

  Even the Cinque Terre Consortium had anted up, though they’d been outbid before they even made the offer and they knew it. But they’d done it with style, closing the little Manarola restaurant and inviting a couple dozen of the local chefs, vintners, and officials to feast Italian-style around a long table. There’d been far more food and wine than business. Russell had enjoyed the impromptu singing and copious laughter. By the time they were done, he’d been hugged at least twice by every person there.

  The Ligurian wine industry here had suffered due to the attraction of the almighty tourist dollar. Vines on cliffs were hard work; turning your five-hundred year old cellar into a quaint restaurant or gift shop was far easier. The five-town Consortium had come up with a solution: they were giving the terraces away before they fell into disrepair and slid into the ocean. To retain ownership, the new owners were required to farm them for at least four years. An ingenious and low price-of-entry way to get new blood into the industry.

  Russell could already think of several different campaign ideas. And the Consortium knew that it needed a Cassidy Knowles to make it all happen. Their offer: a small house perched over the beach, with an even smaller budget to fix it up, a survival stipend, and a marketing budget that would barely pay for the rental on the car they’d left parked at Monterosso.

  The chances of her throwing it all away to go sailing with him were getting slimmer by the minute. Angelo was right. He should have asked her before she left, before they had a chance to get to her. But then he’d have trapped her and that couldn’t be right either.

  He could still feel the scars on his back from his own narrow escape from success’ taloned claws. There were several major accounts who still called him and the ones who’d spotted his work for Angelo or Perrin were hounding his cell phone with requests for “just one more spread.” It was the road to nowhere. It was the road back to a studio, living there because next door would be too far away. Part of the package deal would be a series of lovers who looked like Melanie, or aspired to, but didn’t touch his heart.

  He’d had enough of too many lovers. He now had a girlfriend, a woman he was in love with. And he wanted more of that. Wouldn’t his mother laugh knowing what he was feeling right about now. Angelo sure would.

  Cassidy hung up the phone.

  He didn’t turn when she ran her hand up his back.

  “I’m sorry. It’s overwhelming.”

  He nodded. He knew the temptation was huge. It was “The Life” all over again. Except now it was Cassidy who had set her sights on it, and he wasn’t a part of the equation. He didn’t want to be a part of that Life. He’d been there once and barely survived.

  “Hey, lover.”

  He jolted beneath her touch. That’s exactly what he’d called Melanie, the moment before he destroyed her life by asking her to go sailing with him.

  He pushed past Cassidy, away from the balcony and into the pensione. It was so panic small. He’d been caged. He was Cassidy Knowles’ captive lover while she made choices that he could never survive. He groped about the room, found the door, and was out on the streets in moments. He headed up the hill, climbing the cobbled streets, and when they gave out, the terraced fields of vines. It was only when he reached the highest terraces—those which had been abandoned first by the shrinking Cinque Terre wine industry—that he ground to a halt.

  Exhausted, he dropped to the earth and rested his head on his arms.

  “Oh! Melanie, I’m sorry. You never deserved that.” It hurt so much to be wearing that same burden himself. He didn’t want Cassidy’s life. No more than she wanted his. And where did that leave them?

  Sure, a fish can love a bird, but where would they live? Old joke. Sad joke.

  “What’s going on, Russell?” Her side was killing her, the stitch dug in like a hot knife. All her morning runs through the vast vineyards of California and Italy hadn’t prepared her for the vertical cliffs or the pace that Russell had set up these hills.

  He raised his head from his arms and it was the saddest she’d ever seen him.

  She dropped to the soil beside him and kneaded her side. She slid an arm around his waist but he shrugged her off.

  “What did I do?” They were in this incredibly beautiful, romantic wonderland of the Italian coast.

  He shook his head, but didn’t answer.

  “Is it the phone calls? I’ll stop those. I won’t check another message until we get home.”

  “Home.”

  “Well, that’s some response. C’mon, Russell. You know I s
uck at guessing games. Talk to me.” Not even a smile.

  “Where’s home, Cassidy?” His voice was deep and rough. As if he was fighting for every word.

  “I don’t know. Seattle I guess. Maybe Oakville in Napa soon. How should I know? Where’s your home, Russell? On some dumb sailboat?”

