If Only in My Dreams

  He’s one of the eleven Glenhaven Park servicemen who was killed—who will be killed—in the Normandy invasion.

  She swallows hard over the knot that constricts her throat and squeezes her eyes closed to block out Walter O’Mara’s unwitting innocence.

  “Those fellas are part of my company, too,” he informs her, and she opens her eyes to see him gesturing at the other soldiers who boarded with them at Glenhaven Park.

  She nods and turns away, staring blindly out the window. She can’t bear to look at him, at any of them, knowing what’s going to happen to them all.…

  And to Jed.

  Oh, Jed.

  I wish…

  No, that’s silly.

  He was just part of my dream. And now that part is over, and any second now the whole dream will be over, and I’ll be home.

  Except…

  He was so real.

  Jed. She touched him, smelled him, can even now see his face in her mind’s eye as the train sways rhythmically, its forward motion lulling her frenzied torrent of thoughts.

  She leans her head back against the seat, exhaling heavily, trying not to remember.…

  And then, inexplicably, trying not to forget.

  The whistle blows.

  She can see every contour of Jed Landry’s face so clearly, etched against the darkened screen of her closed eyelids.

  She finds herself wondering what it would have been like to kiss him.

  Just once.

  Her breath catches in her throat as she imagines him taking her into his arms and hungrily lowering his mouth over hers the way Michael does in their big love scene.

  Except that kissing Michael is nothing like kissing the real Jed Landry. She knows that, just as she knew that beneath his stiff woolen shirt was a magnificently sculpted masculine chest, taut abs, well-defined biceps…

  Terrific. Now you’re fantasizing about seeing a man who doesn’t exist—not in your world, anyway—shirtless.

  Clara yawns, suddenly weary.

  Much too weary to prop open her eyes again, much less fight the searing images of her fantasy love scene with Jed Landry.

  So she lets them come, borne on a welcome haze of romantic illusion as the southbound train chugs on toward the city.

  Jed didn’t even lock the store when he raced out into the snow, coatless, chasing after Clara.

  What would Pop say about that?

  That I’m an irresponsible goof, and anyone could have walked in and robbed the place blind, Jed thinks grimly as he steps back inside. To his relief, he sees that the store is empty—and, at a glance, the merchandise and cash register seem intact.

  He drops Clara’s heavy suitcase with a thud and eyes it—as well as the pocketbook in his hand—dubiously.

  Now what? What is he supposed to do with this?

  What can he do? He’ll have to stash her things in the storeroom and hope she’ll come back to claim them.

  What if she doesn’t?

  You can always track her down in the city, he tells himself.

  But how? He doesn’t even know her last name.

  A quick inspection of her suitcase reveals no identification tag. Not on the outside, anyway.

  He glances at the handbag, turning it over.

  Maybe he should—

  No. Absolutely not. He can’t open a lady’s pocketbook. That’s just too… personal.

  So is the suitcase. He can’t possibly go rifling through her belongings… though his pulse does quicken shamefully at the very notion of the dainty unmentionables that are undoubtedly stashed inside.

  Jed moodily abandons the suitcase and returns to the soda fountain, stashing the pocketbook behind the counter. Picking up the barely touched glass of water, he sees that the rim is stained with her red lipstick.

  I can’t wait and I can’t drive home.… I have to take the train.

  What did she mean by that?

  She’s an enigma, through and through. Nothing about her adds up, now that he has a chance to go over everything she said and did.

  Why, if she arrived in town with luggage—meaning she had every intention of staying for awhile—would she promptly turn around and flee like the demons of hell were chasing her?

  She sure wasn’t all that upset when she first set foot in the door. Her agitation seemed to grow with every minute she spent in the store.…

  More specifically, in Jed’s company.

  In fact, now that he thinks about what transpired, it wasn’t until he actually introduced himself that Clara’s demeanor changed from vaguely confused to downright panicky.

  Her behavior makes no sense. No sense whatsoever.

  Then again… she did bump her head.

  Hard enough to leave a bruise… and perhaps, hard enough to leave her so dazed she didn’t know whether she was coming or going.

  I shouldn’t have let her get on that train alone, Jed thinks helplessly.

  To be fair, he did try to stop her. But maybe he didn’t try hard enough. He could have run a lot faster if he’d left the bags—at least the suitcase—behind.

  But the bags were the reason he was chasing her in the first place—or so he had tried to rationalize to himself as he seized the pocketbook from the counter and the bag from the floor, then impulsively ran after her.

  What was he thinking? He wasn’t thinking. If he had been, he would have remembered to act like a sensible grown man, not a dizzy schoolboy with a crush.

  Still…

  If anything happens to her, it will be my fault.

  And there’s a good chance that he’ll never even know what becomes of her.

  A good chance?

  If she doesn’t take it upon herself to come back to Glenhaven Park for her bags, he’ll never see her again.

  Unless…

  Again, he picks up her handbag, speculating. There must be some kind of identification inside.

  But he shouldn’t check.

  Really, he shouldn’t…

  Should he?

