Gregory looked out of the airplane window at the hypnotic blur of tarmac. There was a slight bump and then they were smoothly airborne. The businessman beside him settled heavily into his seat and took a Wall Street Journal from his briefcase. It was early morning, yet Gregory saw that smog had already begun to obscure the San Fernando Valley.
He’d only slept a few hours but felt well rested. He’d spent the afternoon and part of the night cleaning up his study. He’d decided that the destruction there had been a formal declaration of war—laid down in terms he couldn’t possibly mistake. Whoever or whatever his enemy was, he or she had decided to leave the plane of dreams and victimize him on a more material level. Yes, he told himself, it was an irrational conclusion, but one not incompatible with the other irrational things that had happened to him. Besides, what other explanation was there?
He hadn’t mentioned to Sharon the message he had found in the typewriter. The domestic bliss of their early-morning reunion had already eroded by the time they parted. Although she hadn’t said anything more about it, he knew she disapproved of his trip. “More research on that stupid book,” he imagined her thinking. He’d discerned it from the increasing chill in her attitude.
To be sure, he had also had arguments with Brooke in his last life, but they had been different. Stormy while they lasted, but once they were over, there was a purity to them, a “clean” feeling, a clearing of the air. He looked out of the window. They were over clouds—turbulent, towering sculptures of cotton.
He remembered the first and the worst argument he had had with Brooke.
It had been quite a tempest, blown out of proportion by aggravated emotions. The beginning had been simple enough. He had called her and her mother answered the telephone. She told him Brooke wasn’t in. Later, he had discovered that Brooke had been home at the time.
He brought the subject up with her. They were sitting in the living room of his house.
“You’ve got to move away from your mother and find a place of your own to live,” he said moodily. It had been on his mind for a number of days.
Brooke looked scandalized. “I can’t just walk out on her like that. It would hurt her terribly.”
“What happens when we get married?” he asked. “Is she going to come live with us?” It was a subject they had discussed before. They hadn’t formalized it by setting a date, but they both took it for granted they would get married.
“Of course not,” she said irritably, responding to his tone. “That’s entirely different. It’s not the same as walking out on her now, for no particular reason.”
“Brooke, she’s coming between us. I can feel it,” he said. “I’m not going to stand for it. We agreed not to let anything like that happen.”
She winced, pained by his words. It was a subject she preferred to avoid. “I don’t think that’s really true, Michael. Just because of that one telephone call.”
He shook his head. “No, not just because of the phone call, Brooke. She doesn’t think I’m good enough for you. I admit she has a point—but it isn’t just that she dislikes me—she positively hates me.”
Brooke gasped, her mouth wide open in shock. “That’s unfair! She’s never said anything like that to you! Nothing to give you that impression!”
“She hasn’t needed to. I can feel it every time I see her. I want you to move away from her.”
“You want me to move away from her,” she repeated slowly. Her neck was reddening. “Since when did you begin to stage-manage my life?”
“Since I’ve loved you,” he said. “Since you’re too dumb to see what’s best for you, for both of us. I’m telling you, she’ll destroy what we have. I know it.”
“So now I’m too dumb!” She rose to her feet and stood over him, her hands on her hips, eyes flashing warnings, chin jutting out defiantly. “I owe my mother a lot. Everything I have.”
“You owe her your career, which you don’t particularly want anyway. The most important thing you have is me. And she had nothing to do with that.”
“God! The conceit of you!”
He slapped his leg in exasperation. “Brooke, you’re twisting my words. You know what I mean. All I’m saying is that I want you to move out. If you really want what’s best for us, you’ll do as I say.”
“And if I don’t?”
He didn’t want to answer. It had gone too far already. Her cheeks were flushed, her mouth trembled. She was beautiful. He wanted to kiss her and forget he had ever brought it up. But his pride would not allow it.
“Then I’ll doubt your intentions as far as we’re concerned,” he said stiffly.
She threw him a look that would have shriveled a lesser man. “You jerk!” It was doubly effective because she rarely swore.
She grabbed her coat and purse and threw them violently over her shoulder. “Don’t bother seeing me to the door,” she said icily, and stalked out of the room.
They didn’t speak for two days. Michael felt dejected, physically ill, sad, right, wrong, confused and generally mad at himself. And then, on the morning of the third day, the telephone rang.
He ran to pick it up, knowing it was she.
“Brooke?”
“Michael, I…”
“Brooke, I’m sorry,” he interrupted. “I really am. I had no right to talk to you that way, to dictate to you like that. No right at all. I don’t own you, God knows. In fact, I love your independence. I’d kill myself before destroying it. I…”
She broke in. “Michael.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve thought it over. You were right. I just hated being forced to face it. I moved out yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” he said stupidly.
“Yes. I’ve got an apartment near your house.”
“I’m glad, darling. But I was still wrong to speak to you that way. Forgive me?”
“Oh, Michael, of course. Do you forgive me for the things I said? I didn’t mean them.”
“Hell, forgive you? I love you.”
She sounded doubtful, girlish. “Are you sure?”
“How do you want me to prove it?”
He heard the smile in her voice and knew it was all fine. “Send me some roses,” she said. “A dozen red roses. No, three red roses, three white ones, three pink ones, and three yellow ones. Then I’ll know you forgive me.”
“Where are you living?”
She gave him the address and told him she’d be at the studio until dinner time.
“Ground floor. The key is under the doormat.”
“I’ll see you when you get back,” he said. “I love you, Brooke. I can’t tell you how miserable I’ve been these last two days.”
“Me too,” she said.
After she hung up, he made a couple of telephone calls and then left the house.
When she arrived at her new place that night, he met her at the door.
“Close your eyes,” he said, blocking her path.
She closed her eyes and he led her into the center of the room.
“Okay, open your eyes now.”
She opened her eyes and gasped. One hand went to her mouth. Her eyes were wide as they roamed the room.
There were roses on the tables, roses on the dressers, roses on the chairs, roses on the mantelpiece and on the window sills, roses on the shelves and roses on the floor. There were red roses, white ones, pink, and yellow roses. They covered everything. Dozens and dozens of perfect roses.
She began to cry and laugh at once. “Oh, Michael! Michael.”
He took her arm again and led her towards the bedroom. It had taken him painstaking hours to prepare everything.
“There’s one more thing,” he said, grinning.
She stood transfixed at the bedroom door, not believing what she saw. Red and white petals, pink and yellow petals, laid out like a blanket. The bed was completely covered with rose petals.