Once upon a Dream (17 page)

Blaine thought of his own loveless childhood, of the home he'd been tossed out of at an early age, of his lonely roaming and struggles and desperation. He gazed into the lovely face of the woman who was promising him all that he had ever wanted, all that he had never had.

“Much laughter, much love,” he repeated, sounding almost dazed. “And I will do my best, sweet Willow, I swear on my life, to make all of your dreams come true.”

And of course they did come true—beautifully true—every single one of them.

Ruth Ryan Langan

For all who believe
And especially for Tom,
who always believed in me

“A
FTERNOON, ANNIE.” MELINDA
Mozey looked up from the waitress station of the Mozey Inn as Annie Tyler breezed in. “I've got that sandwich and coffee all ready for you.”

“Thanks, Melinda.” Annie reached into her purse and withdrew a couple of bills. While the older woman rang up the sale, she fumbled in her pocket for her pager and noted the number of the caller before looking up. “Something smells wonderful. What is it?”

“Bean soup. Howard's been simmering that ham bone all morning. Want to try some? It'll warm you up on this miserable day.”

“Thanks, Melinda. No time.” Annie gave her a quick smile, then picked up the carryout bag and started out the door, cell phone to her ear.

The older woman shook her head, then turned to her husband, who was wiping down the counter. “That girl just never slows down.”

“Yep. Still running on New York time. But Doc Sim
mons said she's got her grandmother's debt nearly all paid down. She settled the hospital bill. Paid for all those round-the-clock aides. Promised Doc Simmons she'd have his final payment next month. The way she's working, she'll be free and clear in…oh, another year or so.”

“If she lives that long.” His wife glanced at the figure dashing across the street through a curtain of rain. “What a pretty little thing like Annie needs is a good man to show her how to have some fun in her life.”

The object of their discussion turned up the collar of her trench coat as she raced along the main street of the little town of Tranquility, Maine. The calendar said April, but the rain and wind still had the bite of winter to them.

She pushed open the door of the small, freshly painted office and smiled at the young woman who was busy tearing off a fax.

“Hey, Annie.” Shelly Kirkland, a young divorcée with two little girls, had eagerly offered to work part-time when Annie opened her real estate office in town. Because Shelly couldn't afford a baby-sitter, she was forced to bring her daughters with her after school. Annie had surprised them with a low wooden table and a variety of art supplies. Now the two girls, aged five and seven, played happily while their mother manned the telephone.

Annie fished two cookies from the carryout bag and raised an eyebrow at Shelly for permission. At her nod of approval, Annie offered them to the girls, who chirped their thanks before digging into the warm, gooey chocolate chips.

Shelly grinned. “Every time I see you with my daughters, I wonder why you don't have a couple of your own.”

“Yeah. That's what I need in my life.”

“But you're so good with them.” Shelly put the fax on Annie's desk and efficiently changed the subject. “Here's the description of that little house just outside of town. The Drummonds are worried that they've set the price too high. Think you can estimate what it's worth?”

Annie nodded. “I'll drive out there tonight and take a look.”

Hanging up her coat, she moved to her desk and nudged off her shoes, wiggling her toes.

“How'd the showings so?” Shelly watched as Annie tore the wrapping off a sandwich and opened the lid of her coffee while scanning her computer screen.

“Not so good.” Annie sipped gratefully. It was her first break since dawn. She'd had to skip breakfast and lunch because of scheduled appointments. Now it looked as though she'd have to skip dinner, too. “I took the Featherbys through six different houses. Judging from Mrs. Featherby's reactions, which ranged from boredom to outright dislike, I'm pretty sure I won't see a sale.”

“That's just like Margo Featherby. What a waste of four hours.”

Annie shrugged. “It's all right. I've come to expect it in this business. But look on the bright side, Shelly. I've sold enough this month to justify the rent on this place and pay your salary.”

“Yeah, but have you made enough to pay yourself?”

Annie gave a wry smile. “Not yet. But I'm getting there.”

She scanned the fax, then turned to look out the window at the bleak rain that pelted the windows.

