Dare to Dream

by Modean Moon

  "And go where?" he snapped. His voice softened. "One of these days, you're going to have to face whatever it is you're hiding from."

  "No, I haven't been fair with you," he went on. "To have been fair would have been to deny you the chance to hide yourself in this job. To have been fair would have been to insist you continue with counseling sessions. To have been fair would have been to look behind that confident facade you've so carefully erected and see that you are still the same frightened, hurt little girl I first met five years ago."

  "I'm not." Where was her voice? And what kept her behind this desk, unable to move, unable to fight his accusations, unable to do more than watch warily as this calm, understanding man quietly but uncharacteristically chiseled at the confidence she had worked so long to build?

  "It's been five years. Five years, D.J.! Are you any closer to accepting your loss now than you were then?"

  "I function," she said.

  "Function?" He swore softly. "Computers function. I hope to God humans have more to look forward to than that."

  "What do you want from me?"

  "I want to see the person John Matthews assured me you were," he said steadily. "I want to see the woman who had enough enthusiasm and love to share with a husband and a child, a home, school, and a job. I want to see the woman who tackled life as if it were a game and found something to laugh about even when she didn't win."

  It seemed so long ago. Had she ever really been that person? "Mr. Matthews couldn't have known that," she said.

  "Couldn't he have? He knew that and more. You had a place with his firm if you could have brought yourself to stay in Oklahoma City. Instead," he said, sighing, "you came here, and I gained a competent automaton."

  "I kept looking for the laughter. I kept thinking it was only a matter of time before I saw the woman John told me I was hiring. I had just about given up when I caught a glimpse of her, but now you're doing your damnedest to make sure no one ever sees her again. And I don't know why."

  He sat in the chair across from her. She tried not to look at him, this man who had been a friend when she needed one, who had never questioned her, who had given her a chance to reclaim herself.

  "Mr. Merriweather," she said softly, "you did help me."

  "Did I, D.J.? Or did I help you into a position to be hurt more?"

  The folder sat squat and ominous between them. Once again she traced the outline of the tab.

  "Nick has shown me what kind of person he is," she said. "I don't need to read Marilyn's bitter accusations. I've heard them from her. And if there ever was any truth in them, there isn't now."

  She pushed the folder to one side. "Nick's past has nothing to do with what I am or who I am."

  "And what about his future?"

  She smiled a tight, painful little smile and said in a voice that sounded remarkably normal, "Nick's future doesn't include me."

  "Even though you're in love with him?"

  She stared at him silently. Could she ask him to leave? Could she tell the man who owned the desk behind which she sat, who owned the law books lining her walls, to leave? Could she walk out, knowing that if she did she walked out of more than an uncomfortable interview, she walked out on a man who had shown his trust in her, she walked out on her job, and maybe even her career? Now she knew why he had come to her office instead of asking her to his.

  Merriweather rose agilely from the chair and paced to the window. "Nick's complete story isn't in that file. It ought to be, but he wouldn't let me use it."

  "Please," she said. "Don't go on."

  He studied her for a moment, shook his head, and continued. "When Nick first came to me wanting to divorce Marilyn, all he told me was to pay her whatever it took to get her out of his life, but he did warn me that the lawsuit could get messy. Nick has always had an explosive temper, and I wasn't surprised that she had finally provoked it. I was surprised when Marilyn countersued naming cruelty as her grounds, and Nick refused to give me any ammunition with which to fight her charges. At first he would say only that she was wise to be afraid of him, because if he was ever alone with her again, he might kill her."

  Dani thrust her hand across her mouth to stifle a moan. Nick? Not the Nick she knew!

  "He must have had a reason," she whispered.

  "Yes, he did, and Marilyn knew he would never tell the court the real reason. She used that knowledge like a weapon. When he acceded to her first demand for a property settlement without a fight, she decided she wanted more. When he agreed to that, she wanted still more."

  "Aren't you even going to ask me what the reason was, D.J.?"

