The Dream Wedding Page 5

  “Merry Christmas, Briana Berry.”

  She returned the greeting and sipped the champagne. It tasted heavenly—cool and sweet and refreshing. The last time Briana had champagne had been back in June, at a groundbreaking ceremony for one of her clients. She didn’t remember it tasting anywhere near this good.

  Nor did she remember the company being this good. Even in these more casual clothes, there was nothing casual about Michael Sands’s drop-dead-gorgeous good looks.

  If anything, he was even handsomer, the sweater revealing the enormous expanse of his shoulders and chest and the muscles in his arms, something his tuxedo had only hinted at.

  And yet Briana felt an almost crushing calmness emanating from within that powerful frame. It was as though all his muscles had been completely stilled. And then she saw the deep glow of control in his midnight eyes, and was suddenly struck by the certainty that this man was in total command of himself. His mind, his body, his emotions, everything that defined him, was at the command of his will.

  Briana was certain she had never met anyone like Michael Sands. She rather suspected that was because there was no one else like him. She also suspected that if she sat here staring at him for much longer, all these foolish feelings she was having for him would be flashing all over her face.

  She refocused her attention on the carton of Uncle Chen’s specialty before her. The prawns tasted as though they had been marinated in egg white, then sauteed with broccoli, water chestnuts and mushrooms in a delicate wine sauce. They were heavenly.

  “So, who would you be with now if you hadn’t found me beneath your tree, Michael?” she tried to ask casually.

  “Someone I met at a party, perhaps. Or I might be alone.”

  “Alone?”

  “You find that strange?”

  “A little. Why would you be spending Christmas Eve alone?”

  “I enjoy being with others, Briana, but I’m not a person who has to seek out other people’s company because I’m uncomfortable with my own. Who would you be with tonight if you were back in Washington?”

  “The person I’m with every Christmas Eve. My grandmother, Hazel.”

  “She’s special to you?”

  “Very. I was three years old when my mother died. Hazel raised me.”

  “No father?”

  “He left my mom and me.”

  “What about siblings?”

  “I had two older brothers, but they both died before I was born. There’s just Hazel and me now. So, are your parents the kind who call to badger you to visit them during the holidays?”

  “My parents were killed when I was in medical school.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael.”

  “There’s no reason to be. Talking about it causes me no discomfort.”

  Briana wondered if Michael was kidding himself. She still felt a soreness of heart when she spoke of her mother’s death, and she couldn’t even remember her.

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” she asked.

  “I was an only child.”

  “How did your parents die?”

  “In the pursuit of their work. They were geophysicists, dedicated to the field of plate tectonics.”

  “That has to do with earthquakes, right?” Briana asked.

  “Yes. It’s a relatively new science that seeks to explain the changes taking place in the earth’s crust. My parents were sailing the Atlantic on a research vessel, laying cable in preparation for an experiment. A sudden swell washed them overboard. It was all over quickly. They died together, doing what they wanted to do.”

  He said that so matter-of-factly. Could it really be true that he felt not even a small pang at the memory of their passing? The possibility did not make Briana comfortable.

  “So tell me more about your grandmother,” Michael said.

  “My grandfather died when she was only twenty. She took over his auto-repair shop and ran it by herself, long before women ever thought of doing such things. She was teaching me how to rebuild carburetors while other grandmothers were teaching their granddaughters how to bake cookies.”

  “Sounds like she’s an original.”

  “Yes, a wonderful original. While I was growing up, Hazel used to take me to a retrospective theater in town that showed those old cowboy-and-Indian movies. She thought they were cleaner than the stuff in the regular theaters. But when the horses were made to fall down, she’d jump up and shout about how cruel it was and how many horses had been injured and killed while filming those scenes. The other patrons would start yelling at her to shut up and sit down.” Briana paused to laugh in remembrance. “I can’t tell you how embarrassed I used to be by Hazel’s outbursts.”

  “What would you do?”

  “Sink down in my chair and wish I were invisible. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how truly brave she had been. She stood up for what she believed was right. And she let nothing and no one shout her down.”

  “You talk about her as though she’s gone, Briana.”

  “That warmhearted, gutsy lady I knew is gone, in an important way.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Briana inhaled deeply before she went on to explain “I was twenty when she started to get forgetful. Then the confusion came. Finally, she was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.”

  Briana felt the familiar ache and helplessness clogging her throat. She brought the glass to her lips and finished her champagne.

  Michael’s voice was suddenly very gentle. “They didn’t know that estrogen could be used to prevent Alzheimer’s and minimize its severity at that time, did they?”

  Briana shook her head. “Hazel’s decline continued. Four years ago, she could no longer recognize me or take care of herself. I had to put her into a nursing home. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

  Briana stopped as tears threatened at the back of her eyes. She knew she mustn’t cry. Hazel had taught her to laugh, not cry. She would not think of her with tears.

  “This is the first Christmas Eve I’ve ever missed being with her,” Briana continued after a moment.

