If Only in My Dreams (6 page)

“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.

“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.

Anyway, he doesn’t want to fire anyone if he can help it. When you get right down to it, he isn’t any better at handling employees than he is at dealing with customers.

Jed steps out from behind the counter to straighten a towering display of boxed lead tinsel. Spotting a gap on a nearby shelf above the bin filled with packets of gift wrap, he makes a mental note to order more Scotch Cellulose Tape dispensers.

In fact, next year, he really should have more on hand before Thanksgiving to ensure that he won’t run out so early in—

Wait a minute
.

Next year, you won’t be here, remember?

By then, he’ll have enlisted. He’ll be…

Well, anywhere but here.

The thought is as comforting as a steaming cup of cocoa would be right about now.

The century-old building is drafty this morning, and he wishes he had layered long underwear beneath the plaid wool shirt and high-waisted trousers he’s wearing under his canvas apron.

Crossing over to the plate-glass display window, he notes that the curved marquee beneath the vertical Majestic sign across the street has been changed.
Tarzan’s Secret Treasure
has replaced
They Died with Their Boots On
.

Doris thinks Johnny Weissmuller is the cat’s meow. Maybe he’ll surprise her and take her to see the new movie tonight after she finishes her homework.

Or maybe not, he decides as he replenishes a display of ribbon candy.

She’ll expect popcorn and a Coke, Necco Wafers and Licorice Snaps, and she’ll insist on sitting in the very front row and chattering nonstop as the film unfolds, asking a zillion questions about what’s happening on-screen, and things that have nothing whatsoever to do with the movie.

Jed sighs. It sure would be nice if he could see a movie with a female who doesn’t share his last name… or isn’t scheming to.

Take Betty Godfrey. She’s real whistle bait and a terrific gal, when she isn’t implying that she’d love to get engaged. If she’d just stop dropping hints and take one for a change, he might ask her out again.

Or not. Betty Godfrey is hardly his dream woman. He’s better off keeping his options open, just in case his dream woman walks through the door tomorrow.…

Which is about as likely as there being a man on the moon.

Wishful thinking is of no use to anyone
, Mother always liked to say… back when Pop was still alive.

Now, Jed suspects, wishful thinking is the only kind Mother ever does.

If only he could snap his fingers and make Pop walk through that door again.

Pop… and the girl of his dreams.

A miracle,
Jed decides.
That’s what we need around here. A miracle
…

The whistle blows.

Shouldn’t the train be slowing down by now?
Clara wonders, suddenly on edge. She doesn’t know why, but her body feels almost as though it’s been zapped with a surge of electricity, every nerve ending tingling with…

Apprehension?

A bit of fear?

They’re going so fast… they might overshoot the station if they don’t slow down.

Clara bends her head to peek out the window and gauge how close they are to town. She catches a fleeting glimpse of the low stone wall. Then she sees the back of the wooden
WELCOME TO GLENHAVEN PARK
signpost.

The train slows abruptly with a deafening, high-pitched squeal of brakes as it rounds a curve.

Clara is thrown off her feet toward the back of the car, slamming her head against the hard edge of the nearest seat.

“Ow!”

Her hand flies up to rub her temple. The pain is so stunning that for a moment she sees nothing but a blinding glare.

Then it subsides just a bit and she’s left with a dull ache.

Terrific
.

Just what she needs in the midst of filming.

A lovely bump above her eye.

A bump to match my lump,
she thinks grimly.

Cancer. I have cancer
.

She shakes her head.

I’m Violet. Violet doesn’t have cancer
.

Violet is happy, giddy, naive—about to fall in love.

At last, the train is slowing down. Turning to face forward, she looks out the window and sees a vintage Packard tooling along the road beside the tracks. In the front seat is a young extra dressed in a military uniform.

And… that’s funny. The ground is dusted with snow.

She doesn’t remember seeing snow when she left her trailer a little while ago.

But you did tell Jesus the sky looked like it
, she reminds herself, rubbing her sore forehead.

Yes, and Jesus said it was supposed to warm up and rain.

Some snowflakes must have fallen while they were setting up the scene back there. A lot of snowflakes. Enough to cover the ground and rooftops.

How the heck did I miss it?
she wonders, and decides it must be fake snow, part of the set decoration.

Then she catches a whiff of cigarette smoke.

Glancing around, she sees that two of the female extras have swiveled their seats to face each other and are puffing away.

She wrinkles her nose in disgust. Period authenticity is one thing; a public health hazard is another.

She opens her mouth to object when the conductor appears in the aisle. “Station stop is Glenhaven Park. Glenhaven Park. Next stop, Brewster. Please exit to the rear of the car.”

Clara gapes at him, wondering why he seems different. For some reason, she thought the conductor was a much older, rotund character-actor type.

He isn’t. He’s a skinny beanpole of a guy, with pockmarked cheeks and an overbite. She can’t help but feel as though she’s never before laid eyes on him in her life.

Good Lord, am I becoming so much of a diva that I’m no longer noticing the little people?

Pushing aside the troubling question, she bends to lift the suitcase Lisa stuffed with clothes.

I’m Violet. Expectant. Exhilarated. New life
.

The train chugs to a halt.

She gazes out at the platform, wondering why the crew isn’t in place.

The door opens and she steps out into the brisk December chill, purse tucked under her arm, suitcase in hand.
Brr
. Is it her imagination, or has the temperature dropped a good thirty degrees in the last ten minutes?

She descends from the train, trying not to wobble in her narrow 1940s’ heels. The wooden platform is caked with snow and ice—which
must
be real, because it’s pretty darned frigid out here.

Hmm, she could have sworn the platform was made of concrete… and shouldn’t the crew have salted it?

Oh, wait. They probably left it genuinely slippery for authenticity.