Hidden dreams, p.1
Hidden Dreams, page 1
Hidden Dreams
Synopsis
Guided by a vision of her recently deceased mother, Dallas socialite Barbara Allan travels through Cambodia searching for clues about her mother’s enigmatic past. After a busy two-week adventure tour, Barbara intends to rest on a tropical island off the southern coast, but instead contracts a deadly virus that’s swept the country.
Her tour guide, Dara, unemployed because of tourists’ fear of the virus, helps Barbara recover. Determined to uncover her mother’s secrets, Barbara and Dara motorcycle up the east bank of the Mekong River. On their way, they discover an irresistible attraction that only grows stronger as they unravel the mystery of Barbara’s mother’s early life in Cambodia, with the help of the wise, altruistic Chantha.
What Reviewers Say About Shelley Thrasher’s Work
Autumn Spring
“Thrasher’s unique and exquisite take on romance in a small town offers a new and welcome perspective on mature relationships. …The focus on the empowerment of older women serves to underscore both the charm of life at a slower pace and the sweetness of new relationships. Readers will find it deeply refreshing to see female characters who are defined as much by their kindness and grace as by their chosen roles in life.”—Publishers Weekly
First Tango in Paris
“So initially I read this book to indulge in my love for Paris; that was the defining factor in my choice of novel. I didn’t know what the subgenres of the book were (incidentally they are LGBT, family drama, history, romance etc) but what I got was a captivating story of love, not only of another person but also love of oneself. The historical elements of the story are fascinating. …This subject makes for interesting reading and made me want to read further into some of the key figures in French history. I really enjoyed First Tango in Paris. The storyline flowed with effortless ease and the characters had me rooting for them. I can’t ask for much more in a novel.”—Lisa Talks About…Blog
“Great debut novel. Easy read, likeable characters and good thoughtful plot.”—Rainbow Book Awards, Honorable Mention
The Storm
“The Storm is very well researched and Shelley Thrasher does an excellent job weaving together fact and fiction. The references to historical events such as the Galveston hurricane, the Spanish Flu epidemic and the suffrage movement add depth and interest to the overall storyline. Overall an entertaining and enlightening read that fans of historical romances will enjoy.”—Library Thing
“The Orient Express” Short Story in Women of the Dark Streets
“Fantasy and dreamlike story aboard the Orient Express, is imaginative and super sexy. Bon voyage!”—Rainbow Book Reviews
Hidden Dreams
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Hidden Dreams
© 2021 By Shelley Thrasher. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-857-9
This Electronic Original Is Published By
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, NY 12185
First Edition: May 2021
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Cindy Cresap
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design by Tammy Seidick
eBook Design by Toni Whitaker
By the Author
The Storm
First Tango in Paris
Autumn Spring
Hidden Dreams
Acknowledgments
It has certainly taken a village to create and deliver this novel.
I wouldn’t have gone to Cambodia if my friend Caroline Sanchez hadn’t agreed to travel with me on an adventure tour. And I wouldn’t have gained so many insights into the culture, history, and beautiful people of this small country in Southeast Asia without the companionship of a young Swiss woman, seven intrepid Aussies, Caroline, and our native guide, Kom.
Before I flew to Cambodia in early February 2020, I’d had a vague idea for the plot and characters of the novel I wanted to write based on my upcoming experience. And after my return two weeks later, everything slowly began to fall into place. Covid-19 had just begun to be taken seriously worldwide, and it wasn’t too much of a stretch to begin fleshing out my two major characters, Barbara and Dara.
After writing several chapters, I formally proposed the novel to Sandy Lowe, who replied that if I’d send her a title, she’d send me a contract. Radclyffe’s choice of Sandy as our senior editor was an inspired one.
As usual, I discussed my blossoming ideas with Connie Ward and sent bits and pieces to author Justine Saracen for her always helpful input. Luckily, I also enticed author Karen Williams to be a beta reader as well, and she shared her vast knowledge of many subjects and her considerable writing skills so extensively that at times I considered her my co-author. Justine faithfully chimed in throughout the process, with her usual keen insights, as did Connie, whom, at that point, I especially leaned on for medical insights. I also had considerable long-distance help from Chantha Nguon, a native Cambodian activist since the Pol Pot era, and now, among other meaningful projects, the author of her upcoming memoir, Slow Noodles.
As the novel evolved, the title kept changing from its original one: Corona. Also, I added another major contributor: fellow author Andrews, of Andrews and Austin fame. She painstakingly reviewed what I considered my near-final draft and contributed her keen insights and expertise with her trademark wit and grit. Near the end of the writing phase, Connie listened to me read the manuscript aloud, informing me when I was too wordy, or obvious, or scholarly, or descriptive, or whatever. And she came up with the final title, Hidden Dreams.
