If Only in My Dreams Read online

  “Snow? Great? I’d rather be on a tropical island, shellfish and all, wearing a thong and drinking a piña colada.”

  “A thong?” She raises an eyebrow and attempts to block out the mental image of Jesus deJesus in a thong.

  “A sarong?”

  She makes a face. “I’ll take the snow. And a parka.”

  “Oh, come on.” Jesus shudders, looking at the overcast sky. “You wouldn’t kill to be lying on a beach right now?”

  “Not in December,” she says, remembering that today is the first of the month. “In December, I want snow. It puts me into the Christmas spirit. Only twenty-four shopping days left.”

  “Fa la la la freaking la,” Jesus replies in a monotone.

  She sticks out her tongue at him.

  Then, as Jesus warns, “Don’t you go messing up those perfect lips with that slimy tongue!” she realizes that she forgot, for a merry moment, about her plight.

  “And anyway,” Jesus adds, “it’s not supposed to snow. It’s supposed to warm up to fifty and rain.”

  Fifty degrees and rain?

  So much for being in the Christmas spirit, Clara thinks glumly, and steps out into the gray December morning.

  In the heart of formerly-countryside, now-suburban Glenhaven Park is a town green that looks like something out of It’s a Wonderful Life. Especially today, thanks to the Oscar-winning art director’s holiday magic.

  Store windows are artificially frosted, and some, like the five-and-dime, display packets of holiday cards, compartmented boxes of metallic ornaments, and bags filled with fancy ribbon candy. Every lamppost is wrapped in shiny silver garland. Nostalgic strings of wide-spaced, bright-colored bulbs line the gingerbread eaves above most front porches; flocked trees decked with bubble lights and tinsel stand in picture windows; door wreaths abound.

  As long as you don’t look at the vast condo community sprawled on a hillside above the Congregational church and overlooking the town, you might actually believe you’ve stepped back in time.

  A wide, grassy strip runs the length of the town, encompassing three blocks. A brick path meanders among trees and shrubs, wrought-iron benches, and tall posts that appear to hold gaslights.

  On either side of the green, Victorian-era homes and businesses that line the sidewalks have been stripped of anything post-WWII. Flags with fifty stars have been replaced with flags bearing forty-eight. In place of SUVs and foreign sports cars are vintage roadsters parked in driveways and diagonally along the curbs. The Internet café has been transformed into a telegraph office; the trendy clothing boutique now advertises STYLISH WOMEN’S HATS and MODERN SLACKS.

  A half mile up the commuter railroad tracks, an authentic diesel locomotive—painted a cheery red—has been positioned. It’s ready to steam into town towing old-fashioned domed, corrugated railroad cars, and to dispatch Clara and several extras on the platform to block the first scene.

  Clad in platform shoes with high wedge heels, a trim-fitting gray wool skirt suit, black wool coat, and brimmed black velvet hat, Clara boards the train with a crowd of period-costumed extras.

  She’s struck, as she was during rehearsals, by the dated rotating mohair seats and ornate lighting fixtures. What a far cry from the modern commuter railroad she takes out to her father’s place in Jersey.

  “It smells like smoke in here,” one of the extras comments, fanning the stale air.

  It does smell like smoke.

  Repulsed, Clara clasps her wrist against her nostrils to inhale instead the potent fragrance of the essential oil she dabbed all over herself this morning. A blend of lavender and geranium, the concoction is, quite suitably, called Calming.

  God knows Clara can use as much of that as she can get these days.

  The scent was wholeheartedly recommended yesterday by Luna, the aromatherapist at her mother’s favorite health store. Clara stopped in on a whim to load up on organic produce, herbal supplements, books on holistic medicine… as much supposedly healing merchandise as she could carry.

  “Do you think this was once a smoking car?” one of the extras asks.

  “They were all once smoking cars, dude,” somebody replies.

  Cigarettes. Why did you have to smoke all those cigarettes when you were younger?

  Cancer. You have cancer.

  Her thoughts catapulted back to her diagnosis, Clara can’t help but wonder if things might be different now if she hadn’t.

