Where Dreams Books 1-3

by M. L. Buchman

  SEPTEMBER 1

  Dearest Ice Sweet,

  It’s funny. By the time you’re reading this, I’ll have been dead for most of a year. Time is a strange thing. Life speeds up and slows down—maddeningly slowly when there is pain and sorrow. And it’s a blur through the good times. It should be the other way around.

  With your mother gone, I thought my life was over. Knowles Valley Vines was lost, and both parents-in-law and my wife were gone. Yet those years were so busy that they’d be hard to remember if they also hadn’t been so full. The daughter I’d left in my wife’s care needed a father.

  I’d thought about moving, you were young enough, it probably wouldn’t have mattered. But where? There had been so much heartbreak in the California soil, that I couldn’t drag you or myself back there. I didn’t want to work for someone else on “my” land and I had no family on either side, so I stayed where I was as much by default as anything else.

  The Bainbridge vineyard needed my attention because the vines were finally producing. I mixed in Northwest flavors: strawberry, blackberry, huckleberry. I did some of the marketing your mother had suggested: Eagle White, Dugout Rose, and Olympics Red were all hers.

  They were hectic, wonderful years; watching you grow was an education in itself. Your mother had left behind a huge collection of books. You started devouring them thinking they were mine, but that was your dead mother passing on her greatest joy to you. To us. I read like mad to keep up with you. I’m glad that we were able to share that part of our path.

  If I could wish anything, it was that you had stayed in the vineyards with me. I think we could have had such a rich life there. I wanted to leave the vineyards to you, but you had your own plans. I sold them for a lot of money, from struggling my whole life to very comfortable in a single moment—a shock to an old man. Enough to set you up for many years to come, but you know that by now, assuming my medical bills don’t wipe it out.

  We’ve walked together a long way, let’s not stop just yet.

  Love you, Ice Sweet

  Vic

  Cassidy folded the letter and slipped it back into her pocket and looked out at the water from atop Admiralty Head’s high perch.

  “A long way, Daddy.” This year had been both slow and fast. It had been such a mix that she barely knew what to make of it. The loss of her father, enough money to live off for a decade without any other income, her increasing fame as a columnist, and Russell.

  Dear Russell. He sat a dozen yards away facing Puget Sound, carefully not looking in her direction. The water stretched from here to the Port Townsend light ten miles away on the Olympic Peninsula. His unease showed in the way he plucked strands of grass from the high bluff edge, then worried them into thin strips with his fingernails before pitching them off the edge. Did he even notice that the sea breeze up the cliff face was lifting his offerings and dumping them behind him?

  “Hey there.”

  He jerked around at her call. Hustling over he almost sat, then stood again. She patted the grass and he thudded down beside her.

  “You okay?” His first thought was always for her and she still wasn’t used to it.

  “Yeah, no gut wrencher this time. Just about my growing up and how much he enjoyed those years.”

  He pulled her over and kissed the top of her head. “I’m glad. You didn’t need another like the last one. I’m still angry about that. Hell of a bomb to leave in a letter; he took the coward’s way out.”

  That was her Russell. He was all straight-ahead and forthright, as strong and straight as the lighthouse that rose three-stories high behind them. Her father’s choice had made perfect sense to her, but she’d never been able to explain it to Russell’s satisfaction.

  Her father was gentle and considerate. He wouldn’t risk their last weeks together with a fight. If he’d blamed her or been angry, he’d have put it in the first letter—not waited until August. She was glad she’d opened the letters one a month. If she’d read some of this right after his death, she’d have been hurt much more. And really pissed.

  “I hear that you’ve got more business.” Some things it was simply better not to talk about.

  He pulled another grass blade and started his inattentive dissection.

  “The head of a small consortium of stores were eating at Angelo’s—attracted there by my ads. He told them about Perrin’s. Turns out she shops there…because of the ads.” He shrugged, those big shoulders rising unevenly then settling only part way back.

