If Only in My Dreams Page 13

  She gives him her breakfast order: coffee, tomato juice, fruit, and oatmeal. Healthy, healthy, healthy.

  “No Diet Coke today?”

  “No Diet Coke today,” she replies, surprised K.T. would even have taken note of her usual morning quirk—or its absence.

  “Okay, well, here are your sides.” He hands her the thin sheaf of script pages that cover the material they’ll be shooting today. “Take care.”

  Leaving him to radio the first assistant director that she’s on the set, she heads to her trailer, wondering what he meant by Take care. Does he think she’s in some kind of trouble? What did he hear about her?

  You need to relax, she scolds herself. You’re just paranoid. Everything is fine. Everyone has probably forgotten all about your taking off yesterday.

  Denton’s assistant, Andre, is waiting outside her trailer, wearing his trademark impractical shiny black shoes and, beneath his wool coat, a bright pink shirt—Denton’s trademark wardrobe color.

  My father always said it takes a real man to wear pink, he likes to say.

  Maybe Denton can get away with it based on star stature alone, but Andre certainly isn’t a real man, Clara can’t help but think.

  His weaselly little body is wrapped in a black cashmere scarf that’s longer than he is, and he’s smoking a clove cigarette with gloved fingers. An arrogant, terminally pretentious recent film-school grad who’s here by virtue of being related to someone who knows someone who slept with someone, Andre is by far one of Clara’s least favorite people on the crew.

  “Denton wants to see you right away,” he says importantly.

  Uh-oh. “Do you know what about?”

  “No. He’s in his trailer.”

  As Clara makes her way through the early morning chill, she wonders if Denton is going to fire her. She wouldn’t be surprised. Her upcoming treatment is going to mean reshuffling the January shooting schedule to accommodate her.

  She climbs the three metal steps and knocks tentatively, mentally rehearsing what she’s going to say.

  No time for that—the door is thrown open almost instantly by Jack, the director of photography. He nods a greeting and gives her a long, curious once-over before telling Denton he’ll see him in a little bit.

  The crew is definitely gossiping about me, Clara realizes, slipping past him into the trailer. She wonders if they know about her breast cancer diagnosis, or if other rumors are spreading.

  “Come on in.” Clad in jeans and a rose-colored designer sweater that looks luxuriously soft—and ridiculously expensive—Denton is seated at the table.

  He’s a small man, wiry, and usually wears a pair of thick, wire-rimmed glasses. He doesn’t have them on now, which makes his face look oddly naked. He blinks several times as he looks up from the lined script spread before him, each page marked with different-colored ink that indicates which material has been shot.

  “You’re looking well this morning, Clara,” he greets her. “At least, from here… without my glasses. Meaning I probably can’t see much beyond a foot from my head, so you might very well look like hell,” he adds with classic Denton quirkiness.

  “I probably do,” she informs him, knowing there are dark circles under her eyes, thanks to a restless—and dreamless—sleep. At least she’s still wearing the hat, meaning he has no hope of spotting the bruise on her forehead.

  “I’m sure I’ll look better after makeup,” she tells him.

  “Right, and I’m sure Jesus is anxious to get started on you. Just have a seat for a few seconds, will you?” He pulls out a chair adjacent to his, blinks, and takes a sip from a white porcelain mug.

  “Vanilla soy latte.” He raises the mug in her direction. She nods, knowing Denton’s quirks well enough to realize that he’s merely informing, not offering.

  Stifling a yawn, she tells herself she’ll swing by the catering tent and grab a cup of real coffee on her way back to her trailer, lest she fall asleep in the makeup chair. Breakfast won’t come until later.

  Denton sets down his mug and steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “So Bobby told me what’s going on.”

  She nods, uncertain what to say to that.

  When Denton doesn’t make it easier for her by continuing, she says, “I’m going to be fine, it’s just… the next few months will be a challenge. Personally, I mean… not professionally. I’m a hundred percent on board here, Denton. Just so you know that.”

