The Dream Unfolds

by Barbara Delinsky

  That was one of the reasons why she grew more nervous as the day of the presentation drew near. She burned the midnight oil doing drawings, then redoing them, trying to get them just right. She sat back and rethought her concept, then altered the drawings yet again to accommodate even the slightest shift. She knew that, given Gideon’s predisposition, she’d have to impress the others in the group in a big way if she wanted the job.

  * * *

  The day of the meeting was a beautiful one, cool and clear as the best of November days were along the North Atlantic shore. Gideon felt good. The first roof section had gone up despite a last-minute glitch that had kept Carter and him sweating over the plans the weekend before. But things had finally fit, and if all went well, the second, third and fourth roof sections would be up by the end of the week. Once that was done, the snows could come and Gideon wouldn’t give a hoot.

  It had also been eight whole days since he’d last heard from Elizabeth Abbott.

  So he was in a plucky mood when the eight members of the consortium held their weekly meeting at seven that evening in Gordon’s office. It occurred to Gideon as he greeted the others and took his place at the table, that he was comfortable with the group. It hadn’t been so at first. He had felt self-conscious, almost like an imposter, as though he didn’t have any business being there and they all knew it. Over the weeks that they’d been meeting, though, he’d found himself accepted as a peer. More than that, his status as the general contractor actually gave him a boost in their eyes. He was the one member of the group most closely aligned with the reality of the project.

  There were Carter and Jessica, sitting side by side, then the three men Gordon had brought in from other areas—Bill Nolan, from the Nolan Paper Mill family in Maine, Ben Heavey, a real estate developer well-known in the East, and Zach Gould, a retired banker with time and money on his hands, who visited the site often. Rounding out the group were John Sawyer, a local bookseller, and Nina Stone, the realtor who would one day market the project.

  Being single, Gideon had taken notice of Nina at the start. They’d even gone out to dinner once, but neither had wanted a follow-up, certainly not as a prelude to something deeper. Nina was a tough cookie, an aggressive woman, almost driven. Petite and a little bizarre, she wasn’t Gideon’s type at all. By mutual agreement, they were simply friends.

  After calling the meeting to order, Gordon, who always sat in as an advisor of sorts, gave them a rundown of the money situation, then handed the meeting over to Carter, who called in, one by one, the interior designers vying for the project.

  The first was a woman who worked out of Boston and had done several of the more notable condo projects there in recent years. Gideon thought her plans were pretentious.

  The second was a man who talked a blue streak about glass and marble and monotonic values. Gideon thought everything about him sounded sterile.

  The third was Christine Gillette, and Gideon didn’t take his eyes off her once. She was wearing beige again, a suit this time, with a tweedy blazer over a solid-colored blouse and skirt, and he had to admit that she looked elegant. She also looked slightly nervous, if the faint shimmer of her silk blouse was any indication of the thudding of her heart. But she was composed, and obviously well rehearsed. She made her presentation, exchanging one drawing for another with slender fingers as she talked about recreating the ambience that she believed made Crosslyn Rise special. Her voice was soft, but it held conviction. She clearly believed in what she was saying.

  Quite against his wishes, Gideon was impressed. Her eyes had glanced across his from time to time, but if she was remembering their last encounter, she didn’t let on. She was cool, but in a positive way. Not haughty, but self-assured. She didn’t remind him at all of Elizabeth Abbott.

  At the end of her presentation she left, sent home, as the others had been, with word that a decision would be made within the week. It was obvious, though, where the group’s sentiment lay.

  “Christine’s plans were the warmest,” John Sawyer said. “I like the feeling she captured.”

  Zach Gould agreed. “I liked her, too. She wasn’t heavy-handed like the first, or slick like the second.”

  “Her estimates are high,” Ben Heavey reminded them. He was the most conservative of the group.