  “Then why did you say yes?”

  Again the shrug. “Well, I’m still a month or so from getting the boat ready. And I want to take another navigation class or two. Gives me something to do.”

  She nodded, not wanting to push. She had enough worries of her own. But she was worried about that hunch as he sat. And she was worried about him sailing off into the sunset and what that might mean to them, though they’d agreed to not discuss such things.

  “I got an interesting phone call this morning.”

  He half turned his head to show he was listening, but he didn’t stop his botanical experiments. The scent of new-mown grass escaped from his little cuttings.

  “From Italy.”

  Another blade went flying only to be grabbed by the breeze up the face of the eighty-foot cliff and tossed behind him. Another tiny offering at the base of the lighthouse.

  “Sienna.”

  “What’s there?”

  “Montalcino wines.”

  “And this means?” He still wasn’t looking at her.

  “The Italians heard I was talking to Mondavi and they want a shot at me.” It was kind of nice to be wanted. Even though her mind was made up, at least if she were going to make the change. She’d thought Mondavi’s stellar treatment of her in June had been nothing more than them wooing a wine reviewer.

  Last week they called with a much more serious offer. They offered to create a new position specifically for her, wine director. She was invited to bring her palate to the vintner’s aid, her writing to marketing’s aid, and her insights to the winery’s aid. A hand in shaping one of the finest wineries in America. They even had invited her down for the harvest as a “get to know each other”—all expenses paid, first class of course.

  The wine-column world was great, but it was limited. She saw that now. Russell had been onto it way back at the beginning and her dad agreed with him. Wine reviewers lived on the outside looking in and—now that she was aware of it—she hated that feeling. She wanted to be in the game, affecting decisions, shaping flavors, accentuating the superb, and casting out the ordinary.

  “Sienna?” His attention shifted at last to her face.

  “I’m not really interested, but they were very persuasive. I’m going to California during the harvest in a couple of weeks, so I’ll just fly to Italy from there, maybe catch their harvest time as well.”

  “Sounds good.”

  # # #

  But it wasn’t. Russell couldn’t think of a thing to say for the whole drive home. Neither of them was grumpy. Cassidy had tried to start the conversation a couple of times, but it always fizzled out. As much her doing as his. It wasn’t a comfortable silence, but it was a companionable one; both lost in their own thoughts.

  He’d dropped her at the condo to write her next column.

  She might come by the boat later.

  They spent most nights together, as often as not on the boat. They both claimed it was to keep Nutcase company, but Russell didn’t sleep well in high-rise condos—though being with Cassidy in that big bed or sitting before that amazing view from her balcony had already gone a long way toward changing his mind.

  California. Italy. Even if she stayed in Seattle or went back to New York, her life was on the land, attached to root and vine.

  His future was on the ocean.

  The more he thought about
that though, the less comfortable it was. He enjoyed the photography. He’d really liked working with Angelo and Perrin. They’d been fun and made him feel good about himself and about what he could do. The boat would be done soon, as done as wooden sailboats ever were. And he liked knowing the local waters. They too were becoming familiar and comfortable without any sign of growing dull.

  The consortium of little stores might be fun. But he hadn’t told her about the Seattle City Trade Association that had approached him about a national campaign. He’d turned them down cold despite the vast sums in their advertising budget. He didn’t do the ads for Angelo or Perrin for the money. The SCTA was maybe a little more personal than a BMW or a Rolex, but maybe not. Maybe it was the same thing, just wrapped up in the softer, kinder style of the Pacific Northwest.

  Was the sailing just another escape? Another way to not have to truly make a decision about his life? But that didn’t feel right either. He was far happier on the boat than he’d ever been on dry land.

  After dropping off Cassidy, he wandered down the dock, and the moment he stepped aboard he felt…home. He fed Nutcase out in the cockpit, grabbed at a beer, and cracked open a fresh tube of Ritz crackers.

