If Only in My Dreams (19 page)

At least six hours to go before he can depart on his mission to find Clara.

Find her… and then what?

CHAPTER 9

A
steady rain is falling as the black town car eases down Fifth Avenue.

The driver has the radio tuned to AM, 1010 WINS, with its endless news, traffic, and weather.

And thanks to Jesus deJesus, Clara’s head is tuned, as it has been since this morning, to an endless replay of “Midnight Train to Georgia.”

Which wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t remind her of Jed Landry.

But then, today, what hasn’t?

Determined to keep those disturbing thoughts at bay, she sits huddled in the backseat, gazing out at the surprisingly heavy Saturday-night traffic.

Or perhaps not so surprising.
After all
, Clara remembers,
it’s December now. Manhattan is always extra crowded at this time of year
.

Mesmerized by the red brake lights reflected on the shiny pavement, she can’t help but remember happier holiday seasons.

From the time she was a little girl, her grandfather always took her to see
The Nutcracker
on the first Saturday night in December, just as he always did her mother. In fact, Clara was named for the little girl in the ballet, who was given the unexpected Christmas gift of a nutcracker—then saw it come magically to life in her Christmas Eve dream.

Maybe she and I have more in common than just a name
, Clara finds herself thinking—and immediately drags herself away from that topic.

She’d rather dwell on pleasant, uncomplicated thoughts tonight. Like her annual
Nutcracker
outing with Grandpa.

He always called it “a date with my best gal”—and she thought the words always sounded a little hollow. When she got older, Clara came to understand that his real “best gal” had been his beloved Irene. Grandpa liked to talk about how he didn’t mind getting older, because it meant that he was getting closer to seeing his Irene again.

Though sometimes, when he looked at Clara, he would smile and say it was almost the same thing.
Almost
.

Clara-belle, you look more and more like your grandmother
, he used to tell her.

He was the only one who ever called her Clara-belle.

God, I miss him
, she thinks, turning her head against the seat back and blinking away unexpected tears.

So much for pleasant, uncomplicated thoughts.

It’s been awhile since she cried over her grandfather, who lived to the ripe old age of eighty-three.

“In your sleep—that’s the way to go,” he liked to say, as the years piled on. “None of this wasting away slowly. One day you just don’t wake up, and boom! It’s over.”

Which was exactly what happened a few years ago. He had a sudden heart attack in his sleep.
Boom! It was over
.

For Clara, the only comfort in the wake of his death was that he did it his way—and that he was at last with his true best gal again.

She knows that; she can feel it… and sometimes, when she’s alone, she can almost convince herself that she just glimpsed the two of them out of the corner of her eye.

Yes, and she once made the mistake of saying that to Jason.

“You believe in ghosts, Clara? Are you kidding me?”

“I believe that my grandparents are together somewhere. And that sometimes they’re with me.”

“But… they’re dead.” As if she didn’t know. “Where is it that you think they are? In heaven?”

“Maybe. Or maybe back here on earth.”

“You mean reincarnated?”

“Maybe. Who knows? Maybe they were both reborn as babies right now, and they’re going to grow up and find each other and fall in love all over again.”

“Sometimes I really worry about you, Clara. Some things you get into your head are just… out there.”

And everything in
his
head was just… completely pragmatic. He’s never believed in anything. An afterlife, or reincarnation, or miracles, or Santa Claus, or God, or creative thinking, or…

Or Clara herself.

Not even when her yearly income surpassed his.

“Mine is a salary,” he would say. “It’s not going to go away tomorrow.”

Implying that her income—and her career—could evaporate in a puff of smoke any minute.

And, okay, it very well could.

But Clara is accustomed to the unpredictability of her life. She thrives on the whimsical nature of her business, on being paid for creativity.

Jason, who possesses not an ounce of whimsy, just didn’t get it.

She can just imagine what he would say if she tried to explain what happened to her yesterday.

Covering a tremendous yawn, she’s grateful that she isn’t due back on the set until Monday morning, when they’ll shoot the train scene.

What a relief it will be tomorrow to catch up on her sleep, maybe go to the gym, or watch a movie.

Or she could—

No. Absolutely not. That’s a bad idea
.

One she’s been toying with all day, but a bad idea nonetheless.

Spotting the familiar green awning of the landmark prewar apartment building on the corner of Fifth and West Eleventh—Mr. Kobayashi said Marlon Brando lived there back in the forties—she straightens in her seat.

Almost home. She zips her parka to her chin as the town car turns onto West Eleventh Street, past the looming Gothic facade of the First Presbyterian Church on the corner.

Gazing down the block, she can see Christmas lights twinkling from several buildings, isolated to the windows of apartments occupied by particularly festive tenants. Swept
by a wave of nostalgia, she wonders what it was like when all of these nineteenth-century townhouses were single-family homes.

The car glides across Sixth Avenue, where the elevated trains once ran. Mr. Kobayashi once said that one of his earliest childhood memories was watching the overhead trestles being demolished when the avenue was widened. He also wistfully told her about the beautiful architectural complex that used to stand on the corner. Rhinelander Gardens, it was called, and it looked like something out of New Orleans’s French Quarter. Mr. Kobayashi said the structures were razed back in the fifties to make way for P.S. 41.

Trying to block out the school, along with Ray’s Pizza on the opposite corner, Clara pictures the neighborhood back in Jed Landry’s time—then finds herself feeling both wistful and vaguely uneasy.

“Here we are, Ms. McCallum.” Don, the driver, double-parks in front of her building and gets out to open her door. “Careful not to get wet. You don’t want to get sick.”

