If Only in My Dreams Read online

  The set dresser went to a lot of trouble to track down authentic-looking merchandise, too. Everything on the shelves and in the bins—from Christmas decorations to clothing to penny candy—is either an incredibly realistic reproduction, or in terrific condition for being at least sixty-five years old.

  Just last week, this was an Internet cafe. She checked her e-mail on a computer right over in that corner, now occupied by a display table holding a pile of bright blue boxes and a sign that reads PARAMOUNT STAR-LITES.

  “Are we shooting interior scenes here?” she asks, wondering why anyone would bother to go to these lengths if they’re not—and she could have sworn they aren’t.

  About to lift her suitcase and move it away from the door, he looks up and frowns as though he doesn’t comprehend.

  He must not speak English, she realizes in the split second before she recalls that he did, indeed, speak English when he greeted her.

  “Shooting?” he asks blankly without a trace of an accent.

  “I thought this place was just for exterior shots,” she clarifies, and is met with an even more puzzled expression.

  Oh. Maybe he’s a little slow, like Eddie, the bag boy at Gristedes near her apartment. That would explain, too, why he was knocking on the window and waving at her as though she’s a long-lost friend. He probably knocks and waves at everybody.

  “Never mind,” she says sympathetically. Marlene, the casting assistant, must have hired him for his looks. He can’t possibly have a speaking part.

  “Say, what’s in this thing?” he asks, grunting as he moves her suitcase. “Rocks?”

  “I thought sandbags,” she tells him, surprised that he manages to sound so… well, fluent. “But Lisa said it’s just vintage clothes.”

  “Vintage?”

  “You know Lisa. She lives her art, and she wants the cast to live it, too.” She glances out the window as a huge black vintage automobile rumbles by, a horizontal evergreen tied to the roof. Very charming, very realistic. “I’ve got to keep an eye out for the crew and find out what happened to my scene.”

  He seems as though he’s about to ask a question, but thinks better of it. Instead, he asks, “Can I help you find something?”

  “Definitely. Denton would be a great place to start.”

  “Denton?” he echoes, then nods as though a lightbulb went on. “Oh! Right this way.”

  He ushers her past a display of ladies’ hats and retro cosmetics to a row of shelves. Gesturing toward a small stack of pastel clothing of some sort, he asks, “What size?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sizes three and up come with a roll collar now. See?” He lifts a folded garment and unfurls it to reveal a child’s one-piece footed pajama with a trapdoor in back.

  Clara just stares.

  “Too big?” he asks. “Or too small?”

  “What are you doing?”

  He looks taken aback. “Showing you the Dr. Denton’s. You asked for them, didn’t you?”

  She can’t help but laugh. Uneasily. And notice that he speaks with the distinct vintage speech pattern she’s been working to learn. He must have a speaking part; maybe they even share the same voice coach. But this bit actor manages to make the dialect sound far more natural than she’s been able to manage so far.

  “No, I meant… I was looking for Denton.”

  “What’s that?”

  What’s that, he asks. Not Who’s that.

  Not that Who’s that would be any more acceptable a question under the circumstances. He should know.

  Unless…

  Unless she’s mistaken about this guy being part of the cast.

  Because anybody remotely involved with the movie would know who Denton is. In fact, anybody with the slightest knowledge of pop culture for the past three decades would know who Denton is. When it comes to Hollywood directors, he’s like Woody, or Spike, or Ang. No last name needed.

  Right. So maybe this guy is just some freak who wandered onto the set.

  Or maybe…

  “Am I being punked?” she asks, looking around for a camera crew and a bunch of practical-joker colleagues.

  “Pardon?” Again, he looks utterly clueless.

  Okay, so he’s just some random freak. Hopefully not a dangerous one. Clara checks to see how many steps it would take her to get to the door and away from him.

  “Are you all right?” the freak asks politely.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re shivering.”

  No, I’m shuddering. Big difference.

