Dream Trilogy Read Free Page A

glossy white and peacock blue marble tiles of the foyer, sparkle elegance onto the already elegant guests who came to the wonderful parties the Templetons were famous for?
    The house always rang with laughter and music at Templeton parties, she remembered, whether guests were seated formally at the long, graceful table in the dining room under twin chandeliers or wandered freely through the rooms, chatting as they sipped champagne or cozied up on a love seat.
    She would give wonderful parties one day, and she hoped she would be as warm and entertaining a hostess as Mrs. T. Did such things comes through the blood, she wondered, or could they be learned? If they could be learned, then she would learn.
    Her mother had taught her how to arrange flowers just so—the way those gleaming white roses in a tall crystal vase graced the Pembroke table in the foyer. See the way they reflect in the mirror, she thought. Tall and pure with their fanning greens.
    Those were the touches that made home, she reminded herself. Flowers and pretty bowls, candlesticks and lovingly polished wood. The smells, the way the light slanted through the windows, the sounds of grand old clocks ticking. It was all that she would remember when she was far away. Not just the archways that allowed one room to flow into another, or the complex and beautiful patterns of mosaics around the tall, wide front door. She would remember the smell of the library after Mr. T. had lighted one of his cigars and the way the room echoed when he laughed.
    She’d remember the winter evenings when she and Laura and Kate would curl up on the rug in front of the parlor fire—the rich gleam of the lapis mantel, the feel of the heat on her cheeks, the way Kate would giggle over a game when she was winning.
    She’d imagine the fragrances of Mrs. T.’s sitting room. Powders and perfumes and candlewax. And the way Mrs. T. smiled when Margo came in to talk with her. She could always talk to Mrs. T.
    Her own room. How the Templetons had let her pick out the new wallpaper when she turned sixteen. And even her mother had smiled and approved of her choice of pale green background splashed with showy white lilies. The hours she’d spent in that room alone, or with Laura and Kate. Talking, talking, talking. Planning. Dreaming.
    Am I doing the right thing? she wondered with a quick jolt of panic. How could she bear to leave everything, everyone she knew and loved?
    “Posing again, duchess?” Josh stepped into the foyer. He wasn’t dressed for the wedding yet, but wore chinos and a cotton shirt. At twenty-two he’d filled out nicely, and his years at Harvard sat comfortably on him.
    Margo thought disgustedly that he would look elegant in cardboard. He was still the golden boy, though his face had lost its innocent boyishness. It was shrewd, with his father’s gray eyes and his mother’s lovely mouth. His hair had darkened to bronze, and a late growth spurt in his last year of high school had shot him to six two.
    She wished he was ugly. She wished looks didn’t matter. She wished he would look at her, just once, as if she wasn’t simply a nuisance.
    “I was thinking,” she told him, but stayed where she was, on the stairs, with one hand resting casually on the banister. She knew she’d never looked better. Her bridesmaid’s dress was the most glorious creation she’d ever owned. That was why she’d dressed early, to enjoy it as long as she possibly could.
    Laura had chosen the summer blue to match Margo’s eyes, and the silk was as fragile and fluid as water. The long sweepof it highlighted her frankly lush figure, and the long, sheer sleeves showcased her creamy ivory skin.
    “Rushing things, aren’t you?” He spoke quickly because whenever he looked at her the punch of lust was like a flaming fist in his gut. It had to be only lust because lust was easy. “The wedding’s not for two hours.”
    “It’ll take nearly that long to put Laura together. I left her with Mrs.