  Dani stared at him, unable to speak, unable to imagine anything horrible enough to have pushed Nick to that point.

  Merriweather stood in front of her, both hands on her desk, leaning toward her. "Ask me, D.J. Not asking won't make it any less real. Not asking won't keep it from touching you. For God's sake, if you care about Nick, ask me."

  And even as she was dragging her head to one side to deny she cared, her lips shaped the word, "What?"

  He straightened and threw his head back, breathing deeply before he looked back at her and spoke softly. "Marilyn aborted Nick's child."

  She was caught, suspended between breaths, between thoughts, between heartbeats until the softly spoken words exploded across her consciousness. "Oh, dear God," she moaned.

  Nick's wife had done that? She saw Nick as he had helped her with Jennifer, as he had lovingly interact with Timmie, and she thought of how much his family meant to him. How could he have borne it? What did you do to your son?

  "Tim was at their house when Nick learned the truth," Merriweather continued quietly. "He heard them arguing and managed to get between them, managed to control Nick long enough for Marilyn to get out of the house. And Nick bought his divorce—not because of what he had done, but because of what he was afraid he would do."

  He looked steadily at Dani. She pulled clenched hands from her lips and spread them on the polished surface of her desk, extending her fingers, watching but not seeing them.

  "It wasn't easy for him to get through that time," he went on, "but Nick is a survivor. He didn't let the pain of his loss or the betrayal destroy him. And having suffered that kind of hell himself, do you really doubt that he would understand what you've been through?"

  She couldn't answer him. You'll tell me your horrible little secret and then I'll tell you mine. She had said that, had said all of those things to hurt him, but, dear Lord, she had meant only to defend herself, not to wound him the way she must have.

  "It's too late," she whispered.

  "Only if you let it be. You didn't deserve what happened to you. You can't make it not have happened, but you can put it where it belongs. In the past. Those kinds of memories will always be a part of you, D.J., but they shouldn't control you. Now is for living."

  "Why can't you let yourself love him, Dani?" She raised startled eyes when his voice softened perceptibly with her name. "Why can't you let him love you?"

  Why couldn't she? She heard that question during the long drive home. She had been so certain he wouldn't love her, couldn't love her, that she set about to insure that he didn't. Well, he wouldn't, couldn't, didn't now, but having proved herself right brought no satisfaction. It brought instead a dull ache growing steadily within her.

  She threw open the door to her apartment and let the kitten go in before her, strangely relieved to have even feline companionship when she entered. Nick's presence was indelibly stamped on the empty apartment. She stood quietly, head thrown back, absorbing it for long minutes, before she snapped herself into action. She went briskly through the apartment, opening drapes and windows and setting the thermostat control to blow fresh air through the rooms. She stripped the bed and covered it with clean sheets, not looking at the old ones as she stuffed them into the hamper, not letting her mind linger on the last time she had lain between them.

  In the kitchen the kitten waited for the milk Nick woul
d have given him. "Why not?" Dani said. She sighed, acknowledging that it would take more than airing the apartment to free herself from memories of Nick, more than changing the sheets, more than telling herself it was over.

  She made coffee and carried a mug of it into the living room. The kitten, replete after finishing his milk, crawled onto her lap as she curled into her corner of the couch. She lifted her hand to brush him away but let it drop carelessly to his back. He settled against her, his soft purring hypnotically comforting. Idly she ruffled the fur along his back. He was so small, so defenseless,, and despite what she had said, so dependent on her.

  She let her hand slide from him and in protest he stretched, placing his paws on her chest, claws extended, making soft kneading movements against her. She watched his paws, fascinated. His motions were so similar to her own. His little paws gripped and extended, gripped and extended as though to a metronome. She found herself duplicating the exercises with her free hand.

  "Oh, kitten," she said, sighing, as she gathered him close and buried her face in his fur. "You've picked the wrong person. You need someone who can comfort you and play with you and love you. Just as I do," she whispered. "Just as I do."