  “Good. And we’re a hundred percent behind you, just so you know that. Look, what happened yesterday is…”

  She holds her breath, wondering what he’s going to say. Unconscionable? Deplorable? Grounds for dismissal?

  “Forgiven,” he concludes, and she exhales in relief.

  “Thank you. It won’t happen a—”

  “I know you’re under a lot of pressure, and I understand that you may have needed to get away,” he continues, talking over her. “I just wish you had asked for a break, instead of just taking off in the middle of blocking. That cost this production—”

  “I know, I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again.” Whatever it even was, she thinks uneasily. “I promise I’ve got my act together, and I’m ready to get back to work.”

  Denton sips his vanilla soy latte thoughtfully. “What about your treatment? What’s going on with that?”

  “I’ll know more next week, after I’ve consulted with the doctors again.” She doesn’t want to tell him too much. Not yet.

  “Surgery? Radiation? Chemotherapy?”

  All of the above, she thinks grimly. Aloud, she says only, “I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”

  “Do that.” He raises two fingers to his temple, then thrusts them away in a mock salute, clearly dismissing her as he turns back to the script.

  She pushes back her chair.

  “Thanks for coming by, Clara.”

  “Thanks for understanding.”

  He nods, not looking up from his notes. “Good luck.”

  She exits the trailer, wishing she had a pair of dark sunglasses to hide the tears welling in her eyes.

  This is so damned hard. All of it.

  A cancer diagnosis is traumatic under any circumstances.… You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t just a little bit insecure about your ability to face the challenges ahead.

  Okay, so maybe Karen was right. Maybe she’s feeling more insecure, deep down, than she realized.

  And maybe she does have a subconscious longing to be rescued from the nightmare her waking hours have become.

  Not, of course, by her mother.

  But it’s going to take more than an imaginary hero to do the job, she tells herself. Jed Landry isn’t going to pop up and rescue you no matter how nice that would be.

  She might as well stop feeling sorry for herself and get it together. She’s got a job to do, and she’s going to prove to Denton Wilkens that when it comes to her work, she’s a pro, just like she said.

  Sniffling, Clara bows her head against the brisk air and the curious stares of the crew as she hurries off to makeup and wardrobe.

  Jed runs his fingers over the lacy slip, reminding himself that he has every right to be going through the contents of the suitcase for the third time since he first opened it late last night.

  Yes, but his patriotic duty shouldn’t involve imagining what Clara might look like in this lingerie—or any of the other items he’s stacked neatly on his newly made bed. On the nearby table lie the contents of her pocketbook, including the strange device he found.

  But other than that, to his relief, he’s uncovered no further evidence that she’s a spy.

  Nor, to his dismay, has he found any evidence of her last name or address.

  That’s not all that’s eating him.

  There’s something strange about the collection of clothing in the suitcase. The garments are all in different sizes, which doesn’t make sense if they belong to one woman. Which, ostensibly, they do.

  But why would one woman have a dress in size t
en, another in size fourteen, and another in a twenty?

  Having three sisters as well as running a store, Jed is perhaps more familiar with ladies’ clothing than your average fella, and he’d swear that slender Clara is no bigger than a size twelve… if that.

  Even more intriguing—or perhaps, incriminating—the clothes she packed aren’t all suitable for the same season. Several blouses and playsuits are unmistakably meant for warm weather, and there’s even a bathing suit.

  A bathing suit?

  In Glenhaven Park, in December?

  It’s almost as if…

  Well, if he had to come up with a plausible explanation for the eclectic assortment of clothing, Jed would guess that she might have packed in a hurry, throwing everything in—inadvertently including her much larger roommates’ or sisters’ clothing—and paying no heed to the weather where she was going.

  Or…

  The luggage could be a dupe, its contents mere filler, and its carrier masquerading as an guileless young woman on an innocuous journey.

  Jed greatly prefers the prior scenario… though why she might be forced to pack in a haphazard rush is beyond him.

