by Mary Kennedy
An interesting idea, even though I’m not sure I agree with her. Poor Ali, I think she’s a frustrated psychologist.
Lucinda nodded politely, but I could see my sister’s analysis didn’t strike a chord with her, either.
“You say it was the produce aisle? I’m not sure what that brings to mind, but I’d certainly like to hear more about it.” Persia Walker scored a tiny glazed fruit tart from the tray. Our eyes met and she gave me a sheepish grin before adding a cream puff and two double-chocolate brownies to her plate.
I knew Persia was doing Weight Watchers and idly wondered how many points those pastries would cost her. I squashed the thought and tried to focus on the discussion. Some things are better left unexamined.
Persia had told me before the meeting that she has the strong feeling there’s a mystery man buried somewhere in my past. She said it could be the remote past, going back several centuries. I raised my eyebrows and Persia looked disappointed when I told her that I don’t have any loves—lost, found, recent, or long ago. Persia promised to loan me the DVD of Somewhere in Time and said that it would all become clear to me. She predicted that true love was waiting right around the corner.
Wrong. At thirty-two years old, I’m happily single and I intend to stay that way for a long time.
“I just remembered something,” Lucinda piped up. “One of the workers in the produce aisle told me they were having a special on mangoes.” She frowned. “Or maybe it was the manager who told me. It’s probably not significant, but—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, of course it’s significant, Lucinda,” Dorien cut in. “You should have mentioned you spoke with someone in your dream.” She shook her head and blew out an exasperated sigh. “You have to be precise about these things. Every detail counts, you know. I’m not sure what mangoes represent, maybe the tropics, or exotic places. Perhaps something you’re striving for, that’s just out of reach.” She paused. “Does that strike a chord with you?”
Dorien has a thin, angular face, and her heavy dark brows knitted together as her chin jutted forward like a bulldog’s. Her sleek black hair was cut chin-length, on the diagonal, and one side fell forward, covering her cheek for a moment.
“I simply don’t know. I just have a vague sense of the big picture. It’s really hard to get every little detail straight.” A defensive note had crept into Lucinda’s voice, and I noticed she was twisting her hands together in her lap, probably regretting she had ever mentioned the Publix dream.
Dorien brushed her hair back from her face with a choppy gesture and tucked it behind her ear. “Details are important, Lucinda. Everything in a dream has meaning. I’ve said that a thousand times. Everything!”
Dorien has the reputation of being prickly, and from my brief acquaintance with her, I can see that she’s the kind of person who always has to be right. She glanced around the group, as if daring anyone to disagree with her. Our eyes met, and I did my best to look intrigued by her latest pronouncement. This was my first introduction to the Dream Club, and I wasn’t going to risk opening myself up to Dorien’s scathing tongue.
“I just remembered something else,” Lucinda said, brightening. “I noticed the floor was black-and-white tiles. An Art Deco pattern, like something you’d see in the foyer of a mansion.”
“That’s interesting.” My sister leaned forward, her expression rapt with interest. “Black-and-white tiles. Are we talking symbolism here?”
Symbolism. Again. Ali and I are polar opposites. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we’re biologically related. She’s a soft-spoken, creative type, and I’m a high-level bean counter with an MBA from Wharton. I have to admit, Ali loses me when she prattles on about universal symbols and Jungian archetypes. I’m a bottom line kind of girl (“Show me the money”), and Allison has her head in the stars. As a freelance business consultant, I specialize in taking failing businesses and turning them into success stories.
I usually work with Fortune 500 companies, but I flew in to Savannah to help save my sister’s vintage candy shop. It might take a few weeks or a few months, it’s hard to tell. Ever since both our parents passed away, Ali is my only family and I feel like it’s the two of us against the world.
“Yes, I think you nailed it. It’s highly symbolic.” Sybil Powers nodded her head. Ali told me Sybil was one of the early members of the group and she likes to call herself a “dream-hopper.”
I’d never heard the term, but Sybil claims to be able to interject herself into other people’s dreams. It doesn’t seem to matter if the dreamer is dead or alive, and the dream can have taken place ages ago. Apparently time doesn’t have any relevance in dreamland.
According to Sybil, dreams go on forever. They continue to exist, somewhere in the cosmos, and astute dreamers can tap into them. I know it sounds crazy, because, after all, how can you tune into someone else’s dream?
I have a hard time wrapping my head around that idea, but as Sybil says, “If love is eternal and the universe is infinite, why shouldn’t dreams continue to exist as well?” The whole question is a little too metaphysical for me, but the other Dream Club members seem to eat it up.
Earlier in the evening, Sybil had treated us to a dream she’d “visited.” The dreamer was a Confederate soldier, sleeping in a field tent near Leesburg, Virginia, longing to see his beloved once more. He dreamt that the two of them were reunited and walking hand in hand down a lovely, magnolia-lined path that led to a mansion right out of Gone with the Wind. Sybil described the dream in great detail. She said she was simply a bystander; she observed the soldier’s dream and didn’t interject herself in any way.