  “All three are high,” Nina said, “but the fact is that if we want this done right, we’ll have to shell out. I have a feeling that Christine, more than the others, will be able to get us the most for the least. She seems the most inventive, the least programmed.”

  “I want to know what Gideon thinks,” Carter said, looking straight at him. “He’ll be spending more time with the decorator than the rest of us. There are things like moldings, doors, flooring and deck work that I specified in my plans but that are fully changeable if something else fits better with the decor. So, Gideon, what are your thoughts?”

  Gideon, who had been slouched with an elbow on the arm of his chair and his chin on his fist, wasn’t sure what those thoughts were. Christine was the best of the three, without a doubt, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to work with her. There was something about her that unsettled him, though he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  “She’s the least experienced of the lot,” he finally said, lowering the fist and sitting straighter. “What’s the setup of her firm?”

  Jessica answered. “She’s something of a single practitioner. Her office is small. She has one full-time secretary and two part-time assistants, both with degrees in decorating, both with small children. They’re job-sharing. It works out well for them, and from what she says, it works out well for Chris.”

  “Job-sharing,” John mused with a grin. “I like that.” They all knew that he was a single parent, and that though he owned his bookstore, he only manned the cash register during those hours when he had a sitter for his son. He had a woman who sold books for him the rest of the time, so he was basically job-sharing, himself.

  Job-sharing didn’t mean a whole lot to Gideon. Men did the work in his field, and even if their bosses allowed it, which they didn’t, they weren’t the types to leave at one in the afternoon to take a toddler to gym-and-swim.

  He wondered what the story was on Christine Gillette. The résumé she’d handed out said nothing whatsoever about her personal life. He hadn’t seen a wedding band, though that didn’t mean anything in this day and age. He wondered whether she had a husband at home, and was vaguely annoyed at the thought.

  “Does she have little kids who she’ll have to miss work for each time they get a cold?” he asked, looking slightly miffed.

  “Whoa,” said John. “Be compassionate, my friend.”

  But Gideon wasn’t a father, and as for compassion, there seemed to be plenty in the room for Christine Gillette without his. “Carter’s right. If we decide to use this woman, I’m the one who’ll be working most closely with her. Job-sharing may be well and good in certain areas, but construction isn’t one. If I have to order bathroom fixtures, and she’s off taking the kid to Disney World over school vacation so she can’t meet with me, we’ll be held back.” He thought the argument was completely valid and he was justified to raise it. Christine might be able to charm the pants off this consortium, but if she couldn’t come through when he needed her, he didn’t want her at all! “I keep things moving. That’s the way I work. I need people who’ll be there.”

  “Chris will be there,” Jessica assured him. “There are no little ones at home. From what I’ve been told—and from more than one source—she puts in fifty-hour weeks.”

  “Still,” he cautioned, “if she’s a single practitioner—”

  “With a secretary and assistants,” Jessica put in.

  “Okay, with a secretary and assistants, but she’s the main mover. Both of the other candidates for this position have partners, full partners, people who could take over if something happened.”

  “What could happen?” Jessica asked. “Chris is in good health. She has a r
eputation for finishing jobs on time, if not ahead. She’s efficient and effective. And she needs this job.” She held up a hand before he could comment on that. “I know, I know. You’re going to ask me why she’s so desperate, and she’s not. Not desperate. But this job could give her career a boost, and she wants that. She deserves it.”

  Gideon didn’t want to think that Christine, with her fair-haired freshness, her poise, and legs long enough to drive a man wild, deserved a thing. “Hey, this isn’t a charity. We’re not in the business of on-the-job training.”

  “Gideon,” Jessica said with a mocking scowl, “I know that. More than anyone here, I know it. I’ve lived on Crosslyn Rise all my life. I’m the one who’s being torn apart that I can’t leave it the way it always was—” She stopped for a minute when Carter put a hand on her arm. She nodded, took a calming breath. “I want the Rise to be the best it can possibly be, and if Chris wasn’t the best, I wouldn’t be recommending her.”