  Was she running away from something?

  Someone?

  Again, he remembers the bruise over her eye.

  She said nobody hit her; she claimed to have bumped her head. Was she lying?

  Is she the victim of some vicious aggressor? An abusive husband?

  Or is she some kind of undercover informant committing an act of treason?

  Slowly, he repacks her suitcase, trying to come up with sound arguments for Clara’s innocence. It would be a heck of a lot easier if her bags had yielded more answers than they did questions.

  So. He can either go right to the police…

  Or he can keep her things here for her for another twenty-four hours, in case she comes back.

  You’re a fool, do you know that? Here you are, mooning over a woman who’s most likely up to no good. A woman who might even be an international spy.

  Yes, but the idea seems preposterous, despite the so-called evidence before him.

  Clara seemed as American as he is—though there was something unusual about the way she spoke that set her apart from anyone he’s ever known.

  It wasn’t an accent—rather, the slightest hint of an unfamiliar dialect. She sure didn’t sound like any of the city girls he’s ever met, and she claimed to have been born and raised there. He wants to believe her.

  Why? Why do you care? She’s a complete stranger, for crying out loud.

  But he can’t help himself. He needs to give her the benefit of the doubt. When—if—she does return in the next twenty-four hours, he’ll demand an explanation. If it’s satisfactory…

  What will you do?

  Ask her to go dancing?

  Maybe, he thinks stubbornly, and all but quivers at the mere thought of whirling around a swanky nightclub with Clara in his arms.

  And if her explanation isn’t satisfactory…?

  Then I’ll have to report her.

  What matters, above all, is that this time, he won’t let her slip away.

  But she has to come back to him, first. Back to Glenhaven Park.

  He returns to the table, picks up the pocketbook, and opens it, about to replace its contents.

  In the depths of the lining, something catches his eye. Something that blends right in to the satiny gray taffeta.

  He reaches in. His fingers encounter a rectangular piece of cardboard, one edge wedged in to a frayed seam. He has to tug on it a bit before it comes free. No wonder it didn’t fall out when he dumped the bag upside down.

  What is it?

  “Jeepers creepers,” he breathes, realizing he’s holding a small black-and-white photograph. A woman gazes up at him: a woman with long, loose, wavy hair, very little makeup, and a natural-looking smile.

  It takes him a moment to realize that it’s Clara, looking drastically different than she does in person. Her hair… her face… her expression…

  She’s so casual. Utterly relaxed. Not a trace of tension or fear in her clear, wide-set eyes.

  Scribbled across the photo is the name Jezibel, followed by a series of numbers separated by hyphens.

  Jezibel? Is that her name?

  Jezibel.

  It doesn’t seem to fit. But…

  Turning the card over with a trembling hand, Jed sees that something is printed on the back.

  Clara McCallum.

  That must be her name—her full name.

  Beneath it is an address on West Eleventh Street in New York, followed by a series of number clusters separated by dashes.

  Jed stares at the card, turning it over and over, realizing what this means.

  New York—and Clara McCallum—here I come.

  Gladys Knight sings in the background about leaving on a midnight train to Georgia, accompanied by the Pips and Jesus deJesus.

  “Uh-oh, are you still on your seventies’ music kick?” Clara asks with a groan as she settles into the makeup chair.

  His only response is a falsetto train-whistle-like “Whoo-hoo” in unison with the song lyrics.

  “God, I miss my iPod,” she mutters.

  “What happened to your iPod?” Jesus interrupts his singing to ask.

  “Oh, I, uh… lost it.”

  “That’s a shame.” He tosses a tube of foundation in the air, catches it, and sings into it, along with the Pips.

  Unexpectedly struck by that line, Clara closes her eyes to shut out a vision of Jed Landry’s face.

  It’s still there.

  “God, do you really have to sing that song?” she snaps at Jesus, opening her eyes to glare at him.