  You can’t second-guess everything you ever did, she reminds herself. What good is that now?

  What is, is.

  Nothing to do but accept this. Accept it, and fight it.

  “Clara?” someone prods impatiently, and she realizes that nearly everyone is in their places now.

  Everyone but the bit actor playing the conductor—and the leading lady.

  Fighting the overwhelming urge to scratch the itchy spot where the rough woolen collar brushes her bare neck, Clara takes her designated spot standing beside the door. She’s supposed to be the first passenger off the train.

  Her character, a disillusioned office worker, is eager to reach her small-town destination and begin her new elementary school teaching position at the redbrick schoolhouse.

  Little does Violet know that she’s about to be swept off her feet by the so-called swooniest fella in town.

  “Here you go, Clara.” With a grunt, Lisa, the prop mistress, sets an authentic 1941 Samsonite Streamlite suitcase on the floor at her feet.

  “It looks heavy. It is heavy,” Clara exclaims, lifting it slightly to test the weight. “What’s in this thing? Sandbags?”

  “I stuck a bunch of outfits from wardrobe inside. Stuff we decided not to use. You can go through it after the shoot and keep what you want.”

  “Are you kidding? I can’t wait to get back into real clothes when this shoot is over. I don’t know how women back then dealt with being this dressed up every day—and can I ask why this suit doesn’t have more than one pocket?”

  “For what? Your iPod?”

  “Nope, it won’t fit. I keep that right here.” She grins and lifts her jacket, showing Lisa the slim device tucked into her waistband. The skirt fits loosely, and she can’t seem to get used to the fact that it’s a size twelve—which, as the wardrobe mistress has repeatedly reminded her, is the equivalent to a modern four, her usual size.

  “Hey!” Lisa protests. “You can’t carry one of those in the scene. This is supposed to be 1941, remember?”

  “Shh! Nobody knows it’s here. And I’ll take it out when we shoot later. It comes in handy in this endless blocking.”

  “What if it falls out of your skirt?”

  “It won’t.”

  “It might. Hand it over.”

  “Oh, relax, I’ll just pop it in here.” Clara opens her large black leather clutch purse and drops it in. “There. Nobody will ever know it’s there.”

  “You will. It might interfere with your authenticity.”

  “Nah, I’m a pro, and anyway, we’re not shooting yet.” Clara sighs and scratches the back of her neck again. “God, I would kill to be wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.”

  “And here I thought you were a glamour-queen actress,” Lisa says dryly. “So much for the Hollywood illusion.”

  “Yeah, but I look like one today, right?” Clara asks with a grin, reaching up to pat her head beneath the trim hat. The hairstylist tamed her brunette mane into a controlled pompadour high above her forehead, with sleek waves falling to her shoulders.

  Her smile fades as she remembers that it won’t be long before her hair is falling to the ground in clumps.

  “Places, everyone!”

  At last the train is ready to steam toward Glenhaven Park for the first run-through.

  Clara clutches her purse in one hand and grabs a pole with the other in anticipation of the train’s movement. Time to conjure an expectant, exhilarated feeling.

  You’re going off to start a new life.…

  The train starts chugging. It qui
ckly picks up speed.

  “How can you ride facing backward?” asks an extra seated nearby. “Doesn’t it make you feel sick?”

  Clara merely shakes her head, trying to focus on her character’s motivation.

  It’s 1941… you’re Violet… off to start a new life.…

  “Hey, did you drop this?” somebody asks, and hands her something from the floor.

  She looks down to see the photo business card she had tucked into her shallow pocket earlier. Jesus had used it to scribble his life coach’s phone number… which she has every intention of throwing away.

  But there’s no place to toss it now, so she opens the purse and tucks it in.

  Nearly losing her balance as the train rounds a bend, she holds on tighter to the pole, wondering if they should be going this fast. Positioning her too-tight vintage platform shoes farther apart to keep her balance, she glances at the landscape flying past the window.

  Get into character. Come on. You’re an actress.