“I’d look for the subtext in the dream about the supermarket,” Sybil said, pulling me back to the present. “Black and white, that’s an easy one. It clearly means good and evil.” She paused a moment to let that sink in. “The produce aisle is just incidental, it’s the opposing forces angle that interests me. Black and white, good and evil, yin and yang.”
She pushed her rimless glasses down on her nose and peered at Lucinda. “Is there anything you feel guilty about, Lucinda? Anything that’s troubling you? It could be you’re repressing something, and the material is coming out in dream form.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Lucinda said, shooting a nervous look at Dorien. “I can’t imagine what it could be.” She hesitated, as if she were tempted to say more, but like many people, she seemed a little intimidated by Dorien’s high-voltage personality.
I haven’t made up my mind about Dorien, but Allison swears she’s a softie under that hard shell. When Allison first arrived in Savannah, Dorien had gone out of her way to be kind and welcoming. She’d brought her a gift basket and taken her to a local merchants’ association dinner. She even brought organic fish treats for Barney and Scout, Ali’s adored cats, who were napping in the front window, oblivious to the discussion going on around them.
Of course, her motives might have had more to do with good business than friendship, I thought with a certain degree of cynicism. Dorien’s tarot-reading shop is right down the street from Ali’s candy shop, and I know that Dorien is also trying to launch a separate business as a personal chef. Many of the businesses in the district try to cross-promote each other, and she may have decided that she could target Ali’s customers for her new business ventures.
Samantha was growing restive beside me, and I hoped Ali was getting ready to conclude the meeting. “C’mon, let’s wrap this up, it’s time to go,” the young detective muttered under her breath.
Samantha grabbed a handful of Jordan almonds and inched over to the edge of the settee as if ready to bolt out of the room. She’d already mentioned that she was working the evening shift for the Savannah PD tonight and was reporting for duty at ten o’clock sharp.
“Anybody have any final thoughts?” Allison asked, glancing at the antique schoolhouse clock that graced the back wall. “It’s almost nine
thirty.”
“I had a very strange dream,” Persia piped up. “More of a nightmare, actually. It was all about a murder right here in Savannah.”
2
Bingo! Now we’re getting to something interesting. I found myself coming out of my sugar rush and snapping to attention. A murder in Savannah! Finally, a dream that I could relate to. With my extensive knowledge of TV crime shows, I might actually be able to contribute something to the discussion.
Persia perched on the edge of the sofa, her eyes glowing with excitement. The room fell silent and she wriggled expectantly in her seat, thrilled to be the center of attention.
I noticed that Gina Santiago froze in her chair. Her hand was trembling so much, she had to put her cappuccino down on the glass-topped coffee table. Gina is a flamboyant young woman who works as an instructor in the Latin dance studio right across the street.
“A murder?” Samantha Stiles asked sharply, shifting into detective mode. “When did it take place? Was the perpetrator caught and convicted?”
Persia shook her head. “Oh, it hasn’t taken place yet, that’s what’s so confusing. It’s a vision from the future. I have a very strong image of the victim, but the details of his death are a little fuzzy. I’m sure there’s some evil force at work, though. There’s a dark presence in the dream, but I can’t get a handle on it.” She gave a little shudder. “I have the strange feeling the killer is someone I know, even though that makes no sense to me. I’m sure I’ve never met anyone who’s capable of murder.”
“Everyone’s capable of murder,” Gina said, her voice barely a whisper. I glanced at her to see if she was kidding, but she looked dead serious. Her expression was stony, impassive.
“Wait a minute, Persia, you said his death,” Samantha cut in. “So the victim is a man? You’re sure of that?” This was the most enthusiasm Samantha had shown all evening. I almost expected her to whip out her tiny tape recorder to capture Persia’s remarks, but I sensed an undercurrent of doubt in her tone.
Persia nodded. “Yes, it’s definitely a man. That’s the one thing I can say with complete confidence.”
“But you don’t have any idea of when it’s going to happen? Or where?” Now Samantha’s tone had turned skeptical, and I wondered if she was writing off Persia’s dream as pure fantasy.
“No idea at all, I’m afraid.” Persia spread her hands dramatically in front of her as if she were peering into an imaginary crystal ball. “I could see him quite clearly, but his back was turned to me. He was tall and well built; I’d say he was a man in his thirties or forties, in the prime of his life. I remember vivid colors and flashing lights. There was a pack of wolves circling him, they looked terrifying, menacing. I saw flashes of red everywhere, and there was loud music playing in the background.” She paused for a moment. “I’m positive about the music. I remember wishing someone would turn the volume down. The noise level was awful, and I was getting a splitting headache.”
“Someone was murdered, and you heard loud music. What kind of music?” Samantha’s tone had flattened to the verbal equivalent of an eye roll.
Persia flushed. “It was very loud Latin music. I wasn’t at all fond of it. I prefer classical music, you know. It helps me concentrate when I meditate and do my dream work.”
“What else do you remember about the dream?” I asked, intrigued in spite of my doubts.
