All Your Pretty Dreams

by Lise McClendon

  She stared at the boxes under the window that reminded her of Red Vine. So silly— childish— to keep falling in love with musicians. She kept falling for the wrong type of man. She’d probably end up on one of those TV shows Dr. Mendel called “social anthropology studies” where the families confessed how horrible they were to each other with blank looks on their faces.

  She opened the first box, having been told by her mother in no uncertain terms, that the boxes must go. Clutter, the seven-letter curse word. Inside was a set of files. She would need those for writing her dissertation. She refitted the lid and put the box on the bed. A piece of yellow notebook paper fluttered and fell to the carpet. She opened it and sat on the bed.

  Dear Isabel,

  I hope your foot is okay. Sorry for scaring you last night. It was stupid of me. I just wanted to touch you. Contrary to what you think, Kiki Calhoun is not my girlfriend. And not honest either, I think. She told me you passed vicious gossip about her in high school. Why would she offer up such ancient history? I have a sneaking suspicion she’s making it all up. Jealous of you? I don’t know about that but maybe we could talk about it.

  I can’t seem to get anything right. I guess you’ll never forget I come from a nowhere town where the big excitement is a polka dance. I shouldn’t have called you Queen Bee. Again, my apologies. That moment on the lawn, well, I’ll always remember it, and hopefully you can forget about my blunders.

  We had fun this summer, didn’t we? I never liked Red Vine before. I never liked my father’s band, or small town life, or the polka. Somehow it all came together. I have to think you were a big part of that.

  If I never see you again – and I hope I do – have a happy life. Try to smile more. You have a beautiful smile.

  Your friend,

  Jon.

  She read the note again, her heart in her throat. He must have put it on the boxes last summer, when they were out by the garage. The boxes Howard had moved. She reread certain sentences, trying to figure him out, holding the words in her mind. He wanted to touch her? Had she said something about Kiki that night? He wrote this before he came to Urbana. He’d said nothing about it that weekend. He must have thought she’d read it and it meant nothing to her.

  She walked to her dressing table and stared into the mirror at her wan little face, forcing a smile. Beautiful? Hardly. Her hair had grown out, twisting around her ears. Her teeth were straight but her smile was full of heartache, armor, and battle plans.

  Have a happy life.

  She stared a little longer, then began to cry.

  ——

  The solar toilet was designed by a farmer from Wisconsin who also had a power plant run on the methane from his dairy cows. Although much different in ages and occupations Wayne and Jonny bonded in the bar after the main business of the awards concluded. The hotel was a few blocks off the lake, a refurbished twenties palace, small but elegant. Just the sort of place the sustainable green people would like, Jonny thought, admiring the tin ceiling and stained glass partitions in the restaurant.

  The turnout was light. A few architects, some green power people, others who had submitted work, two reporters. Will Franklin hadn’t bothered to make an appearance. He sent his assistant Dorothy, the woman on the phone. She turned out to be fresh out of college. She did her best.

  Jonny and Wayne grabbed stools at the bar and worked on beers. Maybe he should just turn around and go home, Jonny was thinking, now that the reception was over. Anticlimactic, to say the least.

  “Another round,” Wayne told the bartender. So much for driving home.

  They ate burgers around eight. Short, ruddy Wayne was married with three kids, a dairy farm, and a sister who made cheese. He told Jonny all about his methane plant and his heritage seed crop. He hadn’t constructed the solar outhouse. He had indoor plumbing and thank god for that. Jonny told him about the polka band. They talked about the accordion and politics and weather.

  The bar filled up with stockbrokers, bankers, software guys. The singles crowd. Noisy laughter, matchmaking, deal-making. Just after nine somebody called his name. Jonny turned to see Will Franklin waving from the door. He bounded over, a huge grin on his face.

  “I can’t believe I missed it,” Will exclaimed, apologizing over and over. He was dressed in another fancy suit, with a sharp white shirt. He shook Wayne’s hand and told them what great projects they’d designed.