  Yes, an actress with a hell of a lot more on her mind this morning than work. But there will be plenty of time to brood later.

  The train hurtles forward toward Glenhaven Park, and Clara stares at the back wall of the car, convincing herself that she’s Violet. Violet, living her uncomplicated 1941 life, embarking on a new adventure in a brand-new place.

  Any second now, you’re going to meet the man of your dreams.…

  Yes, and he’s going to go off to war and die.

  But Violet doesn’t know that now.

  Violet is all hope and anticipation.

  Lucky, lucky Violet. Healthy. Happy. About to make a fresh start.

  What I wouldn’t give to be in her shoes for real, Clara thinks wistfully. Not forever.

  Just for now.

  Just for the happy stuff… like not having cancer and falling in love with Jed Landry.

  “I don’t know… maybe I like the blue one better after all. What do you think, Jed?”

  Mustering every shred of his threadbare patience, he pretends to study the woolen muffler Mrs. Robertson is ostensibly about to purchase for her son—after a good twenty minutes’ deliberation, with Jed as a reluctant participant and model.

  “The red looks more Christmasy.” He points at the muffler in her hand. “Definitely the red.”

  There’s a moment of silence as she contemplates that. A train whistle sounds in the distance. Jed can hear the 9:33 chugging away from the station across the green, and fervently wishes he were on it.

  “But Theodore will be wearing the scarf for the rest of the winter,” Mrs. Robertson protests, thrusting the scarf away. “He won’t even open it until Christmas morning. Maybe I should—”

  “The red will be keen in February, too,” Jed cuts in hastily, flicking his gaze to the clock hanging just beyond the stovepipe on the far wall. “You know, with Saint Valentine’s Day, and George Washington’s birthday and all.”

  “George Washington’s birthday?” Mrs. Robertson’s eyebrows raise toward the tilted brim of the black felt hat she bought here at Landry’s Five-and-Dime last winter—a purchase that enveloped well over an hour of Jed’s time and a month’s worth of patience.

  This morning, she was waiting by the door when he arrived to open the store at nine, barely giving him time to shovel the new-fallen snow from the sidewalk before starting in with questions.

  He isn’t in the mood. Especially not today.

  Not when Alice, the increasingly inept young woman he hired as Christmas help, has yet to show up.

  Not when it’s the first of December, and his thoughts are consumed by his father. It’s been two years. Two years since—

  “I beg your pardon, Jed, but what on earth does George Washington’s birthday have to do with a red muf—”

  “George Washington cut down a cherry tree. Cherries are red.”

  At that, Mrs. Robertson’s eyebrows disappear altogether.

  Jed waits for her to inform him that it’s the most ridiculous thing she’s ever heard.

  Certainly, it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever uttered behind the counter at this store. Or anywhere.

  “Why, you’re right!” Mrs. Robertson exclaims. “It’s settled. I’ll take the red.” She hands it over with a smile and opens her handbag.

  Relieved, Jed yanks a length of brown paper from the roll bolted to the counter, hoping she won’t suddenly change her mind again—or, worse yet, remember one more thing on her Christmas list.

  As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he chides himself. The holiday shopping season is barely under way and the store is particularly quiet for a Monday morning, thanks to the bitter cold in the wake of last night’s storm.

  Shouldn’t he be trying to encourage browsing, rather than hustling one of his well-heeled customers out of the store?

  Probably. But he’s had about all of Mrs. Robertson that he can take for one morning.

  Anyway, he’s not a natural salesman like Pop. Or Gilbert. Jed wasn’t cut out to run the store; he’s only here by default.

  He probably wasn’t cut out to be a lawyer, either. If fate hadn’t intervened, he might have eventually realized that and left Boston—and Carol—after all.

  So what were you meant to be, Jed Landry? A lifelong bachelor? A soldier? A vagabond?

  Who knows? I’m just eager to find out.

  “Oh! I almost forgot!” Mrs. Robertson interrupts his restless thoughts. “Do you have any Mickey Mouse watches? My Patty has her heart set on one for Christmas.”

  “I’m sorry, we’re all out,” Jed lies.