It had been a tough decision to make the move from New York to Maine. She'd loved the excitement of the city, and her job in one of the top commercial real estate firms had been challenging. She'd found herself dealing with representatives from some of the biggest names in the industry, all vying for multimillion-dollar buildings in the heart of Manhattan. But the move, no matter how wrenching, couldn't be helped. That was what family did when they were needed.

She sipped her coffee and idly reached for the phone on the second ring. “Tyler Real Estate.”

“Anne Louise Tyler, please.” The woman's voice on
the other end of the line was clipped, with none of the distinctive New England inflection.

“This is Annie Tyler. How can I help you?”

“Ms. Tyler? I'm told you are related to Sara Brinkman Tyler.”

“Sara was my mother.” Distracted, Annie began rummaging through the pile of papers on her desk, searching for her pen.

“Splendid. Sara and I were girlhood friends in Bar Harbor. We attended the conservatory together many years ago. Perhaps you've heard of me? My name is Cordelia Sykes Carrington.”

Annie sat up a little straighter. “Mrs. Carrington. Of course I know of you. My mother spoke of you often.”

“She was a dear friend, but we lost track of one another when she moved away. I was sorry to hear of her passing all those years ago. She was far too young.” There was a slight pause before she went on. “I've decided to sell my estate, White Pines. I was hoping you might drive up to evaluate what needs to be done before it can be shown to prospective clients.”

“I'd…be happy to, Mrs. Carrington.”

“Fine. I'll have a representative of my legal firm deliver a set of keys to your office before you close for the day.”

“Keys? You won't be there?”

“No. I'm leaving today. I've been here for the past week with some of my staff, tagging antiques and mementos that I'd like shipped to my home in Palm Springs. I'd like you to pay particular attention to the grounds, Ms. Tyler. You'll need to hire a company to spruce things up.”

“I'll…see to it.”

“You'll need to hire a cleaning company, as well, to handle the grime that has accumulated and to dust the interior before you show the house.”

“You…want me to show the house? You want me to handle the sale of White Pines?” Out of the corner of her eye Annie saw Shelly's head come up.

“That's why I'm phoning you, Ms. Tyler. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Of course not. But…I ought to warn you, Mrs. Carrington. Mine is a very small company.”

“My law firm assured me that even small companies can reach the proper clients, via the Internet and magazines geared exclusively to the sale of multimillion-dollar estates. Isn't that so?”

“Yes, it's true. I just thought you ought to know that I don't have the amenities of some of the larger firms, with legal departments and high-powered sales representatives.”

“I have my own legal firm, Ms. Tyler. My son's firm. And there's no need for any high-powered tactics to sell White Pines. It will sell itself. I don't want just anyone handling this, you understand. It's been a painful decision to dispose of something that's been in our family for so many years. But it can't be helped.” There was another pause. “I hope you can see to this promptly.”

“I can drive up after work and spend the weekend, Mrs. Carrington. And if you'd like, I'll phone you with my report on Monday.”

“I'd like that. Thank you. I'll expect your call.”

Even after she'd hung up the phone, Annie sat staring at it.

Shelly, who'd been watching and listening, hurried over to her desk. “Carrington? Of the Sykes-Carringtons?”

“That's the one.”

“She's selling White Pines?”

“She is.” Slowly the smile came, until it grew into an irrepressible grin. “And she wants me to handle the sale. Do you realize what this means? Do you know what my commission will be? I've just been given the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Shelly touched a cautionary hand to Annie's arm. “I've never seen White Pines myself, but a neighbor, Penny Hartman, has told me about it.” She lowered her voice so
her daughters wouldn't overhear. “She said that it's haunted.”

Annie's grin widened. “Um-hmm. Well, you tell Penny that this is the wrong season for ghosts and goblins, Shelly.”

“I'm only telling you what I heard. Penny said just passing White Pines in her boat every summer gives her a creepy feeling.”

“Shelly, for the money I'll make on this sale, I'm willing to put up with all kinds of creepy feelings.” Annie pushed back her chair and stood. “I'd better get out to the Drummond place. I'm going to want to leave for White Pines before it gets too dark.”

She paused. “I'll stop by later to pick up the keys that are being delivered. Can you take up the slack for me while I'm gone?”