Cindy Cresap, my editor, zeroed in on several major points of plot and character, as well as numerous small items so easy for an author to miss, and I gratefully took her advice during the revision process. The typesetter did her usual meticulous job, as did the faithful proofreaders that BSB is so fortunate to have. Ruth Sternglantz and Carsen Taite added their talents to help with the company’s outreach to readers, and of course, you faithful readers are the main point of all the efforts we make at BSB to provide you with quality books.
To everyone I’ve mentioned and those I’ve forgotten—so many friends, reviewers, and fellow authors who provide support, comfort, and inspiration—thank you.
Dedication
I’m brave in many ways, but without Connie Ward, I’d probably never have had the courage to email Radclyffe back in 2005 and ask if she would hire me to be a BSB editor. I’d also probably still be tinkering with my first novel, The Storm, if Connie hadn’t insisted that I soldier on and submit a manuscript, no matter how rough it was.
Connie, you’ve read all my manuscripts and offered such helpful advice, endured me spending many hours alone in my office editing books for BSB, and participated enthusiastically at practically every GCLS conference, Women’s Week in P-town, BSB event in Palm Springs and elsewhere, and all the other book-related gatherings we’ve attended during these past sixteen years.
You’ve also helped me get ready for trips to Egypt, France, and Cambodia, phoned and Skyped and FaceTimed with me daily while I was abroad, and welcomed me back home enthusiastically, sometimes even bringing the dogs with you to the airport.
Because of all this support, and much more, I dedicate this book to you.
The Ballad of Barbara Allen
T’was in the merry month of May
when flowers were a-bloomin’.
Sweet William on his deathbed lay
for the love of Barbara Allen.
Slowly, slowly she got up,
and slowly she went nigh him.
And all she said when she got there,
“Young man, I think you’re dying.”
“Oh yes, I’m sick and very low,
and death is on me dwellin’.
No better shall I ever be
if I don’t get Barbara Allen.”
“Don’t you remember the other day
when we were in the tavern.
You toasted all the ladies there
and slighted Barbara Allen?”
“Oh yes, I remember the other day,
when we were in the tavern.
I toasted all the ladies there,
gave my love to Barbara Allen.”
The more she gazed, the more she mourned,
until she burst out crying.
“I beg you come and take him away,
for my heart now too is dyin’.”
He turned his pale face to the wall,
and death was on him dwellin’.
“Adieu, adieu, my kind friends all,
be kind to Barbara Allen.”
As she was walkin’ through the fields,
she heard the death bells knelling,
and every toll they seemed to say,
“Hard-hearted Barbara Allen.”
She looked east, she looked west,
sh e saw his corpse a-comin’.
“Lay down, lay down the corpse,” she said,
“and let me gaze upon him.”
“Oh Mother, Mother, make my bed,
Oh make it long and narrow.
Sweet William died for me today;
I’ll die for him tomorrow.”
Sweet William died on a Saturday night,
and Barbara died on Sunday.
Her mother died for the love of both
t’was buried the next Monday.
They buried Willie in the old churchyard,
and Barbara there anigh him.
And out of his grave grew a red, red rose,
and out of hers, a briar.
They grew and grew in the old churchyard,
tll they couldn’t grow no higher.
They lapped and tied in a true love’s knot.
The rose ran ’round the briar.
Part I
BARBARA
Chapter One
Barbara Allan lounged in her thick-cushioned beach chair, water as blue as a Siamese cat’s eyes stretching east toward mainland Cambodia. She scooped up a handful of sugary sand and let it filter through her fingers, transferring it from one hand to the other as if playing with an hourglass. Its warmth, combined with the sun’s, mesmerized her. How long had these waves rolled onto these shores?
In the distance, a figure appeared, strolling along the beach. A young woman, all curves and black hair. Who was this stranger? Not a tourist. Apparently, a Cambodian. Something about the way she moved, the tilt of her head, reminded Barbara of one of the few photographs she’d found of her mother—whom she’d always called Meatea—after her funeral four months ago. She rubbed the sand between her thumb and forefinger, watching the woman pass.
Her mother could have walked along this shore some seventy years ago, before meeting the handsome American soldier who whisked her away from this kingdom of wonder—only to let her wither for decades in the harsh climate of Texas high society.
She brushed her palms together, the sand dropping back onto the beach. Her heart clenched. If only she could have made this trip sooner—while Meatea was still alive.
She grasped the objects hanging around her neck. One, a shell, was a precious memento her mother had always kept, obviously a reminder of her girlhood in Cambodia. The other, heart-shaped, was new.
Thinking of her mother’s life and death made her feel as empty as the shell she wore. She sat up and burrowed her feet in the sand, then wiped them off and turned around to watch the spreading purple, pink, and yellow in the west. The glassy infinity pool to her right reflected towering palm trees as the sun plummeted toward the rain forest of Koh Rong. The pool created the illusion that the forest never ended, that this gorgeous locale would last forever. But it wouldn’t. Nothing ever did.
