by Mary Kennedy
“I’m glad you’re awake, but I bet you didn’t sleep well,” I said, jumping up from the window seat to pour her some coffee.
She glanced over at me, her expression blank for a moment, as if she’d forgotten I was there. “I’m fine,” she said with a touch of irritation in her voice. She ran her hand through her tousled blond hair and reached for a cheerful mug hand-painted with bright red peonies. “I just need some time to wake up. I’m always like this first thing in the morning.” She picked up the coffeepot, sniffed at it, wrinkled her nose, and put it down. “I think I’ll start with some chamomile tea. It’s easier on the stomach than caffeine. I’ll switch to coffee later, if I really need it.” She seemed to be avoiding looking at me directly, and I noticed her eyes were red and puffy as if she’d been crying.
“I can make that for you,” I said quickly. “Maybe you should just sit down and relax, Ali. This has been a trying time for all of us.” I opened a cabinet and started rummaging through the shelves when she put her hand on my arm.
“Taylor, I wish you wouldn’t fuss like this.” She blew out a little sigh. “You’re hovering over me night and day, and it makes me feel like I’m eight years old. I’ve lived on my own for quite a while, you know, while you were off in Chicago doing the corporate thing.” Doing the corporate thing? Could it be that she was jealous of my success? We’d taken two completely different career paths, and I never thought she envied my choice. She looked at me directly then, pursed her lips, and reached past me for a box of tea tucked away on the top shelf.
“Oh, sorry,” I said, immediately chastened. “I didn’t mean to hover and interrupt your morning routine.” I mustered a smile. “I’m impossible without coffee, and I tend to forget that not everyone is like me.”
“Yes, you do tend to forget that,” she said flatly, filling the kettle with water. “I like to take my time waking up, that’s all. You’re fired up on all cylinders and ready to go when your feet hit the floor,” she said in a softer tone. “That’s good for you, but it doesn’t work for me.” She padded downstairs and I heard her open the front door. A moment later, she appeared back upstairs with the morning paper in hand. From the expression on her face, it didn’t look like her mood had improved.
Ali settled herself at the table, absorbed in the paper, and I stood awkwardly by the kitchen counter, wondering what to do next. The silence stretched out between us, and the kitchen was deathly still except for the ticking of the retro Kit-Cat Klock above the sink. The cat’s revolving eyes and pendulum tail moved in time to the seconds ticking by, and I watched it blankly for a moment, my thoughts on my sister. Ali was clearly upset, but there seemed to be nothing I could say or do to comfort her.
Was it just Chico’s death, or was something else going on? Was she worried about the success of the shop, and had yesterday’s sad news pushed her into a bout of depression? She’d had such a take-charge attitude last night, calling for the emergency meeting of the Dream Club, and now she appeared listless, almost lethargic. What had happened to cause the downward spiral? I wondered if she’d tried to dream about Chico, as Persia had instructed us. I didn’t dare ask her because it was painfully obvious that she was not in a chatty mood this morning.
I poured myself another cup of coffee and debated what to do next. When Ali steadfastly refused to look up from the paper, I gathered up my notepad, intending to head to my bedroom to regroup.
“Taylor,” Ali said in a tiny voice. I turned and she offered me a tremulous, fleeting smile. “I didn’t mean to be such a grouch. This whole thing with Chico—it’s just been a shock to me, you know?”
“Yes, of course I do,” I said, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. “It was an enormous shock to everyone.”
“I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, though,” she said with a sad, hopeless look in her eyes. “I know you’re just trying to be helpful.”
“Things always seem a million times worse when you don’t sleep,” I offered.
“Oh, but I did sleep,” she replied, her voice wobbly. “But I dreamed about Chico all night long.”
12
I was sorting out the luscious collection of gummy bears a few hours later when the Harper sisters stopped in to buy some horehound drops. I have to admit, I’m not a big fan of the root beer–colored hard candies. Perhaps they’re an acquired taste. Horehound drops definitely fall into the “retro” category of confections, and I think Ali stocks them just for Minerva and Rose. I suspect they’re not technically a candy at all, as people use them during cold and flu season as throat lozenges.
