Better Than Your Dreams Read online

  BETTER THAN YOUR DREAMS

  DEE ERNST

  235 Alexander Street

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is very flattering to the author, but purely coincidental and not intentional.

  Copyright © 2014 Dee Ernst

  All rights reserved

  Published by 235 Alexander Street

  ISBN-13: 9780985985455

  OTHER BOOKS BY DEE ERNST

  A Slight Change of Plan

  A Different Kind of Forever

  Better Off Without Him

  You can visit Dee at DeeErnst.com

  or you can reach her at [email protected]

  Better Than Your Dreams is dedicated to my readers, particularly those who contributed to the creation of Coco Zipperelli, a character in this book.

  I ran a contest, asking for readers’ suggestions in three areas: character name, physical appearance, and personality quirk. The top five suggestions in each category were put to a vote, and the winners were:

  Wanda Sue Jochens

  and

  members of the Always Re(a)d Book Club, Wheaton, Illinois

  Linda Bull, Grace Chen, Carol Johnson, Dana Lingle,

  Kathleen Manning, Virginia Reynolds, Victoria Ryan,

  Debra Shipway, and Dawn Wolter.

  And many thanks as well to those participants who made

  it into the Top 5

  (in no particular order)

  Michele Hopler, Robert Zitzman, Jo Elle Rybakowski, Chase Ashley,

  Kay Rivera, Susan Loving, and Sandy Giden

  I have the best readers in the world!

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Author’s Note

  CHAPTER ONE

  IN THE EIGHTEEN MONTHS THAT I had been flying back and forth between LAX in California and EWR in Newark, New Jersey, I had never quite gotten the hang of it. I didn’t mind the flight out to LA. For some reason it seemed shorter and easier. But coming back—very tough. Maybe it was because I always took the first flight out at six in the morning. Which meant being at the airport by five in the morning, which meant I had to leave my house at—never mind. It’s too depressing to think about.

  Then there was the time difference. I was actually flying forward in time. Now, maybe a sci-fi aficionado might find that exciting, but to me it just meant I’d lost a few hours of my life that I would never get back. I’d leave before breakfast and land midafternoon. Where did lunch go?

  The flight itself was long. Very long. Five and a half hours. After being in a plane for that amount of time, I wanted to land in an exotic locale where people spoke a different language—or at least had a cool accent—and there were lots of fruity drinks with umbrellas sitting around. It was a bummer getting off the plane and everyone spoke English, and the most exotic thing I could look forward to was Stewart’s root beer.

  But every time I got off the plane at Newark airport, at the end of the seemingly endless walk from the gate, was Ben Cutler.

  I had known Ben for a very long time. He had been my plumber. Four years ago he became something more. Much more. And as long as I’d known him, my first glimpse of him always took my breath away. He was by far the handsomest man I’d ever known. Usually that was all people saw, which was a shame, because he was so much more than that. He was kind. He thought about things beyond his own small circle. He cared about other people, and what they thought or felt. I had found that, by and large, kindness had always been very underrated.

  He was also funny and charming and smart as a whip. He loved me. I loved him. And I always ran those last few yards through security just so he could sweep me up into his arms.

  This last flight, in the cold and gray of November, was no different. I threw my arms around his neck, and he lifted me off my feet in a hug, then kissed me long and hard before setting me back down.

  “Welcome home, Mona. And this is it, right? No more commuting?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. I’m done. I’m home. And I’m all yours.”

  He grinned as he picked up my tote bag and carry-on. “Good. Let’s get you out of here.”

  We walked down toward the luggage carousel. When I had flown home in the past, I’d just carried on some makeup and my laptop and wore what I’d left in my Westfield, New Jersey, closets. But this trip, this last trip, required the purchase of two more pieces of luggage to accommodate my expanded wardrobe. The new pieces were initialed MQ, for Mona Quincy. The older suitcases still bore MB, even though I had legally ceased being Mona Berman four years ago.

  “I hope you brought your truck,” I said to Ben. “I bought a few things in California.”

  He laughed. “Of course you did. I have the pickup. Or should we get a U-Haul?”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny. Well, maybe.”

  We stood and waited. I leaned against him, partly because I loved the feel of him—lean and strong—and partly because I liked letting all the other women waiting for their luggage know that this particular man was all mine.

  He put his arm around me and kissed my hair. “So, how did you leave things?”

  I had published the book four years earlier, after my then-husband Brian left me. For another woman, of course—younger, blond, and French. I was a writer of historical romance, and a very successful one at that, but I found my happily-ever-after switch had frozen in the off position. I ended up writing a very non-historical, nonromantic book about a woman of a certain age—like me—who got dumped by her lousy husband—also like me—but found herself much happier. It was called Better Off Without Him, and it not only became a best seller, it also won a few awards and got optioned by a Very Famous Hollywood Personage for film development.