If you only knew
, she thinks grimly.

Holding an umbrella above her head, Don escorts her up the steps to her door. He tips his cap and is gone.

I should thank Mr. Kobayashi for the sweet note and Bing Crosby CD,
Clara reminds herself as she steps into the warm, dry, well-lit vestibule.

She descends to his apartment on the basement level and knocks.

No reply other than the squealing tires and wailing sirens of a police car chase, clearly audible from the television inside.

She knocks again, harder.

This time, the volume is promptly lowered and she hears footsteps, chains rattling, bolts sliding.

“Ms. McCallum!” The super peers out at her in surprise. “What happened? Did you get mugged again?”

“No, I’m all set tonight, see?” She holds up her purse and her keys.

“You got your stuff back!”

“Er—yes.”

“Where did the perp leave it? Dumpster? Trash can? Mailbox? I saw that one once, on
Columbo.”

Ignoring the query, she quickly changes the subject. “I just wanted to thank you again for letting me into the building yesterday, and for that sweet little gift you left at my door. That really cheered me up.”

“Sweet gift?” Mr. Kobayashi frowns. “What sweet gift?”

“You know…” Clara smiles. “The CD.”

He just looks at her blankly.

So he’s going to play dumb.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Kobayashi.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

All right, maybe she should just let him be a secret Santa if that’s how he wants it. And that definitely seems to be how he wants it.

“I didn’t leave you a sweet CD gift,” Mr. Kobayashi says nervously, with a glance over his shoulder.

“You didn’t?” she asks, playing along.

“No! I’m a married man!”

Hearing a pot lid rattle in the kitchen, Clara realizes that the semireclusive Mrs. Kobayashi must be eavesdropping.
Oops
.

“I’m sorry, I guess it was somebody else,” she says hastily.

“I guess so. It wasn’t me.”

Hmm
. His tone is so forceful and his expression so stern that she’s almost inclined to believe him.

But if he didn’t leave the CD at her door, then who did? It’s not as though somebody could just walk into the building off the street and up the stairs to her door. Nobody roams the halls unless they live here.

Although…

She has a sudden, disconcerting memory of the mystery lady lurking in the shadows of her building last night, wanting to talk to her.

Well, no worries about being stalked by a fiend if it came from her. There’s nothing sinister about a Bing Crosby CD, that’s for sure.

When she reaches the second floor, Clara finds herself thoughtfully glancing at Drew Becker’s closed door. She can hear music playing on the other side.

Christmas music, she realizes with a smile, recognizing Perry Como’s croon… and going absolutely still.

Drew Becker?

Maybe
.

Well, who else could it have been?

Jason?

He did pop up on her voice mail, saying he had to talk to her about something important.

He still has the keys. He could theoretically have done it.…

But he wouldn’t. It would be too sweet a gesture, too… whimsical. As she was just reminding herself earlier, Jason doesn’t have a whimsical bone in his body.

So… what, you think Drew Becker does?

Chewing her lower lip, she ponders the likelihood that her new neighbor left the CD and the note. After all, they were just talking about Christmas, and how she would be spending the holiday alone this year.…

And she did seem to have some kind of split-second connection with him when they first met in November, and again on the stoop the other day.

Split-second
being the key. And it wouldn’t be the first time she’s experienced a passing attraction to someone since Jason. Or before Jason, for that matter.

Still…

You’ve got more baggage than a cross-country flight
.

And Drew isn’t your type
.

So what’s up, then?

You just want to focus your romantic attention on somebody other than the mythical Jed Landry, right?

Wrong
.

Romantic? This isn’t about romance. This is about being neighborly. And gracious. And getting into the holiday spirit.

That’s
all
this is about.

In Drew’s apartment, Perry Como sings about a man who lives in Tennessee heading for Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie.

Clara can’t help echoing along under her breath, “…
some pumpkin pie.”

That was always one of her favorite Christmas songs.

Smiling, Clara walks slowly over to the door and raises her hand to knock.

Then, mingling with the lyrics “…
From Atlantic to Pacific,”
Clara distinctly hears a laugh on the other side of the door.

A female laugh.

“… Betty…” rumbles a male voice.

She immediately lowers her hand and turns away.

So Mr. New-in-Town already has a girlfriend. Betty. That sure didn’t take long.

Oh, come on, Clara. Why do you even care?

Why? Because this is obviously Lust After Totally Inappropriate Men Week.

First Jed Landry, now Drew Becker…

Not that she’s lusting after Drew Becker.

Still…

Next thing you know, I’ll be calling Jason back
, she thinks as she hurries up the last flight of stairs to her apartment, shaking her head in dismay.

No way. She’s as finished with her ex as she is with…

Well, with daydreaming—or any other dreaming—about Jed Landry.

As for Drew Becker…

Maybe he left the CD.

And maybe he didn’t.

Maybe it was the old lady.

And maybe it wasn’t.

She can only hope that somehow, everything will be much clearer after she’s had a good night’s sleep.

Standing on the street in front of the Wilkenses’ bungalow, Jed is reassured by the lamplight spilling from the windows.

Somebody’s still awake at almost ten o’clock on a Tuesday evening. With luck, it will be Arnold and not Maisie.

Of course, the mere possibility that it might be Maisie who answers the door is almost enough to send Jed scurrying in the opposite direction.

But if he does that, there will be no chance of getting to the city tonight. He can’t patch the tire on his father’s DeSoto—he tried and quickly figured out that it needs to be replaced. Unfortunately, the dealer is closed for the night.