  “Why don’t you sit down? Can I get you a cup of hot coffee?” He nods at the glass percolator, then at the row of stools along the soda fountain.

  She hesitates. She’d be tempted to sit and feed her caffeine addiction even without too-tight dress shoes and an unshakable chill from the subzero temperatures.

  But shouldn’t she be…

  Where?

  Shooting a scene?

  She can’t exactly do that single-handedly, so…

  “I’d love a cup of coffee,” she informs the dimwit heartthrob, setting her purse on the counter. “I don’t suppose you have any fat-free hazelnut creamer in here, do you? That would be heaven.”

  He hesitates. “I’m afraid not.”

  Figures. So much for her vow to avoid artificial sweeteners from now on—not that the fat-free creamer would have been much healthier.

  But she’ll have to worry about chemicals and cancer later. Right now, she just needs coffee and a reality check.

  “What about Splenda?”

  “Splendid?” he echoes—sort of. “What is?”

  “What?”

  “You said something is splendid?”

  “No… never mind,” Clara says with a sigh, settling on a stool beside a Life Magazine display featuring a cover close-up of a Boeing B-17 above the ten-cent price tag.

  “I’ll just take black coffee,” she decides. “And your cell phone, if I can borrow it.” Too bad she didn’t stick hers into the antique purse. A lot of good the iPod does her now.

  “My what?”

  “Your… cell… phone,” she articulates, and wonders why she’s bothering. Obviously, this guy is clueless. About everything.

  “Phone?” He gestures at an old-fashioned black one at the far end of the counter. “Go ahead.”

  “That works?”

  “Why wouldn’t it?”

  “I thought it might be just for show.” She shrugs, lifts the heavy receiver, and waits for a dial tone.

  Instead, she hears a woman’s voice.

  “Somebody’s on the line,” she informs the guy behind the counter, who’s watching her with an expression of… concern.

  Almost as though she’s the crazy one. Yeah, right.

  “It’s the switchboard operator,” he says with a slow, troubled nod.

  “The operator? But…”

  She trails off, her head swimming in confusion, and hangs up the receiver.

  “What about your phone call?”

  “It can wait,” she says, sinking onto a vinyl-topped stool. “I just need that coffee. Please,” she remembers to add, realizing that her tone is bordering on hysteria.

  “Coming right up, Clara.”

  “Thank you…” She interlaces her icy, trembling fingers on the marble counter. “What did you say your name was?”

  “I didn’t,” he says with a smile, extending his hand to shake hers. “But it’s Jed. Jed Landry.”

  Jed Landry.

  The name slams into her like a two-by-four, taking her breath away.

  That’s when she realizes why he looks so familiar—and that he isn’t crazy after all.

  She is.

  She must be, because she recognizes not just his name—Jed Landry is the character Michael is playing in the film—but also his face.

  She saw it just a few weeks ago in a black-and-white photo in the Glenhaven Park archives—the hero soldier who’s been dead for over six decades.

 
; CHAPTER 4

  The poor thing seems to have wilted before Jed’s very eyes.

  He watches her grasp the edge of the counter with violently trembling hands, and takes a moment to note that she isn’t wearing a wedding ring before he goes on to wonder what’s wrong with her.

  Is she ill? Feeling faint? It doesn’t seem that way. Her body has gone limp, but her face is alive with…

  Shock? Fear?

  Why on earth is she staring at Jed as though she’s seeing a ghost?

  “You…” She falters. “Your… name…”

  “Jed Landry,” he repeats, perplexed by her reaction. She looks as though she’s about to keel over. “Jeepers creepers, are you all right?”

  She just shakes her head weakly.

  He comes out from behind the counter to stand beside her, fighting the sudden, inexplicable urge to touch her. In a gentlemanly way, of course. Just to keep her from slumping off the stool, as she seems in danger of doing any moment now.

  “You’re Jed… Landry?” she croaks at last.

  “That’s right.” He hesitates, then asks, “Have we, uh… met?”

  She doesn’t reply.

