Dreams for Stones Read Free Page A

passed, and she was
still here.
    She’d stayed, not only because Mrs. C was a
wonderful cook and the house only a short walk to Calico Cat Books
where she worked, but because she’d grown to love the Costellos who
treated her like a favorite granddaughter.
    She’d even chosen to remain there after her
engagement to Greg, despite his efforts to get her to move in with
him. But really, it made no sense to add a forty-minute commute to
each end of her day when Greg spent most of his nights at the
hospital.
    And did it make any more sense for her to
leave a job and a city she loved for the short time Greg would be
in San Francisco?
    Of course, staying in Denver would mean
putting off the wedding, and Greg probably wouldn’t be happy about
that.
    Still. . .
    She closed her eyes, concentrating. I have
an idea. It’s not ideal, but I know we can make it work. Why don’t
I stay in Denver? You’ll be so busy at the hospital, you won’t have
all that much free time anyway, so really, it makes sense. And
whenever you get a break, I’ll come for a visit.
    Okay, not bad. It could use sharpening, but
those were the main points.
    She had a sudden vivid picture of Greg
running his hands through his hair the way he did when he was tired
or nervous. “But if you really loved me, you’d come with me.”
    Her eyes flew open. The words rang so clear,
she almost expected Greg to be standing in front of her.
    But was that really what he’d say?
    Probably.
    We’ll stay close. By writing and talking,
she told the phantom Greg. Two years is nothing.
    Good. His own argument used against him.
Before you know it, you’ll be finished and moving back to Denver.
The time will fly.
    “I need to think about all this, Kitten. I
didn’t expect it.”
    She hated being called Kitten, but it wasn’t
easy to point that out to someone who wasn’t there.

Chapter Three

     
    Alan stood and stretched. Time for his first one-on-one,
get-acquainted meeting with his new department head. Not something
he was looking forward to after Hilstrom’s unexpected visit to his
class.
    He slipped his tie over his head, pulled the
knot snug, then plucked his jacket from the back of the door and
shrugged it on.
    Hilstrom’s assistant glanced up when he
walked in. “Professor Francini. My, you’re prompt. I’ll tell her
you’re here.”
    As she made the call, Alan shifted until the
toe-dancer in the picture hanging over the assistant’s head seemed
to be rising out of her tangle of gray curls. It was an amusing and
curiously satisfying image; one that would have appealed to
Meg.
    Meg. . .
    “. . . right in,” the assistant said. “She’s
ready for you.”
    It happened that way sometimes. A sudden
vision of Meg, bending over a wildflower maybe, or taking off her
hat to let the breeze blow her hair, and the real world would fade.
It was a relief when the dream released him before anybody noticed
his distraction.
    He stepped through the doorway into the
inner office and felt momentarily disoriented. The old chairman’s
filing system had consisted of proliferating stacks of paper
covering every available surface, and his only concession to the
gods of decoration and order had been floor to ceiling bookshelves.
Now all that was gone. A desk and computer work-station were tucked
into a corner like an afterthought, while most of the space was
given over to a chair, sofa, and coffee table ensemble.
    Hilstrom greeted him, gesturing toward the
sofa. He sat and glanced around, his gaze coming to rest on two
framed prints on the opposite wall—a Picasso, its dark, slashing
lines contrasting with a Monet, indefinite as fog. The
juxtaposition hinted Hilstrom either had hidden depths—something
he’d begun to doubt—or she was clueless.
    He looked away from the pictures, trying to
regain his focus as she picked up a folder from the desk and came
to sit in the chair across from him. “I thought we might start with
you telling me what you consider to be your major