The Complete Where Dreams - Volume 2 of 2

Chapter 1-4

Perrin wasn’t really listening. Wasn’t even worrying about the gauntlet she had cast at his feet of a “demonstration” whatever she’d meant by that. She was too tired to make much sense of what Bill Cullen was actually saying.

All she knew was that the page on the sketchpad she’d dropped before her on the cutting table was still blank. A square white hole in a sea of green cutting mat. She started looking around the table for a Yellow Submarine and then stopped herself. Not tired enough to hallucinate…yet.

She didn’t care that he kept saying she wasn’t qualified, that kind of statement only ever made her that much more determined. Too many years of proving her parents wrong about her, that lesson was deeply ingrained. Up until now repeating himself appeared to make him happy so she’d let him do it. But she needed more.

“You still have told me nothing about your opera. An opera must have a setting, a place, a feel, a story, or it would just be noise. Clothes are the same. Without the story, they are just coverings.”

“Yes, Bill. Do get on with it.”

Perrin liked Wilson Jervis. He was a generation, or even two older than she was, but he had an easy-going manner that was totally belied by his well-known success. She’d never been inside the Opera House, except once to hear an Indigo Girls concert during the Bumbershoot music festival. But Perrin had been commissioned to make enough opening-night-of-the-opera gowns to know of him and what he’d achieved.

And wasn’t part of Jo’s new job being on the opera board? Or maybe it was Cassidy. One of her two best friends… Or maybe both? Again, brain cells too tired to remember or care.

Bill Cullen she hadn’t quite figured out yet. He studied her through narrowed eyes, wary and suspicious. He was like Jeffrey, a bulldog she once knew—all rough and grumpy. She wondered if he also had a mushy heart beneath that bristly exterior, or if he was irascible to the core.

He was certainly far prettier than Jeffrey. Bill Cullen stood six feet tall. He wasn’t all shoulders like her friend Russell, not that there was any fat on him. He was simply built of a squarer stock. His dark brown hair and disdainful expression, combined with his strong features, lent itself to two different avenues of expression.

She flipped open her pencil set and selected a simple gray to start with.

He began describing a dark adventure. Part Jules Verne and part Hobbit, evil staff of power. He talked about it being quite different in character from Wagner’s “Ring Cycle” which meant nothing to her. Somewhere in his explanation he mentioned a tragic love story. It was his voice that caught her attention. It was a good voice, expressive, clearly practiced at storytelling. She let herself simply enjoy the tones and emotions he wove.

Perrin sketched two side-by-side figures. One stern and foreboding, one the romantic hero. She began adding color and lines to both, letting his deep voice and evocative words wrap about her as she sketched. To the left, grays, browns, boots, and towering shoulders…high collar. To the right, purples and blues of royalty and inner majesty, thin lines of white to promise hope. The valiant savior riding to the rescue. But the trim was in darkest red to suggest that heart’s blood would be shed despite the nobility. The white hope quite in vain.

Her hand ached by the time she pulled back enough to again be aware of her surroundings. Dozens of colored pencils were scattered about the table. The room was silent. The cramp in her hand told her she’d drawn for twenty, perhaps thirty minutes without interruption.

As she flexed her fingers, she inspected the drawing before her. The same man, twice presented. The Dark Overlord, and the forsaken nobleman doomed before his time to a tragic end. They would work well at a distance. The overemphasized shapes of one and the powerful colors of the other. She would never make street clothes like these, far too depressing. She wanted clothes that made people smile, or want to get married in. But designing to embody an individual’s power itself was intriguing.

She practically yelped when she became aware of the two large men flanking her. She’d forgotten they were there.

Bill Cullen was leaning in, studying her drawing intently.

Wilson Jervis smiled at her broadly after little more than a glance.

“Ooo, she’s seen right through you, Bill Cullen. You absolutely nailed him, Ms. Williams. We’ll have a contract for your review by tomorrow.”

Perrin turned back to see Mr. Cullen’s reaction. He was no longer studying the sketch. He was studying her, from mere inches away. She could practically see the thoughts churning in his head. His dark brown eyes, the way two vertical lines appeared on his brow when he was concentrating, the unexpected laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, as if he did that a lot… She knew she would be able to draw his face from memory.

“But can you execute your vision?” His voice was still rough.

She waved a hand to indicate the room they were standing in.

“Actually, Bill,” Jervis stopped the man. “Her contract is to design. Any costumes she actually constructs earns a bonus but is not required by the contract.”

Cullen’s expression slowly shifted to one of chagrin though he didn’t look away.

“Tomorrow. Nine a.m. At the—”

“Tomorrow at nine a.m.,” Perrin interrupted him. “I will still be asleep. I’ve been awake for four days for one of my best friend’s weddings. I might be up by noon. Maybe.” She knew that she couldn’t let him have control. He struck her as the sort of man that once he had control, he’d never let it go.

“Would tomorrow at two in the afternoon be satisfactory?” His growl didn’t sound all that different from Jeffrey the bulldog’s. She couldn’t decide whether to be deeply peeved at his tone, or amused at how cute he was at being all male and growly.

“That… ” she almost said it was fine, but changed her course just to push him and see what he would do. “Would be far more likely than nine a.m. Do people get up at nine a.m.?”

“I have kids. My day starts at six.” He nodded curtly and the two men showed themselves out.

Perrin felt a surge of disappointment that she didn’t understand. She hung onto the edge of the cutting table, weaving with exhaustion while she tried to figure out the source of it.

Kids. Bill Cullen had children and was married. She hadn’t noticed a ring, but she was so tired she could easily have missed it. Some men didn’t wear them, but she didn’t like men who did that.

Perrin dreamed of a man who was so glad to be with her that he’d want to wear a ring so that he could brag about her. He would need to feel the connection between them even when they were apart.

And she wanted the same for herself.

She’d seen her two best friends find it. But she also knew that such dreams would never be reality for Perrin Williams. With her past, why was she the one who ended up being the romantic among her group of friends?

That still didn’t explain the disappointment. Perrin had long ago learned to chase down her emotions until she understood them. When she was younger, her acute reactions and reckless actions had been sources of grave personal danger. The ride down that path had only been averted by meeting Cassidy Knowles and Jo Thompson on the first day of college, and a million very careful steps since.

That was it. She’d taken a step without being aware of it; a step she took far too often with men, her great weakness. Because while she knew it would never come, she still wanted the dream of true love. That feeling of let-down could be traced back to the fact that Perrin had liked Bill Cullen despite his irascible self.

But he was married. He’d also scoffed at the only thing she did well, had ever done well, which didn’t earn him a lot of points. She gazed back down at her drawings. The dark and the tragic stood side by side. Wilson Jervis had been right. She had captured Bill Cullen.

Without being aware of it, she’d drawn both men with his features and build. And the two images… The Dark Overlord who had so carefully inspected each of her designs, appreciated them, yet deemed her unworthy. Him she’d been far too aware of from the moment he entered her shop. And the Tragic Prince who only showed through when Bill Cullen wasn’t so busy being himself.

She took up the lead pencil and clarified a few of the details on his face. The way his hair shaded his eyes: not with its length, but with its rich darkness. The least bit of curl that she hoped his wife appreciated toying with.

Then she began sketching a third image. The face was less clear…a woman’s face? A woman’s body. Yes. Tall. In her mind’s eye, the clothing became clearer.