had she been fighting in her dream?
3
Joshua awoke at five-thirty, much earlier than usual. Beside him, Rachel was still dozing.
Last night, they had spoken of sleeping in together, enjoying another leisurely lovemaking session and going off to their respective jobs later in the morning, but he was too wound up to lie in bed any longer.
He put on a T-shirt and sweatpants, padded downstairs, and brewed a pot of coffee.
They’d moved into the house five months ago, but he was still getting used to the place. It was far more spacious than the one-bedroom apartment he’d lived in for the past few years, and far more luxurious than anything he’d ever aspired to own. At times he felt as if his life there was temporary, as if he were only house-sitting until the rightful owner returned to reclaim it.
It was the same way he sometimes felt about Rachel—as if his time with her was doomed to be short-lived. At such moments of doubt, he was convinced that something was going to happen that would take her away from him. She was going to get bored with him, like his ex-girlfriends always did, and file for divorce. She was going to get diagnosed with terminal cancer. She was going to die in a car wreck. Something tragic was fated to occur that would tear them apart.
He had to learn how to let go of his baseless worries, and live in the moment. Carpe diem, as Rachel liked to say.
He poured a cup of coffee. He slid open a large counter drawer, where he’d stored one of his notebook computers, set it on the counter, and switched it on.
As the computer booted-up, he sipped coffee and looked around, feeling an odd yet compulsive need to reassure himself of the realness of his life.
Rachel had plunged into decorating their home with a passion. She’d had some rooms painted bold colors, deep reds and bright yellows; other areas were soothing shades of beige and green. Framed artwork adorned the walls, striking prints of ebony-hued men and women, photographs of beaches and oceans, and hand-carved, wooden figurines from Ghana decorated the end tables.
In celebration of the holiday season, a lush, lighted wreath garlanded the fireplace. A seven-foot high artificial Douglas fir towered in the family room, boughs bedecked with glittering ornaments and twinkling lights; an equally tall, similarly decorated tree stood in the living room near the bay window. Collectibles of honey-skinned Santa Clauses, angels, and elves stood here and there, spreading holiday cheer.
Virtually every room featured photos of them. Romantic snapshots of their honeymoon in Hawaii. Pictures of them at various restaurants, or attending parties with friends. Tons of photos from their wedding.
Although it was a large home, it was cozy, rich with the warmth of the life they had created together. Looking around took the edge off his anxiety. Turning back to the computer, he opened Microsoft Outlook to check his business e-mail.
Four months ago, he had left the graphic design firm where he’d been employed for several years and started a freelance graphic design business. He had long aspired to branch out on his own, but self-doubt had always prevented him from making the move.
Rachel had encouraged him to pursue his dream. She did very well with the hair salon, she said, and she could afford to keep up their household while he got his business up and running. “You’re going to be successful,” she had told him. “You’re talented and hardworking. I know it’s going to work for you.”
Her confidence in him was all the push he needed. He launched Moore Designs with a few thousand dollars in start-up capital, a computer loaded with design software, and an iron determination to prove that his wife’s faith in him was justified.
Business had been going well, better than he had expected. He specialized in book cover designs for small and large publishers, corporate identity packages, brochures, posters, and Web site design. Although he’d begun as a one-man shop and hadn’t planned on hiring employees anytime soon, due to demand he’d begun farming out certain projects to independent contractors.
His e-mail client was unable to connect with the mail server. He tried to open Internet Explorer to browse the Web, and that didn’t work either. Sporadic Internet connectivity was an issue he’d experienced frequently as of late. As much as he loved doing business online, it seemed to bring as many headaches as it did benefits.
While he was attempting to connect to the Web again, Rachel came downstairs, Coco trailing on her heels.
Rachel wore an oversized pink T-shirt, house slippers, and glasses with thin designer frames. Her short hair puffed out in a curly halo. Watching her stroll toward him, the T-shirt clinging to her body, he felt a delicious heaviness in his center that almost made him forget about last night’s brush with terror. Almost.
“Morning, baby,” she said. “I thought we were going to sleep in?”
“Oh, well, I realized I needed to wrap up some pressing projects before the holidays,” he said, which was partly true. “Coffee?”
“Of course.”
He opened the cabinet and grabbed a coffee mug. He fumbled the cup. It clanged onto the Corian countertop, the impact chipping the mug’s rim.
“Sorry,” he said.
“You don’t have to apologize.” There was no harsh judgment in her eyes; there never was. “Happens to the best of us.”
He carefully took out another cup and poured coffee for her. She took it from him, and then set it aside and came into his arms.
The top of her head barely reached the middle of his chest. Standing on her tiptoes, she tilted her head backward to look up at him.
“I love you,” she said.
“Love you, too.”
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Ever.”
“Okay.” He smiled, a little taken aback by her affection. “Ditto.”
“All right, Patrick Swayze.”
She snuggled against him. Her body felt good against his, a perfect fit, as if this was exactly where both of them were supposed to be, enveloped in a gentle embrace.
At such moments, it was easy to believe in soul mates. In destiny. He was probably just a hopeless romantic, but sometimes he believed God had created Rachel just for him, and him for her.
But the memory of last night was a thorn pricking his thoughts.
“How’d you sleep?” he asked.
He felt her body tense.
“Fine.” She moved out of his arms and picked up her coffee.
“Remember any bad dreams?”
She shook her head. She added cream and sugar to her coffee, stirred it with a spoon.
“Who were you fighting?”
The spoon slipped out of her fingers and clattered onto the countertop.
“What?”