  That’s just swell. Lying to a customer on the anniversary of Pop’s death.

  As he briskly wraps the red scarf in brown paper and ties it with string, he vows that he’ll make up for it with his next customer.

  That isn’t good enough, an inner voice scolds.

  “Mrs. Robertson, maybe Patty would like something else instead… like a musical snow globe?” he suggests as a nearby display catches his eye.

  “A snow globe?” Mrs. Robertson echoes dubiously. “I don’t know if Patty would—”

  “All the little girls love them,” Jed cuts in, walking over to the display. “These just arrived this week, and they’re selling out fast.”

  He picks up the nearest glass globe, one that has a dark-haired ceramic angel inside. “This model is very popular.”

  “But the others have more than one angel inside. And they’re all golden-haired, like my beautiful Patty.”

  “Yes, but this one is musical… and it’s the last one I have in stock.”

  He feels around on the felt base for the key, then winds it quickly.

  A tinkling melody promptly spills forth.

  “What song is that?” Mrs. Robertson asks with interest.

  “‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’” Jed sets the globe carefully on the table.

  Mrs. Robertson waits until the melody begins to slow as the mechanism winds down. Then with a shrug, she says, “You say all the little girls want musical snow globes?”

  “All of them,” he confirms with only a slight pang of guilt. “Should I wrap that up for you, then?”

  “I don’t know.… Where was it made? I hope not in Germany.”

  “I believe Switzerland.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive,” he says, but she’s already picking it up to see for herself. She turns it over to look at the bottom, accidentally tapping it, hard, against the edge of the display table.

  “Switzerland,” she confirms, and flips it right side up again. Then she peers at it. “The glass is cracked and the angel’s wing is broken off. Look.”

  She thrusts the globe into his hands.

  He frowns. She’s right. The tip of one of the angel’s gossamer wings has cracked right off. The shard is lying amid the reflective white flakes at the bottom of the snow globe.

  And you’re the one who did it when you bumped it against the table, Jed silently scolds Mrs. Robertson.
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  “Now, Jed, you know that I can’t buy broken merchandise as a gift,” she says chidingly, and briskly deposits the snow globe back on the table with a thump.

  “How about a different one?”

  “The others aren’t musical. What good is that? I’ll just take what I already have, thank you.”

  “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Robertson,” he calls as she sails toward the door with her parcel tucked under her arm. And good riddance.

  “Oh, I’m sure I’ll see you before Christmas,” she promises.

  “I certainly hope so,” he lies with a fake smile so clenched his jaw hurts.

  A tinkling of bells and a whoosh of cold air as the door opens, then closes, and he finds himself alone in the store.

  With a heavy sigh, he picks up the damaged snow globe and shakes it. The angel is obliterated by a flurry of white flakes, the tip of her broken wing quickly sinking amid the temporary storm. Examining the glass, he sees that it’s a surface crack; nothing is leaking from it. He winds the key and is relieved to hear “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” spill forth.

  Still, nobody is going to pay full price for a wounded angel.

  He finds a piece of cardboard and makes a sign that reads HALF PRICE, AS IS. Then he clears a spot on the sale merchandise table for the snow globe and props the sign against it just as the song winds down.

  That done, he consults his watch again.

  Where on earth is Alice? This is the third time she’s been late in the two weeks since he hired her. On both occasions, she claimed to have overslept. The first time, he readily forgave her. The second, he warned her that if it happened again, he’d have to fire her.

  Reluctant to make good on that promise, he decides to give Alice another twenty minutes. If she isn’t here by ten o’clock, he’ll call Mrs. Bleaston, the woman who runs the rooming house where she lives, to see whether she’s on her way.

  If she isn’t, he’ll have to ask to speak to her and tell her not to bother coming in—today, or ever again. He doesn’t relish that prospect. She’s a newlywed, and her husband is in the army, stationed somewhere in the South Pacific.

  All right, then. If she does show up, he’ll give her another chance. Just one more, and only because he feels sorry for her. Besides, it isn’t easy to find Christmas help once the season is under way.