  “You visit her at the nursing home?” Michael asked.

  “I realize she doesn’t know me anymore. But I talk to her anyway, about all those other Christmases she made so special because she was there for me. She always used to say that the secret to happiness was so simple—just laugh often and love a lot. I remember that now for both of us.”

  The piano notes beat slowly, softly in the background. The muted light seemed to be darkening on the edges of the room. Briana closed her eyes and sent her love to her grandmother.

  “You make me wish I had had a Hazel while I was growing up,” Michael said after a quiet moment.

  She opened her eyes to see the sincerity resting within his. Both his comment and his look surprised Briana.

  “But you had your parents,” she heard herself say.

  “No. They had their careers.”

  “They didn’t raise you?”

  “Their interests were not on child rearing.”

  “Who was there for you?”

  “An assortment of paid caretakers—some actual carers, other merely takers. They came and went so fast I remember very few of their names or faces. Time for some more champagne.”

  She was surprised to see her glass was empty. As he refilled it, she thought about his words. She understood now that his parents hadn’t been there for him. And that was why their deaths hadn’t saddened him. The realization saddened her.

  “It doesn’t bother me, Briana. Don’t let it bother you.”

  She shook her head, wondering how he had known what she was thinking. “So, they taught you to read minds as part of the psychiatric curriculum, I suppose?”

  He leaned back in his chair and smiled.

  “Sadness clouds the crystal clarity of your eyes.”

  His voice was deep velvet, the heat in his smile melting. Briana’s heart sighed with a sharp, sweet longing. She told herself
she was just feeling the champagne. She picked up the fortune cookie at the edge of her plate, cracked it open and focused her attention on the message inside.

  Dreams can come true, it said.

  Unfortunately, she found it far from sobering.

  “What does it say?” Michael asked.

  “Nothing important. So why don’t you believe in psychoanalysis?” she asked, crumbling the piece of paper as she tried for a safer subject.

  “The patient has to do all the talking, the exposing, the trusting, the risking,” Michael said. “Which leaves the analyst with all the power. Any relationship between two people that is so severely one-sided is psychologically dangerous. Which is why so many patients end up angry at their analyst and sicker than when they started their so-called therapy.”

  “I’ve never experienced psychoanalysis personally, but I certainly can’t fault the logic of your argument. What type of therapy do you use?”

  “I don’t have patients, so I don’t use therapy. But if I did, it would be dream analysis. For it is only in dreams that the patient can learn to take control.”

  “You’re talking real dreams, not daydreams?”

  Michael came forward in his chair, leaning his elbows on his knees. His voice suddenly became deeper, the light in his eyes more intense.

  “Daydreams are just another aspect of night dreams, Briana. Both tap into the unexplored continent on the other side of consciousness. Wild. Beautiful. Full of unadulterated natural resources. The source of incredible power.”

  Briana wondered whether Michael had explored that continent, tapped into that incredible power. Was that why he seemed so different from other men?

  “The only dreams I’ve ever recalled were either frightening nightmares or nonsensical, silly things,” Briana admitted. “I’m having difficulty envisioning how such abstractions could become empowering.”

  “How do you think lumber, nails, concrete and plaster are transformed into a beautiful dwelling?”

  “Through the imagination and manipulation of the architect,” Briana answered, without hesitation.

  “And that is how dreams are transformed.”

  “Who is the architect?” she asked, intrigued by the analogy.

  “The architect of any dream is the dreamer herself.”

  “Then why do so many of my recalled dreams seem to be so negative?”

  “We bring to dreams our feelings about the waking world. Two-thirds of most people’s waking world is unpleasant So it’s no surprise that two-thirds of dreams are also unpleasant.”

  “Two-thirds?” Briana repeated. “That seems high.”

  “Personal logs have been kept by literally thousands of people representing a cross section of society.”

  “What kind of logs?”

  “Volunteers recorded their thoughts each hour and evaluated them as pleasant or unpleasant. Then they spent the night in a sleep lab, where they evaluated their dreams in a like manner. We found human beings have a curious propensity to dwell on the disagreeable without even being aware of it.”

  “Why?”

  “I believe it’s based on an inborn survival mechanism. Even a baby’s attention will be drawn to the most frightening thing in its environment We are wired to be on the lookout for whatever might come along to menace us.”

  Briana laughed. “Sounds like a healthy reaction to me.”

  “If you’re walking through a jungle where a tiger might be lurking. But constantly looking for threats in our more civilized world becomes an unhealthy habit. You stop noticing the beauty around you.”

  “Are you saying that even if these volunteers were looking out at a beautiful scene of nature, they were still trapped in an internal world of worry?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “I never realized we were a species that lived our worries instead of our lives.”

  “Well put. And what was also fascinating to discover was that when the individuals in the studies were foolish enough to watch the TV news or terrifying movies, their unpleasant days and dreams rose to nearly a hundred percent.”

  “Did they realize what effect these things were having on them?”

