If Only in My Dreams

by Wendy Markham

  When in reality, Clara thinks, amused, she took one look at me and figured I was either a charity case or a refugee from the house of ill repute.

  “Would you like me to finish straightening the Christmas-card display after I help the boys, Mr. Landry?” she asks Jed for good measure.

  After all, she’s a trained actress. She can certainly play this store-clerk role without much effort.

  “That would be swell, thanks, Miss McCallum.”

  As she turns on her heel, Jed sneaks a wink at her.

  Her stomach does a series of Olympics-caliber acrobatics at the unexpected intimacy of it.

  What a shame that nobody winks anymore, she finds herself lamenting as she returns to the front of the store.

  Then again, it might not be quite so sexy back where she comes from. She tries to envision a modern guy—a city guy—say, Jason—winking at her. She promptly concludes that the gesture would have a considerable cheese factor.

  But here in the small-town past, winking is sexy.

  Especially when Jed Landry’s doing it.

  Yes, his wink is sexy… and his kiss was even sexier.

  She still can’t quite believe he actually kissed her. Then again…

  You’re the one who started it, she reminds herself. You kissed him first. What did you expect?

  She didn’t expect anything because she didn’t exactly plan it. It just happened.

  Besides, that was a happy-to-see-you-again peck. Never in her wildest dreams did she expect to find herself in Jed’s arms, being passionately devoured.

  All right… maybe in her wildest dreams.

  But for all she knew when she first heard him calling her name, Jed was running toward her to chew her out for abandoning him at the depot with her luggage the other day. Yes, he could very well have been angry—or at the very least, seriously annoyed.

  So what did she do? She threw herself at him and kissed him.

  She couldn’t help herself. It felt right.

  At the time, anyway.

  What about now? What about him?

  Does he think it was presumptuous of her?

  Probably. It’s unlikely that women go around passionately throwing themselves at men they barely know here in 1941.

  She was just so overwhelmed by joyous relief to see him again, after all that’s gone on since she left here.

  ANOTHER LOCAL MAN CONFIRMED LOST IN EUROPE

  She pushes the horrifying newspaper headline out of her mind, replacing it with another memory of kissing Jed.

  Not the chaste kiss she gave him—no, the one that came after.

  That’s the one that counts, because it confirms that the emotion she felt when she first saw him again was—is—mutual.

  Nobody has ever kissed her that way—not even in her soap opera era, when unbridled passion was the order of many days on the set.

  But then, her leading men were just acting.

  Jed wasn’t. Somehow, she’s sure of that.

  What if nobody ever kisses her that way again?

  After all, she’ll be mutilated after her surgery.…

  Oh, come on, Clara, how can you be so superficial? Do you really believe no worthwhile man will ever want you again just because of an imperfect breast?

  Not intellectually.

  Yet when she looks into her future, she can’t fathom intimacy: baring herself, ravaged body and shaken soul, to anyone.

  Somehow she knows that it’s going to take her a long, long time to find her way back into a relationship… if she ever does.

  So it was worth coming all the way back just for one amazing kiss from Jed Landry—not that it’s the main reason you’re here, Clara reminds herself as she returns to the schoolboy posse.

  “All right, follow me, fellas.”

  She leads the way over to the toy section, where she checks out the stack of board games on the nearby shelf while the boys rummage through the bin.

  In addition to chess and checkers sets, she’s surprised to see some of the same games that are popular today: Monopoly, Sorry!, Parcheesi.

  There are also quite a few that apparently never caught on, including one particularly lame one called Bunny Rabbit, in a pastel box. Kids in 1941 were more easily entertained, by the looks of it.

  Clara pictures the big Toys “R” Us store in Union Square, with its aisles of games stacked floor to ceiling. And what about electronic games: Game Boy and PlayStation and Xbox?

  Watching these unspoiled 1940s’ kids laboring over which no-frills wooden popgun to choose, Clara can’t help but feel a twinge of longing for simpler times.