  “I still don’t know how I was entered in the contest,” Jonny said. He explained to Wayne that he hadn’t done it himself. “Somebody somewhere likes me.”

  “As to that—” Franklin raised his palm, stopping himself. “I’m not supposed to say, but I can tell you that your project won fair and square. I didn’t do any of the judging, it was the committee who represent six different firms. Fair and square.”

  “I sure hope so.” What the hell?

  Franklin waved his hands as if to erase what he’d said. “The reason I couldn’t make it tonight is that I should be somewhere else right now. At my engagement party.” He looked at Jonny. “Daria sent me to see if you were still here. Can you come over for a minute? As a favor to me?”

  “You and Daria are engaged?”

  “April wedding. The women are going nuts. They say it’s not enough time. I say if it takes any longer I’ll lose my mind. You’ve gotta come. You too, Wayne. It’s just a mile away, the car’s waiting. Come have a glass of champagne. Let me make it up to you.”

  The banquet hall atop a fancy hotel on the lakefront was strewn with crystal chandeliers twinkling, reflected in windows and polished floors. On the far side of the room, an expansive view of the city and the lake sparkled in the moonlight. Round tables with pink sweetheart roses, white tablecloths fluttering with the movements of the crowd, large, lavish, and loud.

  Jonny paused at the door and glanced down at his clothes. Once again, dressed inadequately. He hadn’t even bothered with dress pants this time, wearing black jeans with a gray sports coat and leather high-tops. At least he’d worn a tie and a decent shirt. And he wasn’t wearing a Carhart jacket and shit-kickers like Wayne. Franklin led the farmer into the room, chatting in his animated way. Wayne smiled, eyes wide at the festive scene.

  Over there, the parents, Edie and Max. Jonny looked away. He could do without meeting them again. Dressed in a sharp navy-blue suit and a turquoise gown, they held court in the center of the room. Her diamonds shot daggers of light across the room. The surly teenager at the bar he recognized, and a couple other people from the funeral. It was bad enough to have to attend your own family events. Maybe he could just slip out. Nobody would miss him.

  His arm was caught. Daria, front and center, in another of her highly-colored dresses, this one purple. She glowed, the person of interest at this crime scene. “Hey, Polka Boy. Good job on the corn crib.”

  “Thanks.” He squinted at her. “You don’t know who submitted the photos, by any chance.”

  She pursed her lips and looked at the ceiling. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Maybe it was Will, or even Daria herself. He felt a rush of affection for her and laughed out loud. Despite her nonstop mouth and in-your-face opinions, she was a kind person. “Congrats to you and Will. I hope you’ll be very happy.”

  “I am already.” She looked over at Franklin. “I am so lucky. Take a look at this.” She offered her left hand, heavy with a pink diamond. “Nice, huh? Well, he’s the catch. Let’s get you going. Drinks, that way. Food, that way. Fun, every which way, if you don’t mind dancing with an eighty-year-old.”

  He stopped listening. Over Daria’s shoulder he saw her. Isabel, in a dress. And not just any dress. She looked like an angel. The crystal light shone off her blonde hair. She stood by a table, listening to a white-haired woman. The hem of her dress floated on the air and she caught it with two fingers. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear then looked up and saw him, a blank look on her face. Was it surprise? Displeasure?

  Daria looked then turned back. “Com
e right in. Glad you could join us, Polka Boy.” She waltzed off, already chattering to somebody.

  His breath caught in his throat. Isabel squared her shoulders and stared at him. He felt his heart begin to thump in his chest. Then she looked away, back to the old woman who was still talking, without a nod or smile.

  A chill went through his blood. He backed out the door and sank against the wall in the hallway, trying to slow his heart. He did a check of systems: he was breathing. Good. He wasn’t drunk or hallucinating. Excellent. In the not-so-good category: his heart raced, he felt dizzy, and his stomach was doing something it shouldn’t.

  What was wrong with him? Was it the flu? You idiot. He stood taller, trying to collect himself, slumped against the wall again.

