Borrowed Dreams (Debbie Macomber Classics) by Debbie Macomber Page B
Authors: Debbie Macomber
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marriage. I want this time to be right—all the way.”
Carly understood what Diana was saying. She hadn’t been present at either of her friend’s other weddings. “I don’t care what it takes,” Carly replied staunchly, “wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”
“Great. I’ll let you know the details later. We’re seeing a minister tonight. Imagine me in a church!” She laughed. “That should set a few tongues wagging!”
“I’ll phone sometime next week,” Carly promised, as she replaced the receiver. A smile softened the tense line of her mouth. Diana a mother! The mental picture of her friend burping a baby was comical enough to lighten anyone’s mood. But she’d be a good one. Of that Carly had no doubt.
* * *
The days flew past. Carly dreaded seeing Brand, but she didn’t doubt that he’d be true to his word. The next time they were together could prove to be uncomfortable for them both. He wouldn’t avoid a confrontation—that she recognized.
Friday afternoon, George casually mentioned that Brand was on a flying assignment and wouldn’t be back until the following day. Carly breathed easier at the short reprieve. At least she would have more time to think about what she wanted to say to him. One thing was sure: It would be better if they didn’t continue to see each other. Even for
non-
dates. She didn’t know what unseen forces were at work within her, but Brandon St. Clair was far too appealing for her to remain emotionally untouched. He needed a woman. But not her. She’d make that clear when she saw him. Once it was stated, she could go back to living a normal, peaceful life. She might even investigate learning to knit. By the time Diana was pregnant, Carly might have the skill down pat enough to knit booties, or whatever it was babies wore.
* * *
Carly was sorting through her mail late Friday afternoon, still thinking about motherhood and how pleased she was for her friend. As she shuffled through several pieces of junk mail, a handwritten envelope took her by surprise. Glancing at the return address, she noted it was from the Purdy Women’s Correctional Facility. The name on the left-hand corner was Jutta Hoverson.
Chapter Four
Memories of the proud child in the oil painting ruled Carly’s thoughts as she clutched Jutta Hoverson’s reply. Disappointment washed through her. The letter had been direct and curt. Jutta hadn’t bothered with a salutation. I TOLD THE PEOPLE TO SAY THAT THE PAINTING IS NOT FOR SALE. I DON’T WANT TO SELL THIS ONE. Her large signature was scrawled across the bottom of the lined paper. And then, as if in afterthought, Jutta had added: I HAVE OTHER PAINTINGS. She’d provided no information. No prices. Not that it mattered; Carly wanted only the one.
She must have read Jutta’s brusque words a dozen times, seeking a hidden meaning, desperately wanting to find some clue that the woman was willing to sell the self-portrait. There hadn’t been many things in her life that Carly had wanted more than that painting. A week after the art show, the small child remained vivid in her memory; she could still envision the proud tilt of her chin and the hidden tear in the corner of one eye. So many times in her life Carly had joked about her past. If someone had questioned her about being raised as she was, Carly’s flippant reply was always the same: Superman had foster parents. Even in the bleakest moments of her life, Carly had forced herself to be optimistic. Her childhood had made her emotionally strong and fortified her fearless personality. But tonight, with the letter from Jutta in her hand, Carly didn’t feel like playing a Pollyanna game. She felt like eating twenty-seven chocolates, soaking in the bathtub, reading a book, and downing an aspirin … all at the same time. Diana would get a kick out of that.
As it turned out, Carly didn’t do any of those things. She went to a theater and paid to see a movie she couldn’t remember.
Carly understood what Diana was saying. She hadn’t been present at either of her friend’s other weddings. “I don’t care what it takes,” Carly replied staunchly, “wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”
“Great. I’ll let you know the details later. We’re seeing a minister tonight. Imagine me in a church!” She laughed. “That should set a few tongues wagging!”
“I’ll phone sometime next week,” Carly promised, as she replaced the receiver. A smile softened the tense line of her mouth. Diana a mother! The mental picture of her friend burping a baby was comical enough to lighten anyone’s mood. But she’d be a good one. Of that Carly had no doubt.
* * *
The days flew past. Carly dreaded seeing Brand, but she didn’t doubt that he’d be true to his word. The next time they were together could prove to be uncomfortable for them both. He wouldn’t avoid a confrontation—that she recognized.
Friday afternoon, George casually mentioned that Brand was on a flying assignment and wouldn’t be back until the following day. Carly breathed easier at the short reprieve. At least she would have more time to think about what she wanted to say to him. One thing was sure: It would be better if they didn’t continue to see each other. Even for
non-
dates. She didn’t know what unseen forces were at work within her, but Brandon St. Clair was far too appealing for her to remain emotionally untouched. He needed a woman. But not her. She’d make that clear when she saw him. Once it was stated, she could go back to living a normal, peaceful life. She might even investigate learning to knit. By the time Diana was pregnant, Carly might have the skill down pat enough to knit booties, or whatever it was babies wore.
* * *
Carly was sorting through her mail late Friday afternoon, still thinking about motherhood and how pleased she was for her friend. As she shuffled through several pieces of junk mail, a handwritten envelope took her by surprise. Glancing at the return address, she noted it was from the Purdy Women’s Correctional Facility. The name on the left-hand corner was Jutta Hoverson.
Chapter Four
Memories of the proud child in the oil painting ruled Carly’s thoughts as she clutched Jutta Hoverson’s reply. Disappointment washed through her. The letter had been direct and curt. Jutta hadn’t bothered with a salutation. I TOLD THE PEOPLE TO SAY THAT THE PAINTING IS NOT FOR SALE. I DON’T WANT TO SELL THIS ONE. Her large signature was scrawled across the bottom of the lined paper. And then, as if in afterthought, Jutta had added: I HAVE OTHER PAINTINGS. She’d provided no information. No prices. Not that it mattered; Carly wanted only the one.
She must have read Jutta’s brusque words a dozen times, seeking a hidden meaning, desperately wanting to find some clue that the woman was willing to sell the self-portrait. There hadn’t been many things in her life that Carly had wanted more than that painting. A week after the art show, the small child remained vivid in her memory; she could still envision the proud tilt of her chin and the hidden tear in the corner of one eye. So many times in her life Carly had joked about her past. If someone had questioned her about being raised as she was, Carly’s flippant reply was always the same: Superman had foster parents. Even in the bleakest moments of her life, Carly had forced herself to be optimistic. Her childhood had made her emotionally strong and fortified her fearless personality. But tonight, with the letter from Jutta in her hand, Carly didn’t feel like playing a Pollyanna game. She felt like eating twenty-seven chocolates, soaking in the bathtub, reading a book, and downing an aspirin … all at the same time. Diana would get a kick out of that.
As it turned out, Carly didn’t do any of those things. She went to a theater and paid to see a movie she couldn’t remember.
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