Shelly nodded. “The girls will be delighted to spend more time here. Ever since you told them the art supplies are all theirs, I never hear any complaints about the hours I have to put in.” She looked up. “Will you be back Monday?”

“If I can't make it back, I'll phone you.” Annie clicked the mouse on her computer and made a fresh file labeled “White Pines.” Then she picked up her attaché case.

She couldn't wait to get started.

 

“Shelly.” Annie held the cell phone to her ear and listened to the static caused by the rain pelting the windshield. “I stopped by the Drummond place. I'll work up the estimate when I get to White Pines and E-mail it to you.” She paused. “Sure. I can hold on.” She waited, then smiled. “Good. Tell Mr. Canfield I can meet him first thing Monday morning.” She pulled her pager out of her pocket and noted the number of yet another caller. “Okay, Shelly. Got to go. Got a call to make.”

While she punched in numbers, she lowered the window, allowing the sudden breeze to whip her dark hair into tangles. She was revved about the weekend. How
many people had a chance to sleep in a mansion and stroll the grounds of one of the country's finest estates?

Minutes later, as she finished yet another business call, Annie caught her breath at her first glimpse of White Pines. She'd seen the pictures and read the legal descriptions, which a messenger from Mrs. Carrington's law firm had delivered along with the keys. She'd already begun to chart some of the outbuildings that might be incorporated into the sale brochure. A beach house and gazebo, as well as a fully equipped stable. All set on fifteen acres of prime beachfront property. Those were excellent selling points. But the photos were probably ten years old, taken when the estate had been a high-society darling.

Now it seemed more like a tired dowager, clinging to her faded glory.

The house stood on a sweep of land that was absolutely breathtaking. Jagged cliffs. Massive boulders. And that lovely expanse of water, as far as the eye could see.

Annie stopped the car and simply stared, allowing herself to drink in the beauty of the scene before her. Earth and sky and water seemed to blend into the most amazing watercolor of greens and blues. The house had been cleverly designed to suit its surroundings, as though it had always stood there like an impenetrable fortress, facing into the sea and wind. Three stories high, made of stone and wood, it managed to look both rugged and majestic. Tall, rounded windows softened the look. Still, there was a dark, brooding quality about it, as though it harbored plenty of secrets.

Annie engaged the gear and drove up the curving driveway. On closer inspection she could see that the trees that lined the way were misshapen, the gardens overgrown with weeds. Fountains and statuary were discolored, the victims of wind and weather. Several had fallen to the ground, where they lay half buried in tangled vines. Still, despite all the decay it was easy to see the possibilities.

Why had this place remained unused for years? Why had the Carrington family abandoned something so mag
nificent? The ominous warning from Shelly began to play through Annie's mind.

She shivered and brushed aside the little flicker of fear. It was the rain, trying to dampen her mood. This was no time to get caught up in fanciful ideas. She'd always been blessed with a wild imagination, which at times seemed more like a curse, since it was directly opposed to her basically sensible nature.

Nearly a mile later she came to stop at the front steps. Moss had begun to grow between the cracks in the cement. The steps and porch were littered with leaves and debris.

Annie tossed the strap of her purse over her shoulder and took her duffel out of the trunk, as well as a sack of groceries. At the top of the steps she set them down and fished the key out of her pocket. She unlocked the heavy door and shoved it open, stepping into the massive foyer. A flick of a switch brought dazzling light from a dustcovered Waterford chandelier overhead. She glanced down at a dusty floor of gold-veined Italian marble. To her left was an elegant Louis XIV table, and above it a mirror framed in a most unusual twisted rope design of pewter and gilt. Both bore tags, which she assumed had been put there by Mrs. Carrington's staff.

Leaving her things in the foyer, she made her way toward the sumptuous great room.

“Not bad for a summer place.” She grinned, recalling Mrs. Carrington's description of White Pines as the family cottage.

She looked around at the furniture, some shrouded in white cotton sheeting to prevent dust, other pieces uncovered and tagged for removal. There was something sad about a house as beautiful as this lying silent and somber instead of ringing with the voices of a family.

She paused in front of a wall of windows that offered a spectacular view of terraces and gardens and a lawn that sloped toward the water. Here was more evidence of de
cay, with the bricks of the patio crumbling, and the lawn overrun with weeds.