  She didn’t even recognize him. Four months had passed. Or she did and didn’t want to talk. There was too much to say anyway, about Wendy, about that night on the lawn. What could he say to her now, after all this time? Tell her about his grandfather, his crazy parents, the divorce, the future, the past? Why would she care? They had nothing in common.

  Why would she want to know jack-shit about him? She had her own perfectly fine life with slimy Alec. That cold dismissal said it all. Why would she give a toss about him, when he had told her to go away and have a nice life? Why, he asked himself again, had he written that stupid note?

  He closed his eyes and tried to think. This much he knew: he still wanted to talk to her, explain everything. He wasn’t sure why. Then it came to him. She was the only person who would understand. The struggles of families, the disconnect, the heartaches, the joys. The disappointments of love, the choice to be alone if that’s what it took. The intangible essence of him that he didn’t know himself. Somehow she knew. She comprehended something in him that no one else did. As if she could see touch him with those dark brown eyes.

  It was useless. She loved somebody else. He rubbed his face. Was he sober enough to drive home?

  Then, from nowhere, Isabel stood in front of him. In that diaphanous dress. The word had been invented for it, for her. After those baggy cargo pants, filthy with orchard dust and nettles, funny hats and bulky veils, hard toe boots and oversized gloves, not to mention her black pigtails of early summer— despite all that, she looked completely at ease dressed as a chic young woman. And delectable. He glanced down at her milky chest as if he’d never seen anything so lovely. In fact it rendered him speechless.

  She cleared her throat, staring at him with those eyes. He straightened, pushing back his hair.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  Confusion, and the look of her, addled his brain. “I don’t know.”

  “If you are, can you take me with you? If I have to speak to another ancient relative I will scream.”

  “Do you want me— to— ?” He stammered, short of breath. Take you? Right here on the carpet. It was all he could do to remain upright.

  “Anywhere. Please. A-S-A-P.” She was silent a moment, her eyes cast down. “Jon. I found that note. The one you wrote back in August. I just found it this morning.”

  “Wh— today this morning?”

  “The boxes were moved. It was tucked between. I started going through them. I’ve been, you know, busy.” She was tugging on her sleeves. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked up, solemn and vulnerable. She stepped closer. “What did you mean when you said you wanted to touch me?”

  She smelled tangy, lemon-y. Exactly as he remembered. Or imagined maybe. “Just that,” he said, taking her hands. He lowered his nose to her neck for a sniff and felt the top of his head lift off. “I forgot. Did I say I wanted to kiss you again?”

  “A person can’t say everything in a note, can they?”

  He touched her cheek, cupping it in his hand. “What about Alec?”

  “He means nothing. Less than nothing.”

  “But you—“

  “You didn’t believe me. I told you in August.”

  He moved to kiss her then stopped. “You found Wendy. And sent her home. How can we ever thank you?”

  She fixed him with those warm eyes. “Oh, Jon. I did it for you.”

  He kissed her then, remembering the grassy night under the stars for a moment then completely gone. After the rushing of blood in their ears subsided they heard clapping, nearby. In the doorway Daria and Will stood cheering. Then the fiancé grabbed Daria around the waist, making her squeal.

  “Carry on, Jon,” Will Franklin called.

  “Carry on, Iz,” said Daria.

  Jonny had been staring at the ceiling for about fifteen minutes when he realized she wasn’t asleep. Her breathing had wakened him early. He wasn’t accustomed to sleeping with another person, let alone this person. Last night was a happy blur, everything he had dreamed. He glanced down at his hands, neat against his belly. Then at her hands, also folded on the sheet.

  Isabel was staring at the ceiling too. He couldn’t see her face without moving. What was she thinking? How to leave gracefully? Locating her shoes so she could make a dash for it? He glanced around the room. He would always remember this place, no matter what happened next. The little hotel room with its gold lamp and plush carpet and view of the lake had been expensive but worth it. More than worth it, last night anyway. This morning’s worth had yet to be revealed.