You either love them or hate them, and I happen to fall into the latter category. I much prefer lemon, sassafras, or wild cherry drops if I’m trying to ward off a scratchy throat.
“Would you like to try a sample of the gummy bears? We just got them in, all new flavors.” I reached for a scoop, ready to offer them tiny paper cups filled with candy.
“They look lovely,” Minerva said, her bright eyes scanning the display. “I didn’t realize gummies came in so many colors. Did you arrange them? You did a lovely job, Taylor, very artistic.” She tapped her sister on the shoulder and urged her to take a peek at the counter. I’d just finished cleaning the glass and had arranged the candy in colorful rows and concentric circles.
“Artistic?” I flushed with pleasure. “Well, I don’t know about that, but I never realized how much fun it is to work on a display case.” I walked around the front of the counter to take another look at my work. As a lifelong “bean counter,” I’ve always assumed I didn’t have an artistic bone in my body. So Minerva’s remarks were high praise, indeed.
“There’s quite a collection,” I said encouragingly. “Almost every flavor you can think of: wild cherry, cinnamon, blue raspberry, and green apple. There’s even a sugar-free version; those are popular with some folks.”
“Oh, we absolutely have to bring home some gummies,” Minerva said. “We don’t need to sample them, dear. Just wrap up a pound and a half, Taylor. Not the sugar-free kind, the regular ones.”
“Any particular flavor?”
“No, just mix them all up, dear.” She paused and looked at the neat rows of pastel disks on the bottom shelf. “And add a pound of Necco Wafers, will you? My godson, Trevor, loves those.”
“And he likes the chocolate coins that come in the little mesh bags,” Rose reminded her.
“Yes, he does, glad you said that,” Minerva said. “Add a couple of those, please.”
The two sisters helped themselves to some fresh lemonade, and while I wrapped up their purchases, they chatted about a neighbor who was hospitalized. “She was a Porter,” Minerva said idly, “and they’ve never had strong constitutions. Weak stomachs and nervous disorders. Of course, she was a Hooper by birth, but I think she had ties to the Campbells back in the sixties.”
“Yes, her second cousin twice removed was a Campbell,” Rose agreed. “And her great-aunt was a Guthrie. The Guthries had a few black sheep in the family, as I recall.”
“Oh Lordie, yes, I remember back in the day . . .” I tuned out while Minerva took a trip down memory lane, recalling people and events from half a century ago.
The Harpers seem to know everyone in Savannah, and it occurred to me that they might be privy to some interesting facts about Chico’s background. I had the feeling that they hadn’t revealed everything they knew last night at the Dream Club meeting. Could they deliberately be holding back some key information? The thought crossed my mind that they might be protecting someone. But who? Chico was fairly new to the area, and I couldn’t picture him having any strong family ties or social connections. As Lucinda said, “He was an outsider.”
I tuned back into the Harper sisters’ conversation and had to bite back a smile. The sisters had moved on to more recent scandalous events in Savannah high society and had strong opinions on what was acceptable and what was out of bounds.
> “So the children from his first marriage attended his wedding on the yacht?” Minerva was asking in an incredulous tone. “Wasn’t that a bit awkward?”
“Very. And actually, it was the children from his first two marriages who attended the wedding and reception on board,” Rose said, lifting her eyebrows. She held up two fingers for emphasis. “Two former marriages. Six children total, and one of them is older than his new bride.” She gave a disdainful little sniff. “The third Mrs. Aldrich. She’s named Tiffany or maybe it’s Tawny. In any case, she looked younger than the flower girl. People couldn’t stop staring at her.”
“Absolutely shocking,” Minerva harrumphed. “His grandmother would be spinning in her grave. Some things just aren’t done. At least they weren’t in my day. People stayed married whether they were happy or not.”
“Well, these are different times,” Rose offered. “Edward said he wanted his children there, and he didn’t care who was offended. I suppose blood is thicker than water.”
“Yes, you’re probably right,” Minerva agreed. “In the end, it all comes down to family.”