  No matter. He knows the answer to his own question. He might have thought she looked familiar out there, from a distance, but he’s never crossed paths with her before in his life. He would remember a woman this beautiful. And, well, this… batty.

  When she finally manages to speak again, her voice is so raspy it’s all but inaudible.

  Either she’s coming down with something, or…

  Or she’s terrified.

  He draws the latter conclusion judging by the look in her wide-set green eyes. He has no idea what’s frightened her, but clearly, she’s on the verge of panic.

  “Look, miss… I don’t know what’s eating you, but you seem—”

  “What’s today?” she asks hoarsely, urgently, clutching his sleeve. “Tell me! What day is it?”

  “It’s Monday.”

  “No, it’s… it’s Friday.” She’s almost desperate. “Friday the first. Right?”

  “No. It’s the first, but it’s Monday,” he says, feeling vaguely foolish to be arguing with her—with anyone—over the day of the week.

  “It’s Monday?” she echoes slowly. “You’re sure?”

  “I’m positive. See?” He grabs this morning’s newspaper from the stack at the end of the counter and holds it up, pointing to the date above the screaming black headline ALLIED SUCCESSES CAUSE JAPS TO ASSUME MILDER ATTITUDE.

  She frowns, peering at the Glenhaven Gazette with the intense scrutiny of a kindergartner trying to master the alphabet chart. “Monday… the first…”

  “That’s right.”

  “But… that’s a prop.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The newspaper… it’s not real?”

  Is she asking him, or telling him?

  “If it’s not real,” he says slowly, deciding she’s delusional in either case, “then what do you think I’m holding in my hands?”

  “No, I mean… the paper’s a set prop, and the date… the real date… it’s two thousand and—” Her voice seems to give way; she breaks off, lifts a trembling hand to her face, her fingertips furiously probing her forehead.

  “Two thousand… what are you talking about?”

  “The year! For God’s sake, what year is this?”

  “What year is this?” He gapes at her. She’s truly deranged—though not dangerously so. At least, he hopes not.

  “What year do you think it is?” he asks cautiously, careful not to make any sudden moves as he takes a step away from her.

  “Just tell me.” She squeezes her eyes closed, looking for all the world like a child in dread of an imminent vaccination. “Please… just say it.”

  He shrugs. “It’s 1941.”

  “No!” Her eyes fly open.

  “No?”

  “It can’t be.” She is incredulous.

  “It can’t be?” he echoes, equally incredulous. “It can’t be 1941? What can it be?”

  Clara winces and removes her hand abruptly from her head. That’s when he spots it.

  No wonder she’s dazed, he thinks, gazing at the slight hint of purple swelling above one pencil-shaded, perfectly arched eyebrow.

  He is swept by a prompt rush of relief that at least she’s not deranged. Not permanently, anyway.

  “What happened here?” he asks, stepping closer to her again, and reaching out to boldly tilt her chin up so that he can inspect her forehead. “Did you bump your head?”

  “Oh… yes. On the train. But…”

  “I’ll get you some ice.” He moves briskly around the counter and in a matter of seconds has created a makeshift ice pack from a towel. He holds it out to her. “Here… this will help.”

  She takes it and presses it to her head, murmuring, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Is there somebody you want me to contact for you? A friend, or… your husband?”

  He waits for her to tell him that she isn’t married, even as he chides himself for the shameless ploy. But he can’t help it. What red-blooded fella can overlook the opportunity to ascertain the availability of a beautiful doll like her?

  Unfortunately, a simple “No, thank you,” is her only reply.

  “You say you bumped your head on the train?” he asks. At her nod, he asks, “Did you come up from the city just a little while ago? On the 9:33?”

  Her head bobs again, most of her face shrouded by the towel so that he can no longer see her expression.

  Encouraged by the fact that she hasn’t snapped at him again, he continues the line of questioning. “What are you doing up here in Westchester? Visiting somebody?”

  She hesitates for so long he suspects she doesn’t remember. He read somewhere that head injuries can cause amnesia.