  Attuned to her breathing, he heard her take a sharp intake of air. At the same exact time they sprung upright and swung their legs off opposite sides of the bed. Each grabbed the sheet. It pulled taut between them. He let go. It snapped away and he grabbed the blanket, pushing it down across his lap.

  Now what? He was naked. The room was chilly even with the morning sun streaming across the carpet. This was the first time he’d been in a hotel room with a woman who wasn’t his wife. What did people do?

  Her hand on his back startled him. She was still there. Of course she was. Where did he think she would go? In his heart, he had wondered. They barely knew each other. It had happened so fast, she must be having second thoughts, wondering what sort of a tangle she’d gotten herself into. What sort of man he was. What sort of future they might have.

  His breath caught in his throat. He saw the future, the two of them, together. Building a life, a family, supporting each other’s dreams in a way he never thought possible. And he wanted it. Badly, madly if he was honest, with a fierceness he had never experienced before. Because of her. Of who she was. And who she made him want to be.

  He glanced over his shoulder. Her back was still turned. How was he so sure, so suddenly? But he was. He wanted her, now and forever. Did she feel the same? Did she dream the same dream? Or was she plotting a graceful exit? Her arm was twisted behind her, fingers splayed against him. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. Her fingers were cold. Goose bumps ran up her shoulder. He turned on the bed, feeling her smooth skin against his palm, the warmth of her, pulling her back under the covers. She curled under his arm, against his chest. Her cheeks were cool. He pulled her close, his nose in her hair.

  Push and pull. Press and draw. Breathe in, breathe out.

  Are you ready for the key change, mon ami? Get your fingers in position and press with all your heart.

  Chapter 24

  The bees returned to southern Minnesota in late April as spring worked its way north up the Mississippi River from the Gulf of Mexico. First a few bumblebees were spotted buzzing around early blossoms in the hedgerows. Then the orchard mason bees were seen swarming high in a flowering crabapple. Jonny and Isabel drove up for Easter, stopping many times along the way to check apple orchards, chokecherry bushes, and blackberry thickets for insects.

  Spring had come a few weeks earlier in downstate Illinois, bringing the cheerful sight of red and yellow tulips to the beds in front of the Student Union in Urbana, and the heady scent of lilacs on the old streets.

  Upstate, on the fifth of April in a chilly Chicago rainstorm, Daria and Will said their vows. Isabel was maid of honor but didn’t plan the bachelorette party. She left that to
Daria’s friends in Chicago. There were male strippers, totally inappropriate but totally well-received. Isabel didn’t sing karaoke. At the reception Jonny was convinced to play his accordion. Just one song, for the father-daughter dance. It turned out Max had a secret— he could dance the polka with what could only be called youthful enthusiasm.

  Jonny had left the firm in Minneapolis in the dead center of January, on the same day Wendy got a scholarship to Mankato State. Snow was falling hard the day he packed the Fairlane, flakes swirling around the icy streets. Sven made him a CD of road music. He played it all the way down Interstate 94. It took him three days to find a drafting job that would leave time to take University classes. It took only an afternoon to find a small apartment.

  Isabel got her own apartment three blocks away. They agreed on that. But then, they agreed on almost everything. At the end of the school year, when Isabel’s classes and seminars were finished, papers corrected and grades posted, they walked along the Vermillion River in Kickapoo State Park, watching the swallows dive for insects in the twilight. They pitched a tent and roasted hot dogs and swatted flies. The night was full of stars.

  Jonny started classes in earnest that fall. By second semester he was admitted into the architecture program, something he was sure would never happen. Isabel worked on her doctorate, using the data from the field study to correlate survival factors, migration patterns, and life spans of feral bees. She presented a paper that spring to the Entomological Society of America meeting at Penn State. While there she met a colleague at Washington State University who invited her to participate in a field study. In July she went to Ellensburg, Washington, and helped supervise a bee count in the apple orchards. Jonny was busy learning to make models.