I laid the bags on the counter and delicately cleared my throat.
“Did you have a restful night, Taylor?” Rose asked, suddenly shifting her attention to me. She gave me a searching look while I brushed a stray lock of hair out of my face. I knew I looked bedraggled, and I was frustrated that the ancient air conditioner couldn’t seem to keep pace with the scorching Savannah heat. I’ve been meaning to talk to Ali about replacing it, but money is tight and I don’t think she has the budget for improvements. I could feel a thin layer of perspiration forming on the back of my neck and wished I’d pulled my hair back in a scrunchie.
“Not really,” I admitted. “I’m hoping that staying busy will keep me on my feet.” I smiled. “I think I’ll be fine as long as I don’t stop to take a breather.”
“It’s all right to take a break now and then,” Ali said, walking down the spiral staircase. “I meant to open the shop myself this morning,” she said apologetically. “I decided to lie down for a few minutes after breakfast, and the next thing you know, I was out like a light.”
She looked better than she had earlier, with a touch of color in her cheeks and a spring in her step. Maybe she was putting the horrendous events of yesterday behind her. I hadn’t had a chance to ask her about her dreams of Chico, and I knew she wouldn’t want to say anything with the Harper sisters there.
“That’s all right,” I said quickly. “I’ve had fun arranging some of the displays.” I pointed to the dazzling collection of gummy bears. “We can change everything back if you don’t like it this way.”
“Well, let me take a look.” Ali let her gaze drift over the assorted candies for a long moment, her face expressionless. She bit her lower lip and shook her head slightly from side to side. I wondered if I’d overstepped my bounds and was all set to apologize when she broke into a big smile.
“I love it. You have a real knack for this, Taylor. I think we should revamp all the displays. My arrangement was functional, but yours is much more attractive. It’s a work of art.”
“That’s just what I told her!” Minerva exclaimed. “Artistic!”
Ali laughed and gave me a high five. “I’m learning new things about you every day,” she said, her sunny mood seemingly restored. She poured herself a glass of lemonade and nibbled on a sugar cookie while I waited on Lucinda Macavy, who’d come in for some Burnt Sugar peanuts.
“I’m addicted to these,” she said with a girlish giggle. “I suppose everyone has a guilty pleasure, don’t they?”
“Probably,” I agreed, smiling at her. Lucinda is so prim and straitlaced, it was amusing to think of her admitting to any pleasures, guilty or otherwise. I filled a large bag for her while she checked out the new gummy bear display.
“I think I dreamt about poor Chico last night,” she confided. “Do you remember how Persia said we could will ourselves to dream about him? I tried it, and to my amazement, I believe it worked.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It was a very odd dream.” She seemed to be waiting for some reaction from me, so I nodded for her to continue.
“You dreamt about Chico? Oh, do tell us about the dream, dear,” Minerva said, and turned toward us, all ears. For an octogenarian, she certainly had an acute sense of hearing. Rose learned forward, her elbow planted on the counter, hoping to catch every word.
“It was all very odd. I’m not even completely sure it was Chico. I was watching a man dancing in the ballroom of a lovely mansion with a very attractive woman. She was wearing a flowing white gown, and he was swirling her around and around in a waltz.”
“A waltz?” Ali piped up. “That’s odd. Chico taught Latin dancing. I don’t think he ever did ballroom dancing.”
“I know, Ali, but remember Sybil told us that details get all mixed up in dreams,” Minerva said pointedly. “Sometimes one person stands in for another and one thing is substituted for another. It’s all about symbolism. You can’t interpret them too literally.”
“I do recall her saying that,” I said, inwardly wincing. I hoped we weren’t going to get into a long spiel on dream analysis. Ali’s dark mood had dissipated, and I didn’t want to dredge up the tragic events of yesterday.
“Tell us more about the dream, dear,” Minerva said encouragingly. She settled herself on a black leather stool next to the counter, and Rose moved to a pale lavender antique side chair that Ali had picked up at a garage sale. It was obvious that they were settling in for a good long chat, and I shot a nervous glance at Ali. Her features looked serene; either she really wasn’t upset by the conversation or she was managing to hide her discomfort.