  Then she says, from behind the ice pack, “No, I’m here for… a job.”

  “You’re looking for a job? Well, it’s your lucky day”—and mine—“because I happen to be in desperate need of a sales gal.”

  You are, are you? a disbelieving voice asks in his head. What about Alice?

  Well, what about her? She’s not here. And Miss Whistle Bait here just said herself that she’s in town looking for work… didn’t she?

  “Oh, I’m not… I don’t need a job,” she says, lowering the towel and looking him in the eye at last. “I’ve got to get back to—the city,” she finishes awkwardly, as though she were about to say something else.

  Disappointment takes hold somewhere in the vicinity of his heart… which had no business beating a little faster just because of her, in the first place.

  He turns away, gladly, to pour her coffee.

  The bell on the door jangles abruptly as somebody steps in from the street.

  “The next train doesn’t come through until ten twenty-one,” he informs Clara, setting down the cup before turning toward the front of the store. “So it looks like you’re going to be here a little while longer.”

  Old Minnie Bouvier is gingerly wiping her black galoshes on the mat. “Good morning, Jed,” she calls as he strides toward her. “My, but it’s brisk out there this morning.”

  “That it is, Mrs. Bouvier.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Clara abruptly turn her head toward the newcomer. “How can I help you today?”

  “I’ll take two dozen pint-sized canning jars. They’ve got Florida oranges at twenty-five cents a dozen over at the grocery. I’m putting up the last of my marmalade this week, before I start in on the holiday baking.”

  “Well, I can hardly wait for that. I count on you to bring me one of those delicious fruitcakes of yours every year.”

  “Oh, I’ll be bringing you a few, don’t you worry. That reminds me—I need heavy brown paper to line the pans…”

  Jed points her in the right direction, then keeps one eye on Clara as he counts the jars into a sturdy carton.

  She’s still sitting there on the stool with the coffee u
ntouched in front of her, and she’s fretting. Even from several yards away he can see her wringing her hands and biting her lower lip.

  Maybe he should lock up the store after Mrs. Bouvier leaves, and take Clara over to see Doc Wilson. She might have a concussion. She sure as heck is confused, and she probably shouldn’t be boarding a train back to the city by herself.

  For a split second, he fancies himself going with her—and all but snorts out loud when he realizes how outlandish an idea that is.

  For one thing, she’s a complete stranger who, for all he knows, is married or engaged, ring or no ring.

  For another, he has a business to run. He can’t go chasing after every Able Grable who happens to cross his path.

  The trouble is, it isn’t every day that an Able Grable crosses his path here in Glenhaven Park, unless you count the gals he’s known all his life. And he doesn’t.

  “I can deliver these later this afternoon, Mrs. Bouvier,” he informs his customer, having finished counting and packing. “Or maybe sooner…”

  If Alice ever shows up.

  “Oh, there’s no rush.” She deposits her purchases—a roll of brown paper, a metal cookie cutter shaped like a bell, and a popgun, a gift for her great-nephew—on the counter. “I’ll take these with me now. How is your mother, Jed?”

  “She’s doing just fine,” he lies as he totals her purchase.

  There’s no reason to tell Mrs. Bouvier that his mother has fallen into a state of depression these last few weeks.

  It’s because of Christmas, of course.

  Another Christmas without Pop, who joyfully embodied the holiday spirit.

  That first holiday after he died, with the harsh loss raw as a coastal nor’easter, was a blur of shock and overwhelming grief.

  The one that followed brought the first anniversary—and, in the wake of initial disbelief, a somber permanence that settled over the Landry household like a burial shroud.

  It’s been two years now. Two years, today.

  Two years already, Jed thought when he stepped into the dim, chilly kitchen early this morning to see the still-empty spot at the head of the big table in the breakfast alcove. Sometimes it seems like just yesterday that Pop was sitting there enjoying his morning paper, a cup of coffee, one last Lucky Strike before heading out to open the store.