Dreams of Perfection (Dreams Come True) (7 page)

Chapter 12

Darcy’s house phone rang once, momentarily distracting her, before Millie got it. Whoever it was, Millie would take care of it.

“Where was I?” she muttered. “Oh yeah, Dominic had pulled Larissa into his arms and—”

“Excuse me, Darcy, telephone.”

Darcy never snapped at Millie, but her nerves were so frayed from lack of sleep, lack of communication with Blake, and the manuscript that just didn’t seem to be working, that she turned to Millie with an exasperated, “What!”

Millie narrowed her eyes at Darcy’s uncharacteristic reaction, but pulled it together and held her hand over the phone, “It’s Blake.”

Darcy’s heart fluttered in her chest. “I’m sorry, Millie.”

Millie simply sniffed in annoyance.

Reaching for the phone, Darcy took a deep, calming breath that she exhaled in a breathy, “Hi.” Covering the mouthpiece, she mouthed another apology to Millie before she left the room.

“Darcy! You have no idea how good your voice sounds. How are you?”

“Great.” Now that he’d called.

“Did you get the flowers I sent?”

Darcy looked around at the growing collection of vases filled with everything from calla lilies to exotic orchids.

“Yes. Blake, you really didn’t need to send flowers every day you’ve been gone.”

“Yes I did. I couldn’t let you forget me, now could I?”

Right.
She’d be more likely to forget her own name. “Are you back?”

“Yes, and I’d love to see you tonight if you have the time.”

Hmm, let me check my calendar. Yep, all clear.
“I’d love that.”

Two hours lat
er, Josh sat back in his chair, stretched, then scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He thought he could swing a settlement with the bank and keep Kelly’s home. It would put all his negotiation and mediation skills to the test, but right now, he’d lay odds on a victory.

His assistant, Miranda, knocked before sticking her head in the door. “This report just came for you by courier. Figured it must be important.” She handed him a large manila envelope with his name on it and the people locator service’s return address.

“Thanks.”

Anxious for the results that would reveal Blake as a fraud, but reluctant to tell Darcy the cold truth he knew the documents held, he drew the typewritten report and its exhibits from the envelope.

Skimming the pages, Josh couldn’t believe it. Everything checked out; from Blake’s prep-school education to his Harvard degrees; from his residency at Johns Hopkins to his fellowship at University of California, San Diego. And that scar, it was real, too. They had the medical records from Peru to prove it.

How can that be? Everything that Darcy wrote about the fictional Blake Garrett was true for the real Blake Garrett. 

Josh didn’t like to think of himself as a cynic, but he did think a healthy dose of skepticism had served him well from time to time. And this was one of those times.

Blake Garrett’s very existence was a mystery, but Josh relished solving mysteries.

Darcy snuggled close
r to Blake as they sat in front of the alfresco fireplace on Gansevoort’s rooftop, the April evening still carrying a slight chill, especially on the roof. New York’s hottest nightspot, the Gansevoort Park Rooftop boasted three levels of open-air terraces, bars, and dancing. After a fabulous dinner, the two settled in front of the fire, after-dinner drinks in hand.

Darcy thought she’d have to remind herself to ask Blake questions about his past, as if she knew nothing about him. When she developed a character, she knew everything there was to know, right down to shoe size. After all, you know what they say about men and shoe size. She’d been curious to see if his real past matched up to the one she’d written. But all evening, Blake kept her talking about herself.

She appreciated his desire to get to know her, and he really seemed to be listening, but she was beginning to feel like an honoree on a revival of
This Is Your Life
. She half-expected Regis Philbin to walk out any second. They were already up to Darcy Butler, the college years.

“So, you went to Columbia for college?” Blake’s hand was making soothing circles on her back, and between the rich meal, the alcohol, and the cozy warmth of Blake’s arm, she struggled a bit to stay awake.

“Hmm. Yes. Bachelor’s in Creative Writing.”

“And now you’re a best-selling author. What’s the name of your latest book?”

“The Doc—” Darcy bolted upright.
Holy cow! What am I going to tell him about
The Doctor’s Dilemma
? The book from whence he sprung?
“Um, we’re still working out a title.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll have to read it when it comes out.”

No. You really don’t.
She had to put a stop to this topic of conversation. At least until she could work out how to best handle the fact she’d written about
him
before she even knew he existed. She covered a feigned yawn.