  Maybe I shouldn’t go back home again, she thinks.

  Maybe I should just forget about my real life and hang out here and kiss Jed Landry, she thinks. Forever.

  That tantalizing prospect lasts all of an instant.

  I’d rather live in his world… than live without him… in mine.

  No.

  She has to go back.

  She has to have surgery, and chemo.…

  And Jed won’t be here for very much longer, anyway, she reminds herself… only to be swept by a surge of sorrow.

  You have to save him.

  Even if you can’t stay here with him, you have to save his life.

  She can’t bear the thought of anything happening to him. Now that he’s kissed her, now that she could be falling in—

  No. No way.

  I am not in love with him. I barely know him. He doesn’t even exist where I come from.

  So loving him is absolutely out of the question.

  I just can’t let him die.

  There must be a way to save him.

  And she can’t go home until she figures out what it is.

  CHAPTER 13

  Miss?” one of the boys asks, and Clara sees that he’s holding out a quarter.

  The others are digging through their pockets for the coins to pay for their popguns.

  “It’ll be just a minute before Mr. Landry can ring you up.”

  That announcement is met with a deafening series of protests.

  “It’s all right,” Jed calls. “Take the money, Clara, and make change at the register. I’ve got my hands full here.”

  Clara can’t help but feel like a bona fide sales clerk as she handles the flurry of purchases, marveling that a few cents can actually buy something and a quarter can get change. For that matter, a dime can get change.

  In this world, pennies count. In Clara’s world, people—like Jason—vacuum them up and never think twice about it.

  The boys head for the exit, popguns in hand, obviously on their way to do battle with a rival posse.

  A police officer on his way into the store holds the door open for them, greeting most of them by name before sauntering in.

  He’s probably about thirty, but he looks, Clara notices in amusement, like a little boy in costume. He’s scrawny, and can’t be more than five foot four, with a freckled complexion, sandy brows and lashes, and a blond brush cut barely visible beneath his cap.

  His eyes narrow the instant he spots Clara standing behind the register, and miraculously, he transforms into a formidable authority figure.

  I have to find a way to change out of these clothes, she tells herself. She’s attracting far too much attention this way.

  “Good afternoon, miss,” the officer says politely, though his gaze is anything but friendly. “Is Jed around?”

  “He’s helping a customer.”

  “He is, is he?” He sounds skeptical.

  She notices then that the man’s hand strays to his belt… and that he’s got his fingers resting on his gun.

  Does he think I’m robbing the place or something?

  Before she can assure him that she’s no criminal, Jed materializes at her side.

  “Hello there, Pete,” he says with the easy smile of a longtime acquaintance. “How’s that new puppy of yours?”

  “He’s doing just fine, Jed.” The officer’s fingers are still on
his gun, his wary gaze fastened on Clara despite the fact that Jed obviously doesn’t think she’s a robber.

  Why?

  The cop doesn’t appear to be questioning her sense of fashion. Nor is he looking at her out of idle curiosity. And he certainly doesn’t recognize her from One Life to Live.

  So what is it?

  Is it a power thing? Does he try to overcompensate for his diminutive build by playing tough cop? Or is this something more… personal? Something that involves Clara?

  “What can we do for you today, Pete?” Jed is the picture of casual as he leans against the counter, positioning himself between Clara and the police officer. She can’t help but sense that it’s a deliberate move. Deliberate… and protective?

  What is going on here?

  “I just got a call from Maisie Wilkens, Jed.”

  Maisie Wilkens? Clara wonders if she could be any relation to Denton Wilkens. Come to think of it, Denton is due to make his entrance into the local world in just a few days.

  She can’t help but marvel at the irony that she could ostensibly stick around here long enough to change his diapers.

  “Maisie Wilkens is completely off her nut,” Jed announces with conviction and a tight-sounding laugh. “Arnold said she keeps imagining that she’s going into labor… imagining all sorts of ridiculous things, really.”

  Going into labor?

  Whoa. Maisie Wilkens could very well be Denton’s mother.