  Perry strolled by and Russell called him over. “Got something I’ve been meaning to give you.”

  He ducked below and grabbed the small album and another beer.

  Perry came aboard and was trying to feed a cracker to Nutcase.

  “Don’t get her started on my private stash.”

  “Not interested anyway.” He ate the cracker himself and opened the beer with a nod of thanks.

  “Finally figured out what you were talking about. Made this for you to say thanks.” He handed the album to him. It was a small one, one picture on each facing page, forty photos in all.

  Perry opened to the first page. A photo of Nutcase, curled up in her cardboard box, not much bigger than the lens cap he’d tucked beside her for scale.

  The next pages were her discovering the boat…and him discovering his companion. He knew the rest by heart as Perry paged through the book.

  Nutcase sleeping on the boom, another looking out at the lighthouses. A look of fascination, then of terror at a breaching orca. Arguing with a seagull twice her size at close enough range that Russell hadn’t been sure whether or not to run to her aid. But she’d won handily, protecting their boat like a hissing hellcat, the seagull flapping off his bowsprit perch in disgust.

  The final picture hadn’t been his, but it was arguably the best of the lot. Cassidy had been behind the camera. He’d been asleep on the deck with Nutcase asleep on his chest. The high cliffs and towering Destruction Island lighthouse were visible as a soft background. A blow-up of that one hung in his cabin, right next to the final one of Cassidy and Nutcase from Perrin’s photoshoot.

  Perry stood and went below without asking permission. It was just the way the old man was. He was harmless, so it was easy to ignore his eccentricities. Maybe he needed to use the head.

  He came back on deck and held the closed book with both hands for a moment. Then he returned it to Russell.

  “No, it’s yours. I made it for you.”

  The old man shook his head. Took a couple of the Ritz crackers, raised his beer in a salute, and stepped off the boat. When he was even with Russell, standing on the finger pier, he took a long swallow of his beer. His old blue eyes wrinkled in what Russell had learned was a smile.

  “The Sailing Cat. First in a series. Big hit.” Then he was gone.

  # # #

  Russell played with Nutcase a little, finished his beer, and idly flipped through the album in the failing light of the day. Perry was right. New York would eat it up. He’d send it to Arnie and she’d have it sitting next to every bookstore cash register in the country by Christmas.

  At the second to last page, there was the photo of Nutcase sleeping on his chest. He could have sworn he’d put that one at the end. He turned to the final page.

  There she was. Cassidy, in that incredible evening gown with the boat and the city a soft backdrop, and Nutcase curled up in her arms. The look on her face still blew him away. He thought he’d photographed love before, but it was as if he’d only photographed the word itself and here was the true emotion. There was love, humor, passion, and, something indescribable. Whatever it was, it made him feel incredible that for even that instant of time it had been aimed at him.

  Perry had nailed it; her entry into his life was what made the book complete and personal—it told the story. The collection would go ballistic.

  Stowing the crackers, he locked the cabin and headed for Cassidy’s. He couldn’t lose her to some status-seeking California winery. Couldn’t lose her to a bunch of high-rolling Italians. Screw their tacit agreement not to discuss the future. There had to be a way to keep her and he was going to do something about it now.

  He punched in her keycode at the lobby entry and made it all the way to her door, had even raised his hand to knock, before the absurdity of the situation sunk in.

  Since when had he ever said the right thing? He should go consult with Angelo. Or should he? His friend had talked about Jo enough, but hadn’t done anything. Granted, his restaurant was taking off. Really taking off. Cassidy had done another write-up and this one had caught the attention of the magazines. Suddenly Sunset, Condé Nast, and Cigar were coming out to write up “Angelo’s Tuscan Hearth” above and beyond Cassidy’s column. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to get advice on how to handle his girlfriend.

  Girlfriend.

  He’d had lovers, but never a girlfriend—at least not since high school. Natasha Beckworth, senior prom—though she’d been a lover, too. Maybe she’d been more lover and less girlfriend. They’d had great sex, but he couldn’t remember a thing about what she did or didn’t like.

