Finding the Dream (Dream Trilogy 3)

Not just in dollars, Laura thought, as she wandered back into the main showroom. In pride, in confidence. In friendship and fun.

When they bought the building, it was an empty space, dusty, scarred, smelly. Their vision, their effort had turned it into the remarkable. Now the glass of the wide display window sparkled in the sunlight and teased passersby with clever hints of what was offered inside.

A sassy cocktail dress in emerald, with the nostalgic touch of peacock feathers at the shoulder, was draped over the elegant chair of a woman's vanity. Colorful bottles stood on the glossy surface, along with a jeweled collar. One of the drawers was open so that glittery rhinestones and shimmering silks spilled out. There was a lamp shaped like a swan, a single crystal flute beside an empty bottle of champagne. A man's cuff links and carelessly tossed formal black tie mingled with the woman's trinkets. A pair of red spike heels was artfully positioned to give the impression that their owner had just stepped out of them.

The little vignettes in the display were usually Margo's domain, but Laura had designed this one. And was proud of it. As she was of the shop as a whole. Throughout the spacious showroom was scattered the unique, the fanciful. The warm rose walls complemented glass shelves filled with treasures. Porcelain boxes, silver services, gold-ringed stemware. A velvet settee—the third they'd had to stock—provided customers a chance to sit, e

njoy a cup of tea, a glass of champagne.

Gilded tightwinder stairs spiraled up toward the open balcony that ringed the room and led to the boudoir where negligees, peignoirs, and other night apparel were displayed in a gorgeous rosewood armoire. Everything was for sale, from the rococo bed to the smallest silver trinket box. And nothing was duplicated.

The shop had quite literally saved all three of them. And though she wouldn't have thought it possible, it had brought them even closer together.

As she hovered outside the wardrobe room, she watched Margo show a customer a sapphire bracelet from the display. Kate discussed the origins of an Art Nouveau lamp with another. A new customer studied an opal snuff bottle while her companion perused the selection of evening bags.

Mozart was playing on the stereo, softly. Through the window, Laura caught glimpses of the busy traffic on Cannery Row. Cars chugged or streamed or jockeyed for position. People strolled by on the sidewalk. A man passed with a young boy giggling from his perch on Daddy's shoulders. A couple, arm in arm, stopped to admire the display—and moments later came inside. "Ms. Templeton?"

Pulling herself back from her reverie, Laura turned to the wardrobe room. "Yes, Mrs. Myers, did you find something you like?"

The woman smiled, held out her choice. "I never leave Pretenses disappointed."

The glow of pride was swift and satisfying. Laura accepted the cashmere. "We're here to see that you never do."

Chapter Four

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"Pretty good digs, right, boy?" Michael groomed Max, his pride and joy while the enormous buff-colored Tennessee walker snorted in agreement.

The Templeton horse palace was a far cry from the simple working stables that Michael had built in the hills, then watched collapse under walls of mud. Not that it had looked much like a palace when he stepped inside that first afternoon, when he ran into Laura. Then it bore more than a slight resemblance to some fairy-tale cottage long under a wicked spell, deserted by all who had once inhabited it.

He had to grin at the thought, and at the fact that everything about the Templeton estate made him think of fairy tales with golden edges.

What he found in the stables was dust, disuse, and disrepair.

It had taken him the best part of a week to ready the building. No easy task for one man and a single pair of hands, but he wasn't willing to move his horses in until their temporary home had been cleaned and organized to his specifications.

On the other hand, for that week he'd had to endure the public stables, the painfully high fee for boarding, and the fact that his own lodgings were miles away from his stock. But the results were well worth the investment of a few sixteen-hour, muscle-aching days.

It was a good, solid building, with the stylish touches that the Templetons were known for. The loose boxes had plenty of space and light and air, a more important feature to Michael than the intricately laid brick flooring, the decorative tiles around the mangers, or the ornate ironwork above them, with its center stylized T in polished brass.

Though he did consider the fancy work a nice touch.

The layout was practical, with the tack room at one end of the block, the feed room at the other. Though he was baffled by the obvious neglect and disuse, he put his back into it and dug in to correct the situation. He hauled and hammered, swept and scrubbed until every stall met his stringent standards for his babies.

He thought of them as such, secretly.

He'd had fresh hay and straw delivered that morning and had been grateful that the boy who delivered it had been willing to make a few extra dollars by helping Michael store the bales.

Now each stall was deeply bedded with wheat straw—expensive and difficult to come by, but these were his babies, after all. Some tools and some ingenuity had put the automatic drinking bowls back in working order. He oiled hinges on stall doors, replaced hooks that had rusted away.

Since he'd lost all of his supplies in the mud, he had to restock grain, electrolytes, vitamins, medicines. He'd managed to salvage some tack, some tools. Every piece had been cleaned and polished, and what couldn't be saved had been, or would shortly be, replaced.

His fifteen horses were housed as royally as he could manage, but as yet, he hadn't done more than sleep in the upstairs apartment.

"You've come up in the world, Max. You might not know it, but you are now a tenant of the Templeton estate. That is one big fucking deal, pal, take my word for it."

He slapped the horse affectionately on the flank and pulled a carrot out of the pouch tied at his waist. "I've already started designing your new place. Don't worry. Maybe we'll add a few of the fancier touches ourselves this time around. But in the meantime, you can't do much better than this."