Tell Me Your Dreams by Sidney Sheldon Page A

were an attractive couple, obviously very much in love. David Singer was in his early thirties, blond and intelligent-looking, with an engaging boyishness about him. His wife, Sandra, was lovely looking and warm.
    Robert Crowther had noticed the bulge around her stomach and had said, “The second guest room would be perfect for a nursery. There’s a playground a block away and two schools in the neighborhood.” He had watched them exchange that secret smile again.
    The duplex penthouse consisted of an upstairs master bedroom with a bath and a guest room. On the first floor was a spacious living room, a dining room, a library, a kitchen, a second guest bedroom and two bathrooms. Almost every room had a view of the city.
    Robert watched the two of them as they walked through the apartment again. They stood in a corner whispering.
    “I love it,” Sandra was saying to David. “And it would be great for the baby. But, darling, can we afford it? It’s six hundred thousand dollars!”
    “Plus maintenance,” David added. “The bad news is that we can’t afford it today. The good news is that we’re going to be able to afford it on Thursday. The genie is coming out of the magic bottle, and our lives are going to change.”
    “I know,” she said happily. “Isn’t it wonderful!”
    “Should we go ahead with it?”
    Sandra took a deep breath. “Let’s go for it.”
    David grinned, waved a hand and said, “Welcome home, Mrs. Singer.”
    Arm in arm, they walked over to where Robert Crowther was waiting. “We’ll take it,” David told him.
    “Congratulations. It’s one of the choicest residences in San Francisco. You’re going to be very happy here.”
    “I’m sure we are.”
    “You’re lucky. I have to tell you, we have a few other people who are very interested in it.”
    “How much of a down payment will you want?”
    “A deposit of ten thousand dollars now will be fine. I’ll have the papers drawn up. When you sign, we’ll require another sixty thousand dollars. Your bank can work out a schedule of monthly payments on a twenty- or thirty-year mortgage.”
    David glanced at Sandra. “Okay.”
    “I’ll have the papers prepared.”
    “Can we look around once more?” Sandra asked eagerly.
    Crowther smiled benevolently. “Take all the time you want, Mrs. Singer. It’s yours.”
    “It all seems like a wonderful dream, David. I can’t believe it’s really happening.”
    “It’s happening.” David took her in his arms. “I want to make all your dreams come true.”
    “You do, darling.”
    They had been living in a small, two-bedroom apartment in the Marina District, but with the baby coming, it was going to be crowded. Until now, they could never have afforded the duplexon Nob Hill, but Thursday was partnership day at the international law firm of Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, where David worked. Out of a possible twenty-five candidates, six would be chosen to enter the rarefied air of the firm’s partnership, and everyone agreed that David was one of those who would be selected. Kincaid, Turner, Rose & Ripley, with offices in San Francisco, New York, London, Paris and Tokyo, was one of the most prestigious law firms in the world, and it was usually the number one target for graduates of all the top law schools.
    The firm used the stick-and-carrot approach on their young associates. The senior partners took merciless advantage of them, disregarding their hours and illnesses and handing the younger lawyers the donkey’s work that they themselves did not want to be bothered with. It was a heavy pressure, twenty-four-hour-a-day job. That was the stick. Those who stayed on did so because of the carrot. The carrot was the promise of a partnership in the firm. Becoming a partner meant a larger salary, a piece of the huge corporate-profit pie, a spacious office with a view, a private washroom, assignments overseas and myriad other perks.
    David had practiced corporate law with Kincaid, Turner, Rose &