  “She’s a friend,” Gideon accused, recalling what Chris had told him.

  “She’s a friend of a friend, but I have no personal interest in her getting this job. If anything, I was wary when my friend mentioned her to me, because I’m not in the business of doing favors. Then I looked at pictures of other jobs Chris has done. Now, looking at what she’s come up with for us, I’m more convinced than ever that she’s the right one.” She stopped, had another thought, went on. “Besides, there’s a definite advantage to working with someone with a smaller client list. It’s the old issue of being a small fish in a big pond, or vice versa. Personally, I’d rather be the big fish in Chris’s pond, than a small fish in someone else’s, particularly since no one else’s ideas for this project are anywhere near as good as hers.”

  Gideon might have said more, but didn’t. Clearly the others agreed with Jessica, as the vote they took several minutes later proved. Christine was approved as the decorator for Crosslyn Rise by a unanimous vote. Or a nearly unanimous one. Gideon abstained.

  “Why did you do that?” Carter asked quietly after the meeting had adjourned and most of the others had left.

  Gideon didn’t have a ready answer. “I don’t know. Maybe because she didn’t need my vote. She had the rest of you wowed.”

  “But you like her ideas.”

  “Yes, I like her ideas.”

  “Think you can work with her?”

  Gideon jammed his fists into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Work with her? I suppose.”

  “So what bothers you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Carter was beginning to have his suspicions, if the look on Gideon’s face went for anything. “She’s pretty, and she’s single.”

  “Single?” Somehow that made Gideon feel worse.

  “Single. Available. Is that a threat?”

  “Only if she’s on the make. Is she looking for it?”

  “Not that I know of.” Carter leaned closer. “Word has it she lives like a monk.”

  Gideon glowered. “Is that supposed to impress me?”

  “If you’re worried about being attacked, it should.”

  “Attacked? Me? By her? That’s the last thing I’m worried about. Listen, man, I’ve got plenty of women to call when I get the urge. Snap my fingers, there they are.”

  “Christine isn’t likely to do that.”

  “Don’t you know it. She’s the kind to snap her fingers. Well, I don’t come running so fast, and I don’t give a damn how pretty she is. Long legs are a dime a dozen. So are breasts, bottoms and big blue eyes, and as far as that blond hair of hers goes, it’s probably right out of a bottle.” He paused only for the quickest breath. “I can work with her. As long as she produces, I can work with her. But if she starts playing games, acting high and mighty and superior, and botching things up so my work starts looking shabby, we’ll be in trouble. Big trouble.”

  * * *

  Actually Gideon was in big trouble already, but it wasn’t until three weeks had passed, during which time he couldn’t get Christine Gillette out of his mind for more than a few hours at a stretch, that he realized it. The realization was driven home when she called to make an appointment to see him and he hung up the phone with a pounding heart and a racing pulse.

  3

  Christine was having a few small physical problems of her own as she left Belmont early that Thursday morning and headed north toward Crosslyn Rise. Her stomach was jumpy. Tea hadn’t helped. Nor had a dish of oatmeal. Worse, the jitters seemed to echo through her body, leaving a fine tremor in her hands.

  It was excitement, she told herself. She’d been flying high since receiving the call from Jessica that she’d landed the Crosslyn Rise job. She’d also been working her tail off since then to get ahead on other projects so that she’d have plenty of time to devote to the Rise. So maybe, she speculated as she turned onto Route 128, the trembling was from fatigue.

  Then again, maybe it was nervousness. She didn’t like to think so, because she’d never felt nervous this way about her work, but she’d never worked with anyone like Gideon Lowe before. She’d always managed to keep her cool, at least outwardly, with even the most intimidating of clients, but Gideon was something else. He was large, though she’d worked with larger men. He was quick-tempered, though she’d worked with some even more so. He was chauvinistic, though heaven knows she’d met worse. But he got to her as the others hadn’t. He stuck in her mind. She wasn’t quite sure why.