  It took a while for the whole option thing to go anywhere. After the papers were signed and the first check arrived, my assistant, Anthony, and I churned out a terrific screenplay in record time and sent it off to the Very Famous Hollywood Personage. Who read it, loved it, and promptly went on to another project. So I returned to writing, concentrated on raising my three daughters, and had generally gone about my life pretty much as I had done before.

  Then, eighteen months ago, I got the Call. From Hollywood. Was I interested in working on a new screenplay for Better Off Without Him? Would I be willing to move out there for at least six months and work with “the team”?

  Well…yeah.

  The Very Famous Hollywood Personage had found a producer, director, and two experienced screenwriters who wanted me to work with them. My original screenplay had been looked over several times, and was now found wanting, but they wanted me “on board.” Was I willing to get “on board?”

  Yes!

  That’s how I ended up in the land of the Beautiful People.

  I rubbed my head against his shoulder. “I won’t know a thing for at least a few months. There’s this strange phenomenon out there called development hell where all screenplays seem to land. If it can work its way up to the top of the pile, then maybe it will be a movie after all.”

  He laughed. “That’s a very odd business.”

  “Oh, Ben, you have no idea.”

  My suitcases began to appear. Ben, because he was such a sweet man, did not even flinch as he hauled them all off the belt. He just rounded up a skycap, who neatly a
rranged all the pieces on a long cart and followed us out into the parking lot, where the luggage was then thrown into the back of the truck, and money discreetly changed hands.

  The last time I’d been home was three months ago, when I’d flown in for the twenty-fourth birthday party of Ben’s son David. I’d managed to drag two of my three daughters with me, and we all had a great time. Ben flew out to LA three weeks ago, and we spent the weekend skinny-dipping in full view of the entire downtown Los Angeles area. We hadn’t been together since then.

  “So,” I said as we pulled onto the parkway, “should we stop somewhere for a bite, or just go right to my house and get naked?”

  He laughed. His teeth were slightly crooked. Thank God, because I couldn’t stand it if he were perfect. As it was, the dark hair, amazing blue eyes, and dimples were almost too much to take. Almost.

  “I think,” Ben said, “there are some other people who are also eager to welcome you home.”

  Probably true. Not my children, who were scattered up and down the East Coast in various colleges. Although any of them were close enough to come home at any time, even just for a day in the middle of the week to see their beloved mother, all three of them had declined my invitation, saying they’d see me on the weekend. Fair enough. They were in college. They were all grown-up, with lives and things.

  But still.

  “Patricia?” I asked.

  Ben nodded. “And Anthony. He really missed you. And there’s something up with Lily.”

  That was not good.

  Lily Martel was seventy-eight, my father’s only sister and my beloved aunt and godmother. She had been living with me since she sold her Park Slope co-op—luckily before a planned alien invasion that would have caused the bottom to drop out of the Brooklyn real estate market. Aliens never actually invaded, by the way, and she ended up very rich. She had, coincidentally, arrived on my doorstep the same day that Brian announced that he was leaving me. Lily’s arrival seemed to be a sign, and she never quite left. Her position in my home was vague and ever changing. The past several months she’d kept things running smoothly during my long stretches in California, keeping the house for when the girls came home, and making sure the dog and various cats were well cared for. It was a situation that worked well for all of us. But Lily had also managed to involve herself in a few of the more, shall we say, questionable political organizations around the town of Westfield. One, I knew, supported the idea of no central government at all, but rather a series of city-states. Another had something to do with redistribution of corporate wealth. I was always afraid she’d end up in jail, or at least on a watch list somewhere.

  I sighed. “Hmm. Well, okay. We’ll say hello to everyone, hear what Lily has to say, then get naked?”

  He glanced over at me. “Why, Ms. Quincy, are you suggesting that perhaps you missed me?”

  “Ben, for the past year and a half, we’ve spent a small fortune flying back and forth to see each other. Before I left, we were together every other night.”

  “I knew it.” He sighed, shaking his head. “You only love me for my body.”

  I laughed. “Yes. And your heart. And your soul.”

  “Ah, now, that’s more like it. So…I was thinking…”

  “Oh, Ben, you know that only gets you into trouble.”

  “Yeah. I do know. But I think you and I should, maybe, you know, talk about getting married.”

  Something hit me in the stomach, and I couldn’t breathe for a second. “To each other?” I finally asked.

  He swore softly. He usually didn’t do that. “I’m sorry. I should have waited. I should have gotten down on one knee or something.”

  “No. I mean, don’t be sorry. It’s just…”

  Just what?

  “Ben, you and I have been getting along just fine.”

  “I know. But it’s time, don’t you think? We should take the next step. Listen, this really wasn’t fair to you. I know how you are after these flights. Just think about it, okay? We’ll talk later.” He shot me a look, the kind of look that made my knees turn to water. “Maybe after we get naked?”