  Taken aback by her outburst, he reaches over and turns off the CD player. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t like that song.”

  “Well, I don’t like ‘It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year,’ but I didn’t complain when you insisted on playing it over and over the other day.”

  “Yes, you did. Repeatedly. And you threatened me with that ugly orange-apricot lipstick until I promised never to play it again with you in earshot.”

  “Oh. Right. Whatever.” Jesus shrugs. “Listen, you should probably know that the entire world is talking about you.”

  “So I’ve heard.” Clara reaches for her coffee, placed in arm’s reach. She takes a sip, then says, “So tell me what the entire world is saying.”

  “Let’s see… that you’re on crack—”

  “Crack?”

  “Or heroin. I’ve heard both versions.” Jesus drapes her in a black vinyl cape.

  “Good Lord. What else have you heard?”

  “That you’re having an affair with K.T., that you’re bulimic, that you’re pregnant—”

  “With K.T.’s baby?” she asks, amusement mingling with dismay.

  “You tell me, honey.” Jesus—and just about everyone else on the set, gay and straight alike—has a crush on the good-looking second assistant director.

  “It’s not true. Not one bit of it. Did you tell them?”

  “I told them it wasn’t true. But”—Jesus dabs thick foundation along the trenches beneath her eyes—“I wasn’t about to tell anyone what’s really going on. That’s your business. And you’re obviously losing sleep over it, Raccoon Girl.”

  “I know. It’s been brutal.”

  “You’re going to be just fine after all this, you’ll see.”

  “And if I’m not, I can be reborn as somebody fabulous, like Coco Chanel.”

  “Don’t even joke about that!”

  “I know, I know… you take your past lives very seriously.”

  “That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’re going to survive. You’ll get it all behind you, the tests, the surgery, the treatment.… It seems like it’s going to last forever, but it isn’t. You’ll have a normal life again.”

  “I know I will… but…” It isn’t just the cancer.

/>   She wants more than anything to confide in him about what happened to her yesterday. The problem is, she doesn’t know what happened to her yesterday.

  Better to shrug it off and vaguely attribute her absence from the set to her illness.

  But what if it happens again?

  What if, when she boards the train again this morning to shoot her scene, she finds herself in a repeat performance: blanking out and imagining that she’s back in the past?

  She simply can’t let that happen.

  No way.

  But if she had any idea how it happened in the first place, she’d have a better chance of preventing it from happening again.

  There’s a knock on the trailer door.

  “Who is it?” she calls.

  “Albany.” Her friend appears in the doorway behind her, reflected in the mirror before the makeup chair. She’s costumed as Violet’s friend Sue, in full makeup with her golden hair swept up in a wavy pompadour. “I heard what happened to you.”

  “That I’m an addict?”

  Albany’s pencil-darkened brows shoot toward the swoop of hair above her forehead.

  “Pregnant with a crack baby?”

  Albany shakes her head, laughing. “No.”

  “Then what did you hear?”

  “That you freaked out and ran away in the middle of a scene because K.T. was flirting with Lisa.”

  “Good Lord. I swear that’s total bull, Albany.”

  She grins. “I thought so. But I was worried about you anyway.”

  “Have you got a minute? Or ten? I’ll tell you what’s really going on—”

  “Not now. I’ve got to go back to wardrobe and change into my dress for the wedding scene, and you’re supposed to meet me over there.”

  “Wedding scene? I thought we were doing the depot scene.”

  “We were… until the sky opened up and it started pouring. It wasn’t supposed to rain until this afternoon. Denton’s putting the scene on hold.”

  “Until when?”

  “Who knows? It’s probably going to rain all day.”

  Thank God, Clara thinks, turning her head to look at the ominous sky beyond the rain-spattered windowpane. At least she won’t have to worry about a repeat performance of her notorious vanishing act.

  Not today, anyway.

  Maybe, by the time Denton’s ready to get back to that scene, she’ll know what happened to her yesterday—and how to keep it from happening again.