She touched her salty face. It was hot. She rolled her sore shoulders and back muscles, which protested. She needed a massage first thing in the morning. Why had she insisted on carrying her own scuba tank to the beach today? She was getting too old to dive, but it had been so quiet and peaceful under the water. And the purple coral and crowds of yellow and blue fish as she swam near them had soothed her.
A familiar voice drifted over from near the restaurant attached to the resort. “Hey, Barb.” It was Roland Greer, the gay guy from San Francisco she’d met during her brief flight here this past Sunday. She enjoyed bantering with him. “Want to meet me at the bar for a drink in a bit?”
“Sure,” she said, brushing the sand from her bare feet. “But I need to shower first.”
After draping a silk sarong around herself, she eased into black flip-flops and headed over to her thatch-roofed cabana with its own pool. Foregoing its lure, she peeled out of her damp, black one-piece and stepped into her shower. Water from its twelve-inch-square, silver-plated showerhead pounded her sunburned back and briny hair, which she washed with a special shampoo to lengthen the effectiveness of her hair dye. As she sudsed her head, she studied the bamboo and rock walls surrounding her.
She was accustomed to this type of luxury, not the flimsy showerheads of the second-class hotel rooms she’d stayed in during the two-week adventure tour she’d booked on a whim and was currently resting from. Yet how she wished she could rewind the clock, relive that experience.
✥ ✥ ✥
“Hi there,” Roland said as Barbara strolled into the cozy open-air bar attached to the hotel restaurant. Only about fifteen bottles were displayed on the few wooden shelves lining the room’s newly constructed cement walls, but the bartender was apparently a magician.
Short, dark, and quick, he pulled out a chair for her at the small round table where Roland sat, then mixed her a mango daquiri and presented it to her on a tray. French and German phrases floated around, though she had also encountered tourists from Sweden, Belgium, and Israel here at the resort. So far, she and Roland were the only Americans on the premises, and she enjoyed being in the minority for a change. It made her feel anonymous and somehow special in a perverse sort of way.
Australians had dominated the gritty adventure tour she’d finished this past Sunday, and being with such avid travelers had made her experience even more pleasurable. Unlike these Australians, most Americans abroad, at least in her circles, valued high-priced hotels and ridiculously expensive food. Like her new acquaintances from Down Under, she wanted to get to know the real Cambodia, not its Hollywood version.
Roland sipped his drink, his gaze patrolling the room before settling on her. “Girl, I bet every lesbian in Dallas drools when you wear that white, tailored boyfriend shirt. It makes your brown eyes even darker and dreamier, especially with that gold monogram.” He fanned his face. “And those tight pants cup your ass just right.” He shook his hand like his fingers were on fire.
“Oh, I wish.” She laughed at him. “I’m well past my prime, you know.”
“Don’t fool yourself. My ancestors came from Britain, so I know who Barbara Allen really is.” He fingered his neat chin stubble.
“What do you mean?”
“She’s just the most famous heartbreaker in the history of folk music. The beautiful woman in the ballad who hardened her heart against her suitor.”
“That’s actually correct, except our last names are spelled differently. My father was Scottish, and he sang that old song to me practically every night before I fell asleep.” A gust of cool air blew in from the rain forest, and she shivered.
Roland just kept talking, like he was telling her something she didn’t know. “The man in the ballad told Barbara Allen he was dying of a broken heart because she’d rejected him. He begged her to forgive him for accidentally slighting her, and she essentially told him to piss off.” Roland sighed loudly. “So he did just that. He died, and everyone blamed her. So she joined him.”
She shook her head, tempted to laugh at the tragic expression Roland twisted his features into. “It’s only an old song, and it’s just what my name turned out to be. No connection. End of story.”
“Okay. You win.” He grinned and looked out the window toward the beach. “Say. I’ve been wondering about that shell you always wear around your neck, along with that heart. Was it a gift from a forsaken lover?”
She fingered its smooth surface. “It’s a cowrie shell I found among my mother’s things after she passed last year. Pretty, don’t you think?”
“Oh. Sorry to hear about your mom. That shell is stunning. I understand why she kept it. The deep brown with all those sparkling gold flecks in it sets off you and your outfit perfectly. Which reminds me. How was your scuba trip today?”
“Amazing. I’m so glad I certified to dive all those years ago in Texas. I was afraid I’d forgotten the routine, but my guide stayed beside me, and I relaxed quicker than I expected to.”
He nodded approval, and she finally sipped her daquiri, savoring its sweet tang. Then she rubbed her left shoulder. “Though I wish I’d let him carry my gear to and from the boat, like he offered.”