“It was the most beautiful ballroom I’ve ever seen,” Lucinda went on. “Every detail is so vivid. I can see it in my mind. It was the most gorgeous room, like a painting.”
“It was like a painting?” Rose asked eagerly. “So you mean it was strictly a representation of a scene, not an actual scene?”
Lucinda gave a dismissive little wave of her hand. “No, wait, I think I’m getting confused.” She bit her lip and scrunched up her face. “It was a real scene, but there were beautiful murals on the walls and on the ceilings. That’s what made me think about paintings.”
“What sort of paintings?” Ali looked intrigued.
“Angels and cherubs. They reminded me of something . . .” Her voice trailed off as she pursed her lips and then snapped her fingers. “I know what it was! They looked like paintings I saw on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I was a chaperone for a senior class trip to Rome a few years ago.”
“Really?” Minerva and Rose exchanged a look. “So all the murals had a religious theme. That’s very interesting, indeed.” She stopped to take a sip of lemonade. “Were there French doors leading onto a patio and gardens? A whole wall of doors with gauzy white curtains?”
“Why, yes,” Lucinda said, a look of astonishment crossing her face. “That’s exactly what the room looked like. The doors were open, the curtains were blowing in the breeze, and I could see the gardens. They were spectacular.” She clasped her hands together. “They were tiered, all different levels, with slate steps—”
“Slate steps leading down to a pond,” Rose cut in. “With a fountain in the middle. A statute of Cupid, with a bow and arrow. And there were lovely trees lining the pond, I expect.”
Lucinda’s mouth formed an O of astonishment. “Yes, you described it perfectly. There was a fountain with the Cupid statue and the weeping willow trees, but how in the world could you know that? Did you have the same dream? Or are you a dream-hopper?”
I looked up, interested. Sybil Powers always maintains that people who are tuned into this sort of thing can become dream-hoppers, visiting another person’s dreams. They can insert themselves into the dream, or just observe the dream for a few minutes and then move on to someone e
lse’s dream.
Minerva laughed. “Rose is no dream-hopper. The reason she recognizes the ballroom, dear, is that we’ve been there many times. Years ago, I mean. In our youth.” She exchanged a rueful look with her sister. “We had some lovely waltzes in that very room, didn’t we, Rose?” She gave a happy sigh, her blue eyes focused on a distant memory. “Our dance cards were always full, back in the day. We’d dance the night away with our handsome beaus and have cocktails on the white stone patio.”
“You’ve been to this place—the place in Lucinda’s dream?” I asked. My pulse jumped and I wondered if there really was something to dream work. How could Lucinda have dreamt about a place she had never seen? Ali would say it was all part of the collective unconscious and we all have certain images deep within our psyches. This was all a little too woo-woo for me, but I must admit I was intrigued by Lucinda’s story.
“Of course, dear. Half of Savannah has been there. It’s the old Collier mansion outside of town. It’s on the historical register. When the Colliers made a grand tour of Italy, they fell in love with some frescoes in Florence. The moment they came back to Savannah, they commissioned an artist to duplicate them in their ballroom. Back in those days, it was quite a showplace.”
“That is was,” Rose agreed.
“Then after the original Colliers passed away, it went to seed,” Minerva continued. “The younger generation of Colliers couldn’t afford to keep it up in the grand style, and there wasn’t enough money left in the estate to maintain it. Luckily a developer saw the possibilities and bought it and remodeled it, restoring it to its former glory. They had someone from the Historical Society oversee every step of the process. We take the past seriously here in Savannah, Taylor,” she said, lifting her eyebrow.
“So it sounds like quite a lovely dream,” Ali cut in. She’d been listening quietly, her expression unreadable. “And you say you saw Chico in the dream?”
“Well, that’s just the thing,” Lucinda said apologetically. “I really can’t be sure about the man who was dancing. He was tall and had dark hair; that’s the only thing I know for certain. And the woman, his partner, was blond and very thin.”