  “Good morning, Jed!” Alice explodes through the door as he wavers, her hat askew and pudgy cheeks ruddy from the cold. “I’m sorry I’m so late.… I know you’re probably sore at me, but I can explain.…”

  Jed stashes the bag back under the counter and turns away. “It’s all right, Alice,” he says absently, his mind on the enigmatic woman who dashed out of his life as unexpectedly as she came into it.

  “It… it is? It’s okay?”

  Jed blinks, sees Alice gaping at him. “It’s fine,” he says with a shrug, not in the mood for her explanation—or his own required recourse. “Just go hang up your coat and get your apron on.”

  She nods and scurries away.

  After a moment, Jed lifts Clara’s suitcase and carries it toward the back room. If Clara comes back for it, he’ll have it for her.

  And if she doesn’t come back… well, he might just decide to go looking for her.

  CHAPTER 6

  Last stop, Grand Central. Please take a moment to gather your belongings before you exit the train. Last stop, Grand Central Station.”

  Clara opens her eyes with a start, looking around in confusion.

  She’s on the train…?

  The train!

  It all comes back to her—Glenhaven Park, 1941, Jed Landry.

  A dream.

  That’s what it was. Just a dream.

  It must have been, because she’s definitely in familiar territory now: on a modern commuter train car with rows of regular—that is, uncomfortable—benches.

  And the cancer! Was it part of the dream?

  Please, God…

  After glancing around quickly to make sure she’s not being observed, she pulls the neckline of her jacket back slightly. Is it her imagination, or is there a strong hint of cigarette smoke clinging to her clothing?

  She lowers her eyes to peer down inside her blouse.

  A black chill seeps over her at the sight of the gauze bandage covering the biopsy site.

&nbs
p; That part was real.

  But the rest…

  Jabbed by a pinprick of doubt, she realizes she’d better double-check, just to be sure she really is safely back in the present.

  “Excuse me…”

  She looks up to see her seat mate—a bearded guy with a ponytail and a nose ring.

  “Can I get out?”

  “Out! Yes! I’m sorry!” Fighting the urge to hug him in all his scruffy twenty-first-century glory, she stands quickly.

  Instinctively, she checks for a bag and realizes in dismay that she doesn’t have one.

  But I did…

  In my dream.

  Feeling numb, she slips into the aisle with the other passengers filing slowly toward the open doors at the far end of the car.

  And in my dream, Jed was chasing after me with that huge suitcase and my prop purse.…

  She shakes her head to clear it, but she can only remember how Jed looked, and the sound of his voice, and the masculine smell of him.…

  It seemed so real.

  But it wasn’t.

  She’s not in Glenhaven Park, and she’s not in 1941. She’s wide awake, in the city, in her own decade… isn’t she?

  Sneaking surreptitious glances at her fellow riders, she’s reassured to see iPods, Snapple bottles, nylon backpacks, cell phones…

  She’s definitely in her own decade.

  As she steps with the crowd onto the cavernous station platform, she notices some of the other passengers shooting inquisitive glances in her direction.

  Not glances of recognition: Wasn’t she with Michael Marshall in that magazine picture I saw?

  No, these are looks of blatant curiosity, as in: What is up with that freak?

  It takes her a moment to figure out why.

  Oh. She’s still dressed in her forties’ costume, black velvet hat and all.

  So startled that she stops walking, she wonders how it’s possible.

  “Excuse me,” a man says brusquely, jostling her from behind.

  “Sorry,” she murmurs and resumes shuffling with the crowd toward the steps leading up to the main terminal.

  If she’s still dressed for her scene… then where is she coming from?

  Straight from the set, obviously.

  But she takes a car service, not a commuter train, back and forth from the city to the location shoot in Westchester County every day.

  What was she doing on a Metro-North train?

  Another man bumps into her, not even bothering to excuse himself.

  For a split second, she wistfully recalls the gentlemanly behavior of all those gallant strangers back in 1941.…

  Then she reminds herself that she wasn’t really there; it was just a dream. A dream from which she has finally awakened…

  And you most definitely don’t want to go back, she informs herself firmly.

  Emerging into the vast main concourse, she takes in the marble floors, stone walls, enormous arched windows, and vaulted turquoise sky sprinkled with golden constellations. For a moment, she wonders whether she’s back in the past.

  No, the terminal may have been restored to its prewar appearance, but the people bustling through it are decidedly contemporary. She’s still in the present.

  You never left in the first place. You just imagined that you did.

  Clara glances toward the famous four-face brass clock above the information booth, sees that it’s 11:20.

  Specifically, 11:20 A.M., judging by the light filtering through the doors leading out onto Forty-Second Street.

  The thing is…

  This whole dream scenario would make far more sense if she were waking up safe and sound in her own bed first thing in the morning, just as Tchaikovsky’s Clara did under the Christmas tree.

  That would mean her subconscious had conjured the entire day, including the time in the trailer with Jesus and setting up the scene on the train.

  Instead, it’s almost as if she began the day wide awake in the present…

  Then took an imaginary detour to the parallel date and time in the past…

  Then picked up the same day almost where she left off, yet somehow regaining consciousness on the train she boarded in 1941…

  About an hour—and sixty-five years—later.