  “Yes,” he finally looked at her. “Yes! It’s on some dumb sailboat. My home has a cat. It has belongings. It is a place where I like myself. It is a place where I’m at my best. How about you, Cassidy? Where are you at your best?”

  “In your arms.” She’d said it flippantly, but once said, it was true. It was the one place she could be where the world made sense. When the mad jangle in her head went quiet.

  “C’mon, Cassie. I’m not talking about +sex.”

  She hadn’t been, at least not once she thought about it. But she couldn’t answer his scorn—couldn’t face his anger.

  He closed his eyes. He just sat there with his eyes closed. His arms—those nice, strong, safe arms—crossed over his own knees.

  The ocean lay spread out before them. Somewhere over that way lay Sardinia, then France, Spain, the Atlantic, and the entire width of the U.S. So many miles away. But it didn’t feel so distant when she sat here with Russell.

  She reached for him again, but hesitated with her fingers a scant inch from his shoulder. Finally she withdrew and dropped her hand into her lap.

  Everything had been going so perfectly. California had a wonderful offer on the table; they were offering her access to every aspect of the organization. Italy had a nice Old World feel that could be fun, but not as exciting. The U.S. companies, and now there were four of them, exhibited an energy and a vibrancy that egged her on. The French offers were more about status and, she had to admit, a chance to work with grand crus was tempting. The Germans were all about money—a lot of money.

  “Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

  He shuddered. He actually shuddered.

  “What? Come on, Russell. Talk to me.”

  “Where is home, Cassidy Knowles?”

  He didn’t speak again except to repeat his question. No matter what she did or said.

  “Where is home, Cassidy Knowles?”

  When the evening settled in with a foggy chill, that raised goosebumps over her whole body, she deserted him and descended back to the hotel. Though she waited all night, there was no sign of Russell.

  Some romantic vacation.

  She dialed for her messages. Seventeen. She hung up without listening to a one of them.

  At dawn there was a knock on the door and she rushed over to open it.

  Instead of Russell…instead of throwing their arms around each other and both being sorry…a maid held out a note.

  The paper crackled as she opened it. Russell’s writing, not her father’s. But it was as if they were both speaking from the same page.

  Cassidy,

  You are really going places. I’m happy for you. Unfortunately, they aren’t places I want to go. The car is in your name and the keys are on the bureau. I’ve taken the 6:30 train to the airport. I’ve left money and instructions with the front desk to ship my belongings. Just leave them in the room and they’ll take care of it. Though if you’d hand carry my camera to Angelo, I’d appreciate it. Don’t if it’s too weird for you.

  Best of luck with your future,

  Russell

  The first thing she noticed was the clock. 6:45. Gone! He was gone. How could that be? What had she said? She’d gone over it a hundred times in the night. And she still didn’t know.

  Maybe one of the seventeen phone messages was from him. But she knew none of them would be. He’d spent a cold, lonely night in an abandoned vineyard, come down the hill with the dawn, and left town.

  “Where is home, Cassidy Knowles?” As if he were questioning a complete stranger.

  Well, he could kiss her you-know-what. She wasn’t going to ruin her vacation because of some jerk of a man. Breakfast. That was it. She’d eat breakfast, take a walk, and then she’d feel better. She was just dizzy from the cold and the long night awake in the chair.

  She didn’t like leaving his camera in the room. She slung it over her shoulder as she went out.

  The camera was heavy and dragged at her shoulder. She pulled it into her hand, wrapping the strap as a brace behind her elbow just as he’d taught her.

  With the camera in her hand, she started to see pictures to take. A pot with a single red geranium on a narrow set of stone steps, the very stone worn by a thousand years of footsteps. A neon-bright purple door beckoned her to photograph a stone house so old it might have been quarried by Noah’s sons. A Dalmatian stuck her nose out between forest-green, wooden shutters to watch her go by. A black and gray dapple cat impossibly asleep on the narrow keel of an up-turned fishing dinghy.

  It was different seeing a village through a camera. Each image she took became a memory of its own. A man who would have passed for an aging hippie back home sat in the sun beneath a shingle advertising his surgery. He offered her a nod and a smile before returning to the novel in his lap. A butcher skinning a lamb. A baker totting a huge basket of crusty breads into one restaurant after another, his load lightening with each stop.