“Are you tired?” Blake asked.

“No, I think I’m just boring myself with all this talk about me.” She smiled.

He chuckled. “I’m enjoying it.” He tilted her chin up to look at him. “I could never get bored listening to you talk.”

He really was perfect!
What girl didn’t want to hear that?

He leaned down, grazing her bottom lip with his thumb before closing in for a kiss.

She closed her eyes, and remembering what Laura had said, gave it some welly. His warm lips tasted of bourbon. A groan escaped her as he cupped her face, gently nipping at her lips. This was more like it, she thought.

She lifted her hands to his hair and slid her fingers through the silky tresses. Still not Perfect with a capital ‘P,’ but you know what that say about practice. And unlike her childhood piano lessons, she’d gladly practice
this
until they got it capital ‘P’ Perfect.

Just as she thought about taking a major step and asking him back to her place, he pulled away. “I have an early case in the morning.”

She held back a groan of disappointment.

He kissed her nose and, taking her hand, lifted her to her feet. Before they could reach the elevators though, he pulled her into his arms for a little twirl around the dance floor. And of course the guy could dance. She’d written him with an innate sense of rhythm and the grace of Fred Astaire.

“Maybe we could stay a little longer,” Blake murmured against her cheek as they swayed to some inner rhythm of their own, ignoring the fast-paced music blaring from the sound system.

Ah, dancing on the rooftop under the stars. Two-for-two. Another perfect date. She felt like Ginger to Blake’s Fred, and they were back in the heyday of Hollywood musicals. The only thing missing was the slinky evening gown and the white tails. Well, that and the big band music. The steady thump of Pink wasn’t exactly Fred and Ginger material. Although, as Blake initiated a dip, she liked to think if Fred were still alive, he would totally get it.

Chapter 13

Darcy still hadn’t come down from her high. Dancing around her kitchen belting Pink’s “Get This Party Started,” she stopped short just before colliding with a disapproving Millie.

“Shouldn’t you be upstairs working on your manuscript instead of acting like a love-struck teenager?” Millie admonished.

“Oh, come on, Millie, haven’t you ever been head-over-heels infatuated with someone?” It was still too early to call it love.

Millie put her finger to her temple as if in thought, “Let me see. No.” She brushed past Darcy with her teacup and set it in the sink before checking Darcy’s datebook. “You have an interview with
USA Today
next Friday at eleven a.m.”

Darcy sighed. “Why don’t you use the iPad I bought you?”

“I prefer paper. Something I can touch and feel.”

“You’re a, an um, oh what’s the word?”

“Your brain is drowning in love-induced dopamine, and it’s making you stupid. The word you’re searching for is Luddite. And, yes, I am,” she sniffed.

Darcy’s phone began playing “Get Some,” Laura’s latest ringtone. “Hey, you!”

“My, aren’t we chipper this morning. Did you get some?”

“We danced under the stars last night.”

“Is that what you young people are calling it these days?” Laura replied.

“Did you call to talk about my sex life?”

“What sex life? No, I called to beg for your help.”

“Why, what’s up?”

“Brunch, Sunday, with Milt and Cherise. Come with me? Please? They like you better than me.”

Laura’s father had all the warmth of Stalin, while her mother gave more thought to her hair and wardrobe, than the feelings of her only daughter. Darcy could understand why brunch with her parents was not something Laura looked forward to. It was the only time Darcy saw Laura intimidated. No wonder she’d spent most of her childhood at Darcy’s house. “Sure.”

“Did I ever tell you you’re my best friend in the whole world?”

“Not often enough.”

Darcy threw a cou
ple of twenties at the driver and told him to keep the change, then darted into the restaurant behind Laura. The sudden spring shower made finding a cab difficult and took the shine off Laura’s previously well-groomed appearance. She fussed with her hair and brushed droplets of water from her lightweight suede jacket.

“Oh hell! They’re already here. I wanted to stop in the ladies’ room and fix my hair.”

“Too late now, they’ve seen us,” Darcy said.

“Well, my dear, don’t you look like a drowned rat?” Laura’s perfectly coifed mother gave her a disapproving glance. “Haven’t I told you to always have an umbrella with you just in case?” 