  In fact, she must be. This is a small town; how many women named Wilkens could possibly be on the verge of giving birth around here?

  “It’s gotten so bad,” Jed goes on, his voice an unnatural register higher, “that Arnold has been calling her Crazy Maisie. That’s how wild her imagination is these days.”

  Clara’s momentary amusement—and revulsion—at the idea of Crazy Maisie and newborn Denton in diapers evaporate when she sees that Pete is still fixated on her.

  To Jed, he says brusquely, “I wondered if I could talk to you about something for a few minutes, Jed. In private, since I see you’ve got… company,” he adds, acknowledging Clara again with a nod and a look that’s anything but cordial.

  “Oh, this isn’t company,” Jed corrects him, a slight waver in his voice. “This is Clara McCallum, my new clerk. Clara, this is Pete Kavinski, an old school pal of mine.”

  “It’s nice to meet you… officer.” She extends her hand.

  Pretending not to see it, Pete tells Jed, “I didn’t know you hired a new clerk.”

  Is it strictly her imagination, or is there some dark undercurrent passing between the two men?

  “Well, I usually don’t run these things by you, Pete,” Jed replies with a grin. But Clara can see that it’s forced; the strain in his jaw muscles is plainly visible.

  “What happened to the gal you had working here the other day? The one who helped me pick out a leash for Sparky?”

  “Alice? I had to let her go.”

  “Why is that? She was helpful. Friendly, too.”

  “She was… when she bothered to show up.”

  “I see. And you just happened to come along and take her place?” The question is directed at Clara, with undue emphasis on the word you. Clearly, this is an official interrogation.

  Okay. Whatever.

  You’re an actress. Play your role, and don’t let his attitude throw you.

  “I saw the HELP WANTED sign in the window,” she explains, “so I came in to fill out an application.”

  “That’s funny. I didn’t see a HELP WANTED sign in the window.”

  “Well, I took it down,” Jed says logically.

  But he’s growing more nervous by the second. She can hear it in his voice, see it in his clenched hands.

  Why? What’s going on here?

  Clara is half convinced that this pint-sized cop likes to throw his weight around, creating drama in a small town where there can’t be any crime to speak of.

  Yet she can’t help but wonder if there might not be something else…

  Probably something that has nothing to do with me, she assures herself, even though it sure feels like it does.

  “Jed, I really need to have a word with you,” Pete persists, just as Mrs. Shelton calls out from down the aisle.

  “Mr. Landry? Do you have this bed jacket in yellow?”

  “That is yellow, Mrs. Shelton,” Jed replies after glancing distractedly at the garment in her hands.

  “But this is just so… bright. Like margarine. I would prefer a pale yellow for my sister. More like butter.”

  “Would you like me to go help her?” Clara offers, seizing the opportunity to escape the police officer’s inexplicable scrutiny—and to prove that she really does work here.

  Which you don’t, she reminds herself.

  But that’s Jed’s story, and she’s sticking to it.

  “That would be swell, thank you, Clara,” Jed says. “I’m pretty sure we have some pale-yellow bed jackets out in the back room.”

  Grateful for the chance to flee, Clara hurries to the back of the store.

  “What’s going on, Pete?” Jed hisses the moment he’s sure that Clara is safely out of earshot.

  “Maisie Wilkens told me you’re harboring a lady Nazi spy here, that’s what.”

  “Maisie said that?” Jed feels sick to his stomach. “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “What she said”—Pete keeps a watchful eye on the back room and one hand still poised on his gun—“was that this woman had been here and left evidence behind, and that I needed to pick it up and get it to the FBI. But she told me that Arnold told her that you claimed you never saw her again,” Pete adds.

  The word claimed obviously implies that Jed must have been lying.

  “Like I said, Maisie doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he repeats in a terse whisper. “It’s like I just told you, she’s so berserk over this pregnancy that Arnold’s calling her Crazy Maisie.”