“Not much,” Persia admitted. She squinted her eyes tightly shut for a moment as if she were trying to re-create the scene in her mind. “I did see a silver serving tray and a lovely dinner laid out on a snowy white tablecloth. It might have been in a restaurant or it might have been someone’s home. The lighting was soft and there were candles. First everything was fine, and then”—she gave a little shudder—“the dream turned into fragments. I saw the man eating dinner, and the very next moment, he just keeled over and collapsed on the floor.” She put a hand to her chest and made a fluttery gesture. “It gave me quite a start, and I sat straight up in bed, my heart beating like a rabbit’s.”
For a moment there was dead silence while we all absorbed this.
“What makes you think the man was murdered?” Ali asked. “He might have had a heart attack, or maybe had low blood sugar and blacked out. There are loads of possibilities besides murder.” She gave a little shrug. “He could have had a seizure or he could have fainted.”
“I’m not really sure how I know this,” Persia said vaguely. “But I absolutely am convinced he was murdered. I wish I could remember more details. I did notice something strange, though. There was a serpent in the dream—a black snake on a red background.”
“A serpent,” I said under my breath. “That could mean anything, right?” I happen to like snakes and think they’ve been given bad press. The majority of them are harmless and just want to sun themselves on a warm rock and live out their lives undisturbed by spade-wielding humans.
“I think it would indicate evil. There I go with more symbolism,” Persia added with a light laugh. “And I’m not sure what the red and black meant, maybe something Satanic? I’m not clear on that.”
Persia fell silent then and Allison looked at her watch. “Well, I guess we should stop for tonight,” she said. “That’s certainly a fascinating dream, Persia. Maybe we should pick up at that point next week. I think there’s a lot of material here for us to work on. So if that’s all . . .”
“Just one more thing . . .” Dorien began. She held up her index finger in a move that reminded me of Columbo, the television detective from years ago who always had one more question. “Before we go, I have some advice for Lucinda. I’d like you to try to dream about shopping in Publix again.”
Lucinda blinked. “How would I do that?”
“Just remind yourself to think about the supermarket as you drift off to sleep. See the produce aisle in your mind’s eye. It would be really helpful if you could have another dream so we can analyze it more carefully. And try to pay more attention this time,” she said, a snide tone creeping into her voice. “Notice the surroundings, the weather, the time of day, your emotions, everything you’re feeling and experiencing. Think of taking a mental snapshot of the image and then locking it in your memory banks.” She gave Lucinda a sharp look. “Do you think you can do that?”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Well, I can certainly give it a try,” Lucinda said quickly, grabbing her purse. Like Samantha, she seemed eager to make her getaway. “Thanks for the goodies, Ali,” she added, standing up. “Everything was delicious, as always.”
“My pleasure,” Ali said. Our eyes met and she gave a tiny frown and then an almost imperceptible nod toward Dorien. I knew we both were thinking the same thing: sometimes this woman is simply impossible!
Sybil was the last to leave, stopping for a moment to pet Barney, who’d roused from his slumber and gave her that slow blink that cats do when they’re fond of someone. “Such a handsome boy,” she murmured, running her hand over his glossy coat. She turned and touched my arm. “So nice to have you with us, Taylor. I expect you’ll be in town for a while?”
“Oh, I certainly hope so. I think it would be easy to fall in love with Savannah.”
“Indeed it is,” she agreed. “I’ve spent my whole life here and I’m still discovering beautiful places to visit and things to do.” She moved closer and I caught a whiff of her delicate lavender perfume. “Anytime you want a guide, I’ll be happy to give you a tour of the city.”
“Thanks, that’s really nice of you.”
“Have a good night’s rest and try to think pleasant, healing thoughts before you go to sleep,” she said in a low voice. “You don’t dream at all anymore, do you?”
She caught me by surprise. “Well, no, actually I don’t.” My mind zinged. How does she know this about me?
Sybil nodded. “I think I know why. I have the feeling that you don’t allow yourself to have dreams”—she paused—�
�because you had a bad experience sometime in your life. Maybe you had night terrors as a child. That would be my best guess, my dear. At some level, I think you’re afraid to dream so you’re blocking them. Your fear is holding you back, and that’s not healthy.”
I blinked in surprise. Her best guess? She was right on target. It’s true that I suffered from night terrors as a child, but there was no way in the world Sybil could have known this. I walked her to the front door, wondering if the woman really could be psychic.
“I know the night terrors were disturbing to you,” she said softly, giving me a keen look, “but it’s best not to read too much into them. Just try to put them out of your mind, if you can. Everyone has vivid, disturbing dreams from time to time, and I don’t recommend dwelling on them. By keeping yourself from dreaming, you’re not letting your subconscious mind do the work it needs to do. “
“Thank you, I’ll be sure to remember that.” I felt a little chill go through me, but I tried to keep my tone neutral and plastered a bland expression on my face.
“Bad dreams happen for a reason, Taylor,” she said carefully. Her voice was now barely a whisper, her eyes were full of shadows. “They have something to tell us, and the message becomes apparent soon enough. You know what they say, the truth always comes out in the end.” She paused. “Oh, and tell Barney he can find that little catnip mouse—the blue one with the orange tail—under the refrigerator. He lost it a week ago, and I finally had a dream about it last night.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him.” My eyes widened, and I caught myself wondering if this woman was for real. “I know he’ll appreciate it.” She dreams about cats and their lost toys?