House of Dreams by Brenda Joyce

from their lives? Bury a secret she had never asked for knowledge of in the first place?
    Just how the hell could she accomplish all of that? She was one single woman, and a flawed one at that.
    The telephone rang. It was Dr. Stolman, and Cass quickly filled him in. He instructed her to take her aunt’s temperature, which she did. It
was 102. He told her he would call for an ambulance and that he would meet her at the hospital.
    Immediately Cass went to the door and called for Celia. While the maid was gathering up a few things for her aunt, Cass returned to Catherine’s side, sitting down and clutching her hand, very frightened now.
    The minutes ticked by endlessly. Cass was mindless with fright. She kept telling herself that everything would be all right. It was a mantra, one she chanted silently, again and again—one she did not really believe.
    If only they could rewind time the way they could rewind a tape, she thought. If only they could start over …
    â€œEverything is ready, Ms. de Warenne. Why don’t you go gather up a few fresh clothes for yourself?”
    Cass hardly heard Celia. But she said, “I’m staying here. Where are they?” And then, for lack of anything else to do, she screwed the cap on the bottle of aspirin and replaced the telephone book she had used in the night-table drawer, where it belonged. And as she did so, she noticed the blue leather book within.
    Cass hesitated, because the book was old and hand-bound, the leather jacket worn and faded. There was no title on the cover.
    She could not help herself. She picked it up, opened it—and was paralyzed.
    It was obviously a journal. And the very first entry was dated 1964. Cass could hardly breathe. Because she recognized the handwriting as her aunt’s.
    Catherine’s words haunted her mind. I lured him in front of the car. Deliberately. I wanted to destroy him.
    Cass trembled. She suddenly, without debate, flipped open to the very last entry—July 15, 1966.
    And names leapt off the pages at her.
    Casa de Suenos.
    Pedraza.
    Eduardo de la Barca.
    Isabel de Warenne.
    Cass slammed the journal closed, shoved it back in the drawer, and leapt off the bed. A moment later the paramedics were ringing the front door.
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    â€œI wonder why Antonio didn’t meet us at the airport,” Alyssa asked, standing beside her mother in the dim shadows of the hallway of a turn-of-the-century apartment building.
    Tracey was frazzled. Their flight had been delayed for two hours, time that she and Alyssa had spent in the VIP lounge with little to do other than chat. The problem had been that Tracey didn’t really know her own daughter, and all of the subjects that interested Alyssa were foreign to her, even her friends. The longer Alyssa had gone on, the more inept Tracey had felt. The longer they spent together, the more Tracey kept comparing herself to her perfect sister. Cass would be enjoying the delay. She would be all smiles, all good cheer. Tracey had begun to regret bringing Alyssa with her to Madrid. What if Antonio saw how incompetent she was as a mother? She had wanted to impress him, and now she was worrying that the opposite would be the case.
    But there had been no choice. Her aunt and her sister had made this trip inevitable.
    Tracey felt all of the hurt and anger welling up in her as she thought about how Cass and Catherine had taken sides, once again, against her. And to make matters even worse, maybe she should have waited a few days before traveling. She was exhausted; she didn’t feel well. She felt weak and shaky.
    â€œMother? Are you well?”
    Her daughter’s voice jerked her back to the present, and Tracey had to take a couple of deep, soothing breaths. “Yes.” She smiled at Alyssa, but it was forced. “Actually, he isn’t quite expecting us. We’re surprising him.”
    Alyssa almost gaped at her mother.
    And Tracey was angry, because there was a