  Cassidy had been the one to teach him the difference between lover and loving someone. He didn’t need Angelo’s advice; Russell knew what woman he wanted.

  He knocked on Cassidy’s door.

  No answer.

  Harder.

  Still nothing. But he heard a clink of glass, or something from inside.

  Harder still.

  Now there was an echoing silence.

  Then he heard it. A long, low moan. A moan of someone in pain.

  He threw his shoulder into the door—there was a loud crackling of wood.

  He hit it again—with all the force of his college linebacker days—and the door blew inward.

  She wasn’t in the kitchen or the bedroom-office. He raced into the living room and stumbled to a halt.

  The table was littered with wine bottles and half-empty wine glasses, but no Cassidy. A bottle of red had fallen to the floor and a long red stain spread across the white rug.

  No one was in the bathroom…nor the master bedroom.

  He heard the moan again and dashed into the bedroom she’d converted into a wine cellar.

  There she sat, still dressed in the jeans and shirt she’d worn to the lighthouse this morning, but they no longer looked so pristine. Red stains were dribbled all down her front. Her legs were splayed before her like a little girl and another twenty or more wine bottles were open around her. Most had a matching glass, some part full—but most stood empty.

  She moaned again, struggling to uncork yet another bottle. In no condition to do so, the corkscrew kept slipping from her fingers. The moan was part growl of frustration and part wounded animal.

  He squatted down in front of her. Russell considered removing the bottle from her hands, but decided that discretion was the better part of valor as she was wielding the corkscrew as much like a sword as a kitchen tool.

  “What are you doing, Cass?”

  “I’ve lost it, Daddy. I’ve lost it somewhere.” She looked about the room for a moment, ceasing her efforts to uncork the bottle. She didn’t turn his direc
tion.

  “Lost what?”

  She bowed her head down over the bottle and stopped struggling with it.

  “I can’t taste it. I can’t. I tried. Just like you taught me. But I can’t taste it.”

  He slid the corkscrew and the bottle with its mangled cork from her fingers and set them carefully aside.

  “That must have been a hell of a letter.” Her dad was really starting to piss him off. Next one, he wouldn’t leave until he was sure she really was fine.

  He did his best to lift her clear of the nest of glasses. A couple fell onto the hardwood floor and rolled away as he shifted her into his arms; he’d have to deal with those later. Hopefully none of it would leak down into the ceiling of the nineteenth floor below before he could mop it up.

  She kept complaining as he moved her.

  “My life is over. Can’t taste anyting. All those years. So mussh work. Gone. Wasshted. Down the drain. Corked. Thas it. I’m corked. Just like a bad shwine.”

  Their first stop was the bathroom floor. She wasn’t steady enough to stand while he stripped her. Russell looked at the stains all down her front and decided to settle for expediency. He set her in the tub clothes and all, then cranked up the shower.

  “Cassidy Knowles. Corked. Spoiled-ed in the bottle. So sad.”

  Too drunk to even protest, she sputtered at the water as it ran down her face, but that was all. He did his best to clean her up with a washcloth as the water ran over her. He aimed the spray off her face and trotted back to the other room. Four of the bottles she’d knocked over had corks partly rammed into them, thankfully the bulk of the uncorked horde of bottles had remained upright. The three fallen glasses looked as if they had been mostly empty. Either she’d been pouring less as she went, or drinking more—he’d bet on the latter. He threw a towel on the worst patch and decided he’d come back later.

  The glasses in the living room were much fuller. She’d still been just tasting in here. The red in the living room was going to be a different cleanup problem. He righted the bottle and saw that it was a 1969 Mouton Rothschild Bordeaux. That stain on her carpet was worth hundreds of dollars. He let his eye range over the dozens of others open on the table, the coffee table, the side table… Thousands of dollars of wine. Damn! And he thought his studio parties had been extravagant.