  He silently begs forgiveness for the white lie, not daring to cross his fingers inside his apron pocket. Not with old Eagle Eye Kavinski acting like J. Edgar Hoover himself.

  “So you’re saying this woman is…” Pete shrugs. “Who is she? I need you to level with me here, Jed.”

  “She’s my new clerk, like I told you.”

  “How much do you know about her?”

  “I know that she’s not a Nazi spy, and I’m sure as heck not harboring her, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

  All at once, a light seems to dawn on Pete.

  He leans closer and murmurs under his breath, barely moving his lips, “Is she holding you hostage? Forcing you to defend her? Because I’m armed, Jed, and I can—”

  “No!” Jed protests sharply, with a sickening lurch of his gut.

  There is a prompt clacking of high heels from the back of the store, and Mrs. Shelton peers around a rack. “Is everything all right up there, Mr. Landry?”

  “Everything is fine, Mrs. Shelton.”

  “Do you think I should come back another day?” she asks, looking uneasily from Jed to the police officer.

  “I think that might be a good idea,” Jed tells her, his gaze locked on Pete Kavinski’s. “There’s still plenty of time for Christmas shopping.”

  Mrs. Shelton scurries past them, perhaps anxious to escape the tension—or, just as likely, eager to get out on the street and spread the word that Jed Landry and Officer Pete Kavinski are at odds over the beautiful stranger in their midst.

  “Look,” Jed tells Pete in a low voice the moment she’s gone, “you and I both know that I’m as patriotic as they come. Do you honestly think I’m involved in some kind of espionage?”

  “You? No. Her?” Tilting his head to indicate Clara in the back room, Pete throws up his hands.

  At least he’s released his grip on the gun.

  “Take my word for it, Pete… she’s no Nazi spy.”

  Jed pushes aside a pesky image of the little Japanese kid living at her address. Th
e one who said he didn’t recognize her picture.

  He still doesn’t know why Clara lied about where she lives, or why her wardrobe encompassed a hodgepodge of sizes, or why she was carrying that transmitter… heck, if it even was a transmitter.…

  But sometimes, a fella has to go with his gut.

  His gut and his heart.

  All he knows, at this point, is that he trusts her.

  And for no good reason…

  Other than that kiss.

  It was just a kiss.

  One heck of a kiss…

  But still, just a kiss.

  And for now, it will have to be reason enough.

  He looks at Pete, the runt of three local brothers. The oldest is now a rugged marine serving overseas; the middle son, a swaggering New York City cop. Jed remembers Pete—who back then was known to one and all as PeeWee—forever tagging along after them, trying to catch up. He never did.

  The perennial kid brother has something to prove. Snagging a Nazi spy right here in Glenhaven Park would do it.

  Darn that Maisie, anyway. Doesn’t she have enough to worry about between nagging her husband and knitting baby booties? Must she also dabble in international espionage?

  If Jed doesn’t figure out a way to defuse this situation, Clara’s going to be hauled away in handcuffs.

  “Pete, you and I have both known Maisie since she ratted you out for dipping Karla Kent’s braid in the inkwell back in kindergarten,” he points out on a whim. “Which you only did to get Karla back for pouring that cup of water on your lap and telling everyone that you wet your pants.”

  Recognition flits into Pete’s gray-blue eyes. “Hey, I had forgotten all about that. Was I ever sore at her!”

  “Maisie?”

  “Her, too. And that Karla used to gripe my soul just as bad. Thanks to those two brownnoses, Miss Corcoran chewed me out good, and she put a black ink dot on the tip of my nose and made me keep it there all day.”

  “Right, and Maisie made sure nobody in the school missed seeing it at recess, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.” Pete scowls.

  “Old Tattletale Maisie. Remember?”

  “Sure do. That’s what we all used to call her. Even Arnold. Say, do you remember that time back in high school when he gave that blond bombshell Babs Woodfield a lift home after chess club, and Maisie found out about it? Remember how she went and spread rumors all over town that Babs was necking with that drip Orson Babcock in the balcony of the Odeon?”