  Where is home, Cassidy Knowles?

  She didn’t have a clue.

  Brown’s Point Lighthouse

  Tacoma

  First lit: 1887

  Extinguished: 1963

  47.3059 -122.444

  Oscar Brown was the station’s first keeper in the early 1900s. He moved his wife, a horse and a cow, and a piano onto this remote point. He often rowed the three or four miles to Tacoma to attend concerts. An accomplished musician, when the roads finally reached the lighthouse he became a noted piano teacher when he was not tending the light.

  The concrete block lighthouse, though less than a hundred yards from the house, was often inaccessible when major storms flooded the swampy ground. Brown would take a rowing dory out through the mud to add oil or trim the wick.

  The striking mechanism for the fog bell had to be wound every 45 minutes. Brown slept little during the long spells of dense fog that frequently plague the point. When the mechanism broke, his wife would count out the twenty-second interval between his strikes. Brown had served thirty years before the fog bell was replaced by a powered horn. The bell traveled to a church for some years but has returned to the old lighthouse, with a bowling ball for a clacker.

  The keeper’s cottage is now the centerpiece of a city park. The dwelling’s gardens are filled with rare, heritage plants maintained by the local horticultural society.

  NOVEMBER 1

  Cassidy was right back where she’d started.

  Alone and huddled behind a lighthouse in a blinding rain and a roaring wind.

  Better equipped, Cassidy wasn’t likely to freeze to death, but that didn’t make her any happier to be here than at West Point lighthouse last January.

  Curse you, Russell. Not one message. Not a single note. When she’d handed his duffle and his camera to Angelo it had been so awkward she’d had to run out of the restaurant not knowing if she would speak or cry had she opened her mouth. Russell had ruined everything.

  Jo and Perrin had tried to cheer her up. But neither could explain his final question. They agreed that “in your arms” was a good answer. Light and funny, yet romantic and cozy, too. It had the added benefit of being more than a little bit true. Now her condo felt like a foreign land—with Shilshole Marina and Angelo’s wholly out of bounds.

  Yesterday she’d finally tried to call him, but his phone was disconnected. He hadn’t even left a forwarding number. Russell had gone into hiding. Well, good riddance. She didn’t want to talk to him anyway—which was a complete and total lie.

  After tomorrow it wouldn’t matter anyway. She’d set aside three days to drive down the coast. Professional movers would empty the condo after she left, and they’d have her house in Napa set up before she got there. A decorator would be the
re on day four to help her turn it into a home.

  So there, Russell Morgan. My home is in the hills above St. Helena, California. In the true heart of American wine country. Is that good enough for you?

  She knew it wasn’t. Some part of her knew it wasn’t, but she was at a loss over why or what to do about it.

  Get it done…and get out of the rain before her fingers turned to icicles.

  She pulled the last two envelopes from her pocket. She wouldn’t be here for December, so she’d brought both. And chosen the closer lighthouse. Besides, she’d visited December’s lighthouse at Ediz Hook twice already, on her way to two of the others. She’d even seen it from the water with Russell when they’d sailed out to Destruction Island. There wasn’t even a lighthouse anymore, just a flasher atop the Coast Guard station.

  Leaving Puget Sound was going to be a major advantage of moving to Mondavi. There was no part of the Sound or Seattle that had escaped Russell’s touch—no part of it that could be just hers. Napa would give her a chance to purge her soul of him.

  Stupid porcupine!

  She tore open the first letter and huddled over it to shield it from the rain. The writing was so uneven that she had to construct each word a letter at a time. Her heart clenched with sympathetic pain for the effort he’d taken to write it.

  Dearest I. S.,

  Too sick to even write her nickname.

  I followed my destiny north. I left behind my dreams. I discovered new ones. The most important discovery, the one that made my whole life worthwhile, was the love of my dear Adrianne and for my lovely Cassie. There is ice in your veins, a cold determination to put your head down and battle it out. That you got from me.

  From your mother, you got the largest, most loving, sweetest heart there ever was. Listen to that. It is your heart that will make you happy, not your head. And I now know, that is what counts.

  You are the Ice and the Sweet,

  Vic