  As the car cruised northward on the highway, she pondered that, just as she had been doing practically every free minute since her interview at the bank three weeks before.

  She’d been slightly stunned to see him there—not to see him, per se, but to see how he looked. At the site, he’d been a craftsman. His work boots had been crusted with dirt, his jeans faded and worn. He’d been wearing a down vest, open over a plaid flannel shirt, which was open over a gray T-shirt dotted with sweat in spite of the cold. His dark hair had stuck out in a mess around the wool cap he wore. He needed a shower and a shave.

  When she saw him at the bank, he’d had both. His hair was neatly combed, still longer than that of the other men in the room, though cut well. His jaw was smooth and tanned. His shoulders looked every bit as broad under a camel hair blazer as under a down vest. He knew how to knot a tie, even how to pick one, if indeed he’d picked out the paisley one he wore. And in the quick look she’d had, when the men had briefly stood as she entered then left the room, his gray slacks had fit his lean hips nearly as nicely as had a pair of jeans.

  He was an extremely good-looking man, she had to admit, though she refused to believe that had anything to do with her nervousness. After all, she’d already decided that he was married, and anyway, she wasn’t on the lookout for a man. She had one, a very nice one named Anthony Haskell, who was even-tempered and kind and took her to a show or a movie or to dinner whenever she had the time, which wasn’t often. She didn’t see him more than two or three times a month. But he was pleasant. He was an amiable escort. That was all she asked, all she wanted from a man—light companionship from time to time as a break from the rest of her life.

  So, Gideon Lowe wasn’t any sort of threat to her in that regard. Still he was so physical. A woman couldn’t be within arm’s reach of him and not feel his force. Hell, she’d been farther away than that in the boardroom at the bank, and she’d felt it. It started with his eyes and was powerful.

  So he was slightly intimidating, she admitted with a sigh, and that was why she was feeling shaky. Of course, she couldn’t let him know that. She’d taken the bull by the horns and called him for an appointment, making sure to sound fully composed, for that reason. Gideon looked to be the predatory type. If he sensed weakness, he’d zoom right in for the kill.

  Fortifying herself with the determination to do the very best job for Crosslyn Rise that she possibly could, she turned off the highway and followed the shore road. Actually she would have preferred meeting Gideon at the bank or at Carter’s o
ffice, either of which were safer places, given what had happened on that last misty morning. But Gideon had said that they should see what they were discussing, and she supposed he had a point.

  The good news was that the day was sunny and bright, not at all like that other misty one. The bad news was that it was well below freezing, as was perfectly normal for December. There had already been snow, though barely enough to shovel. She couldn’t help but wonder how Gideon’s men kept from freezing as they worked.

  As for her, she’d dressed for the occasion. She was wearing wool tights under wool slacks, a heavy cowl-neck sweater and a long wool coat. Beside her on the seat were a pair of mittens and some earmuffs. It had occurred to her that Gideon was testing her mettle, deliberately subjecting her to adverse conditions, but if so, she wasn’t going to come up short. She could handle subfreezing weather. She’d done it many times before.

  Of course, that didn’t mean that she was thrilled to be riding in her car dressed as heavily as she was. If it hadn’t been for the seat belt, she’d have shrugged out of her coat. She’d long since turned down the heat, and even then, by the time she arrived at Crosslyn Rise, she felt a trickle of perspiration between her breasts.

  She drove directly to the duck pond over the trail that the trucks had made, but when she reached it, it looked deserted. There wasn’t a car or truck in sight. She sat for a minute, then glanced at her watch. They’d agreed on eight-thirty, which it was on the nose. Gideon had told her, a bit arrogantly, she thought, that his men started work an hour before that. But she didn’t see a soul working on this cold, crisp morning. She opened her door and stepped out. The only noise came from the ducks, their soft, random quacks a far cry from the sharp sounds of construction.