  No, not the same train, she reminds herself.

  But a train, and one that traveled the same route as the one she boarded in her dream.

  How did she get here?

  There’s just one way to find out.

  She reaches automatically for her pocket, and her cell phone—then remembers she doesn’t have that, either.

  Only after making her way through the crowded terminal to a bank of pay telephones does she realize that she also lacks money. She has no purse, no wallet…

  What now?

  You can always call collect… can’t you?

  It’s been years since she’s done that. Does it still work the same way?

  Lifting the receiver, she dials zero, then, after a moment’s thought, Michael’s cell phone number.

  She informs the operator who comes on the line that she’s making a collect call, then waits nervously as it rings once… twice…

  Michael usually doesn’t answer unless he recognizes the number on his caller ID. In fact, even then, he rarely picks up his phone.

  This time, for whatever reason, he does, on the fourth ring. Hallelujah.

  “I have a collect call from Clara.… Will you accept the charges?”

  “Clara? God, yes… I was hoping this was… Clara, are you there?”

  “Hi, Michael,” she says tentatively as the operator clicks off. “Where are you?”

  “Where am I? In my trailer, eating saltines and drinking ginger ale.”

  Oh, right. The stomach bug.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  Feeling as foolish as she is frightened, she admits, “I’m in, um, Grand Central Station.”

  “What are you doing there?”

  I have no idea.

  Before she has a chance to come up with a plausible explanation, Michael goes on, “Listen, everybody’s going crazy looking for you.”

  “Who is everybody?”

  “Everybody on the set. Somebody said you were in the middle of blocking your train scene, and you just took off.”

  “What do they mean by that?”

  “I don’t know, that’s just what I heard. One minute you were there, on the train, and the next, you were gone. When the train pulled up to the platform for our scene, you weren’t on it.”

  “No, I was on it,” she protests defensively, without thinking. “You were the one who wasn’t on the platform!”

  There’s a moment of silence.

  Then Michael says slowly, “I was there, Clara. And so was Denton. And the rest of the crew, and the camera equipment. Everything was set. But you weren’t there.”

  “I… I’m sorry,” she murmurs, thoughts spinning.

  It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense.

  “Look, I figured you must have just freaked out or something—you know, with everything you’ve got going on.”

  The cancer. He knows; she told him about it yesterday.

  “I didn’t want to say anything to anyone,” Michael goes on, lowering his voice, “but you’d better explain it to Denton. And fast. Right now, according to Bobby”—Bobby would be the unit production manager—“Denton thinks you’re on drugs or something.”

  “Drugs?” she echoes incredulously.

  “Yeah, I guess this is what used to happen on the set of his last film when he was directing that strung-out crackhead who ended up winning the Golden Globe. Anyway, I tried to convince Bobby you aren’t on drugs, but I don’t know if he believed me.”

  “I’ll call Bobby as soon as I get home.”

  “Home? You’re not coming back?”

  “I can’t.” Not without a cent in her pocket—or a clue how she got here.

  Michael pauses, then asks, “Do you need anything, Cla
ra?”

  Just a reality check, she thinks grimly. Aloud, she assures him that she’s fine—or rather, that she will be. “I just have to pull myself together. It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  “I know it has. But you’re going to get through this. You’re a tough cookie.”

  “Well, today, I think the cookie is crumbling.”

  After hanging up, she steps out onto the street into a steady drizzle falling from a gray sky.

  She’ll have to walk all the way home to Eleventh Street. That’s over thirty blocks… in shoes that feel like torture devices.

  She’ll just have to take it slowly. At least the fresh air will give her a chance to clear her head.

  Forty-Second Street is teeming with midday traffic and pedestrians. She makes her way to the opposite side and rounds the corner onto Park Avenue, heading downtown toward her apartment.

  Wishing she had an umbrella, she notes that it’s an unseasonably warm day for December.

  How strange that it was just snowing…

  In my dream.

  That’s all it was. She hit her head on the train before blocking her scene, then blanked out everything that happened after that—like finding her way out of the vintage train car and onto a southbound train—all the while dreaming that she had gone back in time.

  It just seemed so real.…

  All of it.

  Especially Jed Landry.

  Why was he a part of it?

  Then again, why wouldn’t he be?

  She supposes it only makes sense that she would dream about him.… She was, after all, preparing herself to fall in love with him.

  Just… not with the real Jed.

  With Michael playing Jed.

  If she was going to fantasize about Jed Landry in her dreams, wouldn’t she see him as Michael? Why would she see him as… himself?

  It isn’t as though she’s even given much thought to that black-and-white photograph she glimpsed weeks ago in the Glenhaven Park library, in the local history room. She’s given it no thought at all, really.

  Yet she must have filed Jed Landry’s image away in her subconscious.

  Right, and it was jarred loose when I smacked my head, she thinks wryly.

  And now that he’s in her brain, floating around—well, she can’t seem to shake him. She can still see him as clearly as she did when he was standing right in front of her.…