  Just as she had so briefly had, she admitted to herself. Suddenly Nick's presence was overpowering. She felt him beside her on the couch, the couch where they had first made love. She heard his laughter coming from the kitchen as he coaxed her to try his "cheap imitation" eggs Benedict. Not even the blue mug in her hand was free of memories. She saw him raising it to her lips as he held her, drowsy and satisfied.

  "Damn!" she said. "I won't go through this. I won't!"

  She scrambled from the couch, dumping the startled kitten to the cushions, and stormed into the kitchen. She tossed the contents of the cup into the sink and searched under the cabinet until she found a box of garbage bags. She shook out the black plastic bag. In went the blue cup. In went the second blue cup. She marched back into the living room, carrying the bag with her. In went the two homespun covered throw pillows. In went the alabaster ashtray. After a return trip to the kitchen, in went the two stemmed wineglasses, the bottle of Glen-whatsits, and the kitchen ashtray. She stalked into the bedroom. In went the ashtray from the bed table. In went the newspaper with the story of the Brady Center dedication. She glanced around the room, searching for anything else that had come into her house because of Nick. There was only—she jerked open the closet door. In went the low-heeled shoes, the jeans, and the blue gauze blouse.

  She twisted the top of the bag, knotted it, and snatched up the bag to carry it to the trash. She got as far as the front door but could go no farther. "Not yet," she whispered. She leaned her head against the door. She would have to trash them. Otherwise, they would be just so much weight, dragging her down, tangible evidence of the brief time she had almost dared to dream. But did she have to do it now?

  She put the bag in the back of her closet. The skirt of the russet silk hid it from sight. Hesitantly she smoothed the folds of the dress. It probably ought to go, too. But not now, she thought weakly. That was something she could decide—in a little while.

  With night the air turned cool. Dani closed the windows and drapes and set the thermostat for heat, but she couldn't seem to drive out the chill. The telephone sat silently on her desk, but she found herself watching it as warily as she had when it terrorized her with its ringing. He won't call, she told herself, knowing there was no reason for him to call her. Now or ever, hadn't those been her words? But she lifted the receiver once, just to confirm by listening to the mocking dial tone that the telephone was working.

  The kitten curled contentedly against her on the couch, his purring the only sound in the now dark room, and suddenly it wasn't enough. She had to hear another person's voice, had to talk to someone, or run screaming from the emptiness she had made for herself. But who? Nick! she cried to herself. But she couldn't call him. He would never again want to hear from her. There was nothing she could say that would erase what she had done. And she had no one else. No one—except—

  She switched on a light and reached for the telephone. She hesitated for a moment and then punched out the numbers. She held her breath as the phone rang and rang and rang until a cheerful voice answered.

  "Marcie?" Dani said quickly. "I—I wanted to be sure—I wanted to check to see if you're feeling all right."

  Chapter Twelve

  Dani dragged herself to work the next day, hollow-eyed and with a dull headache. As the sky had begun to lighten that morning, she had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, had slept through the ring of her alarm clock and had awakened with barely enough time to throw on clothes and makeup, pin her hair back, and fight traffic downtown. The day didn't promise to get any better either. The temperamental Oklahoma weather seemed to have tired of spring. Gray skies dripped a chill drizzle, not quite rain, but piercingly sharp when thrown by a gust of wind.

  By the time she reached her office, she was damp and chilled and wishing that for once she had been able to roll over and stay in bed. Her first sight of Marcie chased that thought from her mind. The woman sat hunched over in her chair. One hand covered her eyes, and the other held her side, as her slender body shook.

  "Marcie!" Dani hurried to her. The woman spun around in her chair and peered at Dani through the fingers of the hand that covered her face. Then Dani saw that it was laughter, not sobs, that racked her.

  It sounded as though she said, "A cow chip, D.J.?" before clasping both hands to her mouth to silence her laughter.