  “No. The pattern of worry and the tendency to let our minds dwell on the horrific are so ingrained that they go unnoticed and unanalyzed and, therefore, unchanged.”

  “So we don’t even know we’re doing it to ourselves.”

  “But the good news is that by learning to create pleasant dreams, we can also learn to create a more pleasant waking life.”

  “How do you create pleasant dreams?”

  “Same way you create everything else. With the right materials—desire, determination, and the power of imagination.”

  “Fay called you the Sandman, Michael. She said you design dreams for people.”

  “I can, when they are trying to achieve a particular goal in life. But for most people, their own dreams hold the secret to attaining whatever they could desire. You were dreaming when I found you tonight. It seemed to be a very pleasant dream. What do you remember of it?”

  “Nothing, really. It faded fast when you awakened me.”

  “But you said earlier that the reason you kissed me back was because you thought the kiss was happening in the dream.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Who were you kissing in that dream?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you wanted to kiss who it was?”

  “I feel sure I did But now it’s so fuzzy.”

  “That’s…regrettable.”

  Michael did look disappointed. Briana had the sudden suspicion that their entire conversation had been leading up to this.

  He’d said he didn’t believe in psychoanalysis. He hadn’t said he wasn’t going to suggest another way to treat her.

  “Michael, tell me. Were you hoping to diagnose the reason for my missing weeks by getting me to pay attention to my dream?”

  “It was worth a try. Dreams as compelling as the one you were having are often the secret to understanding what we’re missing in our waking lives.”

  “When I return to Washington, I’m sure I’ll recapture my missing memories.”

  “I doubt you’ll be able to reclaim them on your own. You’ve suffered an emotional trauma.”

  “You believe my emotions are preventing me from remembering?”

  “Briana, it’s the only explanation left after physical trauma has been ruled out. Something happened during the last three weeks that you don’t want to remember. And in every way it can, your mind is going to keep you from remembering it.”

  He was the expert on this stuff, of course. But it was still hard to accept. She didn’t feel as if anything terrible had happened to unhinge her. She didn’t feel unhinged at all.

  “The weeks are gone,” he said, “but the memories are still in your mind. Unfortunately, there is no question but that they’ll be painful ones.”

  The seriousness in his voice gave her a chill.

  “Hey, you’re looking at a gal who’s been body-waxed,” she countered with a nervous chuckle. “I can handle pain.”

  He smiled, but his focus was not deterred. “Briana, it’s extremely important to get the memories back and deal with them as soon as possible.”

  “What happens if I don’t?”

  “Suppressed memories are like rattlesnakes hiding under rocks. Sooner or later they’ll come slithering out and strike.”

  It was a disturbingly vivid image. Briana rose quickly to her feet. This was beginning to feel too much like therapy.

  “Thank you for the champagne and conversation, Michael. I’m sure you’re a great doctor. I just don’t want you to be mine.”

  He rose to stand before her. She was once again forcibly aware of the considerable height and breadth of him, and the sense of large-scale power leashed within his formidable frame. And the contrasting, heart-stopping gentleness in his eyes.

  He took her hand in his, surprising h
er completely when he brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Good night, Briana. I’m glad you don’t want me as your doctor. I sure as hell don’t want you as my patient.”

  And with that far-less-than-professional proclamation, Michael turned and strode from the room.

  Briana stood absolutely still for several seconds as her heart pounded and every single inch of her skin tingled.

  He did think her beautiful. She had felt it in the claiming of his hand, in his kiss across her fingers, in the sudden glow of his blue eyes before he turned away.

  It was the nicest Christmas present a man had ever given her. That it had come from Michael Sands made it perfect.

  Briana was still in a daze when she picked up her shoes and padded her way into the guest bedroom.

  She didn’t know whether it was the lateness of the hour or the two glasses of champagne catching up with her, but the moment her head hit the pillow, she went out.

  If she had any dreams, she was not aware of them.

  The next thing she knew, she was opening her eyes to morning pouring in from above. A skylight sat directly over the bed. At first she felt disoriented as she looked around at the strange bedroom. And then memories of the night before came flooding through her thoughts.

  Three weeks gone! It seemed unbelievable in the stark light of day. But her surroundings were evidence to the truth.

  She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was seven-thirty. She had gotten to bed very late. She was still very tired.

  But she knew she couldn’t afford to go back to sleep. She had a lot to do today. First, there was Lee to call. He must be getting very concerned, after no word from her for weeks. Unless the baby had come to claim his attention? She hoped so. She wouldn’t want to have worried him.

  She also hoped the nursing home would be taking calls today. It had been three weeks since she visited Hazel. The staff kept saying her grandmother wasn’t aware of anything. But Briana kept hoping there might still be a spark left.

  And, lastly, she had to say goodbye to Michael.

  Briana felt an ache of regret at that last thought. She swung her legs off the bed and into her borrowed slippers. She padded into the bathroom and turned on the shower full blast. As soon as it was warm, she threw off her nightclothes and stepped beneath the strong spray.