Read Online If Only in My Dreams by Wendy Markham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Wendy Markham
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reaction. She looks as though she’s about to keel over. “Jeepers creepers, are you all right?”
She just shakes her head weakly.
He comes out from behind the counter to stand beside her, fighting the sudden, inexplicable urge to touch her. In a gentlemanly way, of course. Just to keep her from slumpingoff the stool, as she seems in danger of doing any moment now.
“You’re Jed… Landry?” she croaks at last.
“That’s right.” He hesitates, then asks, “Have we, uh… met?”
She doesn’t reply.
No matter. He knows the answer to his own question. He might have thought she looked familiar out there, from a distance, but he’s never crossed paths with her before in his life. He would remember a woman this beautiful. And, well, this… batty.
When she finally manages to speak again, her voice is so raspy it’s all but inaudible.
Either she’s coming down with something, or…
Or she’s terrified.
He draws the latter conclusion judging by the look in her wide-set green eyes. He has no idea what’s frightened her, but clearly, she’s on the verge of panic.
“Look, miss… I don’t know what’s eating you, but you seem—”
“What’s today?” she asks hoarsely, urgently, clutching his sleeve. “Tell me! What day is it?”
“It’s Monday.”
“No, it’s… it’s Friday.” She’s almost desperate. “Friday the first. Right?”
“No. It’s the first, but it’s Monday,” he says, feeling vaguely foolish to be arguing with her—with anyone—over the day of the week.
“It’s Monday?” she echoes slowly. “You’re sure?”
“I’m positive. See?” He grabs this morning’s newspaper from the stack at the end of the counter and holds it up,pointing to the date above the screaming black headline ALLIED SUCCESSES CAUSE JAPS TO ASSUME MILDER ATTITUDE .
She frowns, peering at the
Glenhaven Gazette
with the intense scrutiny of a kindergartner trying to master the alphabet chart. “Monday… the first…”
“That’s right.”
“But… that’s a prop.”
“How’s that?”
“The newspaper… it’s not real?”
Is she asking him, or telling him?
“If it’s not real,” he says slowly, deciding she’s delusional in either case, “then what do you think I’m holding in my hands?”
“No, I mean… the paper’s a set prop, and the date… the
real
date… it’s two thousand and—” Her voice seems to give way; she breaks off, lifts a trembling hand to her face, her fingertips furiously probing her forehead.
“Two thousand… what are you talking about?”
“The year! For God’s sake, what year is this?”
“What
year
is this?” He gapes at her. She’s truly deranged—though not dangerously so. At least, he hopes not.
“What year do you
think
it is?” he asks cautiously, careful not to make any sudden moves as he takes a step away from her.
“Just tell me.” She squeezes her eyes closed, looking for all the world like a child in dread of an imminent vaccination. “Please… just say it.”
He shrugs. “It’s 1941.”
“No!” Her eyes fly open.
“No?”
“It can’t be.” She is incredulous.
“It can’t be?” he echoes, equally incredulous. “It can’t be 1941? What
can
it be?”
Clara winces and removes her hand abruptly from her head. That’s when he spots it.
No wonder she’s dazed
, he thinks, gazing at the slight hint of purple swelling above one pencil-shaded, perfectly arched eyebrow.
He is swept by a prompt rush of relief that at least she’s not deranged. Not permanently, anyway.
“What happened here?” he asks, stepping closer to her again, and reaching out to boldly tilt her chin up so that he can inspect her forehead. “Did you bump your head?”
“Oh… yes. On the train. But…”
“I’ll get you some ice.” He moves briskly around the counter and in a matter of seconds has created a makeshift ice pack from a towel. He holds it out to her. “Here… this will help.”
She takes it and presses it
She just shakes her head weakly.
He comes out from behind the counter to stand beside her, fighting the sudden, inexplicable urge to touch her. In a gentlemanly way, of course. Just to keep her from slumpingoff the stool, as she seems in danger of doing any moment now.
“You’re Jed… Landry?” she croaks at last.
“That’s right.” He hesitates, then asks, “Have we, uh… met?”
She doesn’t reply.
No matter. He knows the answer to his own question. He might have thought she looked familiar out there, from a distance, but he’s never crossed paths with her before in his life. He would remember a woman this beautiful. And, well, this… batty.
When she finally manages to speak again, her voice is so raspy it’s all but inaudible.
Either she’s coming down with something, or…
Or she’s terrified.
He draws the latter conclusion judging by the look in her wide-set green eyes. He has no idea what’s frightened her, but clearly, she’s on the verge of panic.
“Look, miss… I don’t know what’s eating you, but you seem—”
“What’s today?” she asks hoarsely, urgently, clutching his sleeve. “Tell me! What day is it?”
“It’s Monday.”
“No, it’s… it’s Friday.” She’s almost desperate. “Friday the first. Right?”
“No. It’s the first, but it’s Monday,” he says, feeling vaguely foolish to be arguing with her—with anyone—over the day of the week.
“It’s Monday?” she echoes slowly. “You’re sure?”
“I’m positive. See?” He grabs this morning’s newspaper from the stack at the end of the counter and holds it up,pointing to the date above the screaming black headline ALLIED SUCCESSES CAUSE JAPS TO ASSUME MILDER ATTITUDE .
She frowns, peering at the
Glenhaven Gazette
with the intense scrutiny of a kindergartner trying to master the alphabet chart. “Monday… the first…”
“That’s right.”
“But… that’s a prop.”
“How’s that?”
“The newspaper… it’s not real?”
Is she asking him, or telling him?
“If it’s not real,” he says slowly, deciding she’s delusional in either case, “then what do you think I’m holding in my hands?”
“No, I mean… the paper’s a set prop, and the date… the
real
date… it’s two thousand and—” Her voice seems to give way; she breaks off, lifts a trembling hand to her face, her fingertips furiously probing her forehead.
“Two thousand… what are you talking about?”
“The year! For God’s sake, what year is this?”
“What
year
is this?” He gapes at her. She’s truly deranged—though not dangerously so. At least, he hopes not.
“What year do you
think
it is?” he asks cautiously, careful not to make any sudden moves as he takes a step away from her.
“Just tell me.” She squeezes her eyes closed, looking for all the world like a child in dread of an imminent vaccination. “Please… just say it.”
He shrugs. “It’s 1941.”
“No!” Her eyes fly open.
“No?”
“It can’t be.” She is incredulous.
“It can’t be?” he echoes, equally incredulous. “It can’t be 1941? What
can
it be?”
Clara winces and removes her hand abruptly from her head. That’s when he spots it.
No wonder she’s dazed
, he thinks, gazing at the slight hint of purple swelling above one pencil-shaded, perfectly arched eyebrow.
He is swept by a prompt rush of relief that at least she’s not deranged. Not permanently, anyway.
“What happened here?” he asks, stepping closer to her again, and reaching out to boldly tilt her chin up so that he can inspect her forehead. “Did you bump your head?”
“Oh… yes. On the train. But…”
“I’ll get you some ice.” He moves briskly around the counter and in a matter of seconds has created a makeshift ice pack from a towel. He holds it out to her. “Here… this will help.”
She takes it and presses it
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