  Dani tossed her purse on Marcie's desk and reached across her for the thermal server. Puzzled, but relieved that the woman was only enjoying a joke that, sooner or later, she would share, Dani poured a cup of coffee and waited for Marcie to bring herself under control. She sipped her coffee and studied Marcie while she waited. Had she heard correctly? Marcie had ways of finding out almost anything, but what could she have learned about that afternoon of idiocy?

  Soon Marcie's shoulders stilled. She giggled one more time as she looked at Dani.

  "All right," Dani said slowly, "are you going to let me in on what's so funny, or am I going to have to guess?"

  "The oil page…" Marcie said, pointing to the newspaper on her desk and surrendering to another fit of giggles.

  Dani picked up the newspaper. She drew in a quick breath and stared at the page as her heart pounded in tempo with her throbbing head. There, above the story that accompanied the county by county listing of wells staked and completed, the boldfaced headline taunted her. "Nick Sanders No. 1 Dani's Cow Chip Red Fork Producer."

  Dani clutched the newspaper, rose to her feet, and walked silently into her office, closing the door behind her. Some time later she raised her head from her desk. There wouldn't be any picket fence and climbing roses now, but at least Nick had found his illusive Red Fork channel. At less than two thousand feet they had drilled into it, the article reported, and had stayed in it for an additional seventy-five feet. The well was flowing four hundred barrels of oil a day. It deserved headlines, even without the ridiculous name he had tagged onto it. Would the name haunt him, she wondered, the way it would haunt her?

  But how appropriate, she thought, smoothing the newspaper. The same day he formally relinquished one dream seemed a fitting day to announce the achievement of another. It was a shame that neither Sam Wilson nor Marilyn would know that this well might not have been drilled if they hadn't attempted that shoddy trick with the Beckham County leases.

  Beckham County leases! She had almost forgotten. She pushed up from her desk and ran across her office, calling out as she opened the door, "Marcie, did you remember to tell Henry—"

  Her words hung in midair as she grasped the door frame. Standing in the hall, wearing what he had once laughingly described as his "banking uniform," a dark suit, conservative shirt and tie, but looking as though nothing could ever again make him laugh, stood the owner of Creek County's newest oil well.

  His unruly hair looked as t
hough he had been running his hands through it, and Dani fought down an insane urge to smooth his hair, to soothe the deep lines that creased his face making him look as weary and haggard as she felt.

  She moistened her lips and swallowed, trying to ease the dryness in her throat. "Hello, Nick."

  He stood watching her, without moving, without smiling, but his voice was soft when he spoke. "Hello, Dani."

  She couldn't let go of the door facing, couldn't take a step, either forward or back into the safety of her office. She could only look into somber green eyes that studied her unwaveringly.

  "Congratulations on the Cow Chip," she managed to say.

  "I had help."

  She closed her eyes as memories of the afternoon they had staked the well overpowered her.

  "Well," she said, remembering the only reason he could have for being here. "Henry Slayton is going with you for the escrow closing this morning."

  "No, he isn't."

  He wasn't making it easy for her. But then, she wondered, why should he? She clutched the door facing even more tightly. "Nick, you are his client. The only reason I became involved in this case is that he went on vacation. He should be with you today."

  "No, he shouldn't."

  She stared up at him helplessly, unable to voice any of the myriad thoughts spinning through her mind, begging to be spoken.

  "You started this," he said distinctly. "You'll be there for the finish."

  Before she could respond, he turned to Marcie. "Do you have the file?"

  "Sure, Nick," she said, handing the folder to him.

  Sure, Nick? Marcie, the soul of propriety when a client was anywhere in sight, had actually said, "Sure, Nick?" Dani's startled glance caught the bright smile Marcie flashed to Nick as she handed him Dani's purse, too. Traitor!

  Nick thrust her purse at her and grasped her by the elbow, leading her, stunned and unprotesting, down the hall.

  "And after we finish this bit of unpleasant business," he told her in a voice pitched low so that no one else could overhear, "you and I are going to have a long talk."