  I nodded. That immediately put me back in my happy place.

  But married? Not so much. I had been married. For twenty years. And I never, ever wanted to repeat that experience again.

  “Honey, I’m home!” I called.

  Silence. Did I really think my daughters would rally and surprise me with balloons, confetti, and a small brass band?

  Well, yes.

  I walked from the kitchen through the first floor. Nothing had changed since I’d been here last. The foyer was wide and welcoming, tasteful artwork on the walls, my quaint elephant foot doing duty as an umbrella stand. My living room was a cool study in comfortable, quietly elegant “transitional” pieces. The fireplace reflected calm dignity; the drapes hung softly, gently brushing the gleaming hardwood floors. I peeked around to the dining room—polished wood, muted colors. A woman of obvious taste and refinement lived here. A successful woman, a sophisticated woman, a woman who was, at the moment, grateful to return to her castle.

  A woman who also wanted balloons and a little confetti.

  “Fred?” I called. I counted silently, three…two…one…

  My golden retriever bounded into the hallway from upstairs, tongue lolling, tail wagging happily. Fred, as he’d gotten older, had become much slower on the uptake, and he hadn’t been too sharp to begin with. But he was always glad to see me, and he was one smiling face I could count on, even if it did take him a few minutes to realize who exactly I was.

  We finished our ritual—head scratching, a little something behind his ears, the world-class belly rub. Then he licked my face one last time and wandered back into the kitchen, leaving me alone in the quiet, elegant foyer of my home.

  Ben came through carrying the first round of suitcases.

  “Let me help you,” I said.

  He shook his head. “No, I’m good. I missed the gym today. This can be my workout instead.”

  I followed him upstairs and began to unpack. I looked at the clothes I’d bought in California—gauzy maxi skirts, flowing linen tunics, gladiator sandals. Totally useless for New Jersey in mid-November. What had I been thinking?

  I heard voices calling. Seconds later, Fred was barking happily. I ran back downstairs.

  My two best friends in the whole world were in my kitchen. Patricia Carmichael, cool, stunning, and always elegant, was busy with the martini pitcher and a bottle of Grey Goose vodka. MarshaMarsha, my next-door neighbor for the past umpteen years, was unwrapping a wedge of cheese. I could smell fresh-baked bread from Bettinger’s bakery. These two knew how to throw a welcome-home fete.

  Patricia gave me a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.

  MarshaMarsha threw her arms around me and hugged me for a long time.

  “I really missed you.” She sniffed. Her real name was Marsha Riollo, but my former sister-in-law had been known as Marsha the Bitch, so my dear friend and neighbor had become MarshaMarsha, and she’d been that for so long I never thought of her any other way. She was tiny, dark, and adorable.

  “I really missed you too,” I said.

  Patricia handed me a perfectly chilled martini glass, filled to the brim. “Weren’t you here a few weeks ago?” she asked, eyebrow arched.

  I took hold of the stem. “Three months ago. And only for five days. Now I’m back for good. It’s different.”

  MarshaMarsha nodded. “Yes.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to being back for good!”

  We clinked glasses and drank. As always, that first hit of vodka on the back of my throat had a bit of a kick, but the second sip was smooth as glass. I nibbled some cheese and took a bite of baguette, spread with fig jam.

  Patricia smiled smugly. “I just texted Anthony. He’s dropping everything to get here. And Lily. She said she was on her way now, and can’t wait to see you. I saw Ben outside. I feel like Ringo, getting what’s left of the band back together.”
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  At that moment, Ben appeared with more luggage. He grinned at Patricia. “Chill one of those glasses for me,” he called as he went through.

  I closed my eyes and let more cold vodka trickle down my throat.

  Anthony burst through my back door, golden hair swept off his high and artificially bronzed forehead, face beaming. He was an incredibly handsome man, and being gay, was the secret weapon for all of my love scenes—he could give me the man’s perspective on pleasure, from both the giving and receiving ends.

  Anthony Wood worked for me, but more than that, he was my friend, first reader of anything and everything I wrote, and my biggest fan. I had asked him if he wanted to come to California with me, but he and his partner Victor had just bought a house together, and Anthony did not want to become a long-distance bride. He had remained in New Jersey, still doing quite a bit of work for me from his new home. Although we spoke often, I hadn’t seen him in the flesh in almost six months.

  He kissed me on both cheeks, then did the same with Patricia and MarshaMarsha before taking a full glass from Patricia.

  “I am so glad you’re home,” he said, taking a sip. “I need some excitement.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And how am I going to provide excitement?”

  He shrugged. “Not you, exactly. Your life tends to be a little dull. But between your daughters and Lily, something is bound to happen.”

  I did not mention the fact that Ben had asked me to marry him. All three of them, I knew, would have jumped up and down with happiness at that. But there was still something stuck in my gut, a small, sharp something that I did not want to think about, but I knew wasn’t going to go away.