“It came up suddenly, Mrs. Armstrong,” Darcy defended her friend, as she ran her fingers through her own damp locks.

Laura slid into the booth next to her mother, while Darcy took the empty seat next to her father.

“That’s why you always carry an umbrella. And stop that infernal bouncing.” Cherise referred to Laura’s nervous tell—a jiggling leg.

A bad sign when Laura’s agitation set in before her father even said a word, Darcy thought.

Laura had inherited her cool looks from her beauty-queen mother, Cherise, but where her mother was coifed within an inch of her life, Laura was polished, not plasticized. Her father, Milton, sat with his nose in his smartphone, barely acknowledging Laura’s or Darcy’s presence, other than to grumble that they were late.

From her father, Laura had inherited a workaholic propensity. The family’s shipbuilding business had been around since the days of wooden ships. Then, luckily for the business, Mr. Armstrong’s grandfather married the daughter of a steel magnate in the late-nineteenth century, just in time to switch from iron construction to steel. The business exploded, with shipbuilding operations all over the globe, making her father one of
Forbes
’ “Richest Men in the World.”

Laura had plenty of money. It wasn’t wealth that drove her, but a desire to prove her father wrong. Her screw-up brother had stepped into her father’s shoes with the shipyard only because her father still clung to the view that women didn’t run Fortune 500 companies. And even if they did, he’d never let Laura run his.

Laura signaled a passing waiter and ordered a Bloody Mary while Darcy scanned the menu. 

“What brings you to Manhattan?” Laura asked her mother.

Darcy knew from experience that if you got Cherise talking about herself, she’d never stop. This greatly reduced the opportunity for Cherise to reproach her daughter over her taste in men, careers, clothing, and any other part of Laura’s life she didn’t approve of.

“Your father’s seeing his tailor, and I thought I’d pop in to Barneys for some shopping and then to Guerlain Spa at the Waldorf.”

When you spent the kind of money Milt spent on suits, your tailor gladly waited at your beck and call. Even on a Sunday.

Laura sucked down the Bloody Mary and ordered another one as her mother rattled on about the spa.

Darcy nudged Laura on the leg and shot her a look—
Watch the booze
. Laura skewered her with a look in return—
Bite me
. Darcy sighed,
right,
then signaled the waiter for another mimosa.

Milton ignored everyone at the table, too busy checking emails to interact, which was just as well. Unlike Cherise, Milton didn’t criticize his daughter. He just acted as if she didn’t exist. Better to be collectively disregarded than to be selectively ignored.

Cherise’s one-sided conversation turned to a planned shopping excursion to Paris next month, then moved on to renovations at their home in Jackson Hole. A home they rarely used since Milton didn’t like to be that far from the business’ headquarters in Philadelphia.

By the time the waiter brought the food, Laura had drained her third Bloody Mary. Cherise’s monologue finally wound down, leaving an awkward silence around the table, as silverware clattered against china. Darcy struggled for a safe topic of conversation, finally landing on her parents’ upcoming vacation to Italy. She opened her mouth to speak—

“So, Darcy, are you dating anyone?” Cherise asked, skewering her melon slice.

Cherise could care less if Darcy were dating anyone. She had an ulterior motive for bringing up the subject. “Oh, well. . .” Pretending to swallow, Darcy telepathically pleaded with Laura to help her.

“Darcy’s dating a doctor,” Laura chimed in.

“Really? What’s his name?”

“B–” Laura started to reply.

“Bill,” Darcy interjected, “Bill Guthrie.”

Laura’s brow puckered in confusion.

“What’s his area?”

“Proctology,” Laura offered.

Darcy almost showered the table with her mouthful of mimosa.

“Oh, well, I suppose we should be thankful someone wants to practice in that, er, area.”

Laura snickered, while Darcy bit her lip.

“Don’t be juvenile, Laura,” Cherise reproved. “At least Darcy is dating—and a doctor no less. You could do worse.”

Laura rolled her eyes, shoveling a bite of breakfast crepe in her mouth.

Before Cherise climbed up on her boyfriend soapbox, Darcy jumped in, “My parents are off to the Amalfi Coast in two weeks. They would appreciate any advice you might have.”

“Oh, they’ll love it, although I didn’t particularly care for the . . .”

Darcy tuned out the rest as Laura mouthed a thank you.