chugs to a halt.
She gazes out at the platform, wondering why the crew isn’t in place.
The door opens and she steps out into the brisk December chill, purse tucked under her arm, suitcase in hand.
Brr
. Is it her imagination, or has the temperature dropped a good thirty degrees in the last ten minutes?
She descends from the train, trying not to wobble in her narrow 1940s’ heels. The wooden platform is caked with snow and ice—which
must
be real, because it’s pretty darned frigid out here.
Hmm, she could have sworn the platform was made of concrete… and shouldn’t the crew have salted it?
Oh, wait. They probably left it genuinely slippery for authenticity.
You take three steps, and then you slip,
she reminds herself, moving forward, lugging the suitcase with her.
Yes, she slips, and Michael catches her.
So where is he?
And where are the other actors who are supposed to follow her off the train, chatting?
She doesn’t want to blatantly turn her head to look, but she seems to be the only one who got off the train, and Michael doesn’t seem to be on his mark.
Oh, well
. He must be there. And the cameras and lighting, too. They’re just more unobtrusive than she would expect.
Start walking
.
One step
…
Two
…
Three
.
“Oh!” Clara cries out, slipping on cue…
And falling to the hard planks with an excruciating thud as the train chugs off into the distance.
Dazed, she looks around the empty platform.
Empty?
Wait a minute.
Where are the other extras who were supposed to disembark with her?
Where’s Michael?
Where’s Denton?
And where are the damned cameras, and the lighting crew, and…?
Clara frowns.
What the…? I’m alone out here
.
She slowly gets to her feet and brushes the powdery snow off her skirt. Her breath puffs white in the wintry air.
Shivering in the wind, she looks around, bewildered.
Glenhaven Park looks just as it should: flags flying, vintage automobiles parked along the green—now blanketed in white.
She can see costumed extras bustling along the sidewalks. Swing music even plays faintly from a distant radio.
The crew has thought of everything.
Everything but me,
Clara thinks ruefully, uncertain about what to do next.
Maybe Denton called a meeting in one of the trailers. Maybe he’s going to adjust the blocking schedule because of the snow.
It doesn’t make sense—none of this makes sense—but it’s the only explanation Clara can come up with.
She looks in the direction where the location trailers were parked in an A&P supermarket lot down the street.
That spot is occupied by a large Victorian mansion with a mansard roof.
Huh? Where’s the supermarket?
She squints, blinks.
No trailers.
No parking lot.
No A&P.
Maybe she’s mistaken. Maybe the trailers were on the opposite end of town.
She turns her head—still throbbing from the bump on the train—to look the other way.
No trailers.
No parking lot.
No supermarket.
All she can see, beyond the white steeple of the Congregational church, is the tree-lined hillside overlooking the town.
Her heart pounds so violently—and her knees weaken so abruptly—that it’s all she can do to remain on her feet.
Just the hillside.
Nothing
on
the hillside but trees.
Nothing
.
Somehow, an entire condominium complex has vanished into thin air, along with the rest of Clara’s world.
CHAPTER 3
A t the sound of a car horn honking in the street, Jed looks up to see wiry, bespectacled Arnold Wilkens, a childhood friend, passing by the five-and-dime in a new blue Packard. Arnold waves at him, and Jed waves back, wondering whether his wife, Maisie, has had their first baby yet. She must be due any minute now, judging by her enormous belly when she stopped in the store to pick up some pink knitting yarn a few weeks ago.
“Why not blue?” Jed asked.
“I’m betting it’s a girl,” Maisie said with the same self-confidence she’d displayed since their kindergarten days. “And we’re going to name
She gazes out at the platform, wondering why the crew isn’t in place.
The door opens and she steps out into the brisk December chill, purse tucked under her arm, suitcase in hand.
Brr
. Is it her imagination, or has the temperature dropped a good thirty degrees in the last ten minutes?
She descends from the train, trying not to wobble in her narrow 1940s’ heels. The wooden platform is caked with snow and ice—which
must
be real, because it’s pretty darned frigid out here.
Hmm, she could have sworn the platform was made of concrete… and shouldn’t the crew have salted it?
Oh, wait. They probably left it genuinely slippery for authenticity.
You take three steps, and then you slip,
she reminds herself, moving forward, lugging the suitcase with her.
Yes, she slips, and Michael catches her.
So where is he?
And where are the other actors who are supposed to follow her off the train, chatting?
She doesn’t want to blatantly turn her head to look, but she seems to be the only one who got off the train, and Michael doesn’t seem to be on his mark.
Oh, well
. He must be there. And the cameras and lighting, too. They’re just more unobtrusive than she would expect.
Start walking
.
One step
…
Two
…
Three
.
“Oh!” Clara cries out, slipping on cue…
And falling to the hard planks with an excruciating thud as the train chugs off into the distance.
Dazed, she looks around the empty platform.
Empty?
Wait a minute.
Where are the other extras who were supposed to disembark with her?
Where’s Michael?
Where’s Denton?
And where are the damned cameras, and the lighting crew, and…?
Clara frowns.
What the…? I’m alone out here
.
She slowly gets to her feet and brushes the powdery snow off her skirt. Her breath puffs white in the wintry air.
Shivering in the wind, she looks around, bewildered.
Glenhaven Park looks just as it should: flags flying, vintage automobiles parked along the green—now blanketed in white.
She can see costumed extras bustling along the sidewalks. Swing music even plays faintly from a distant radio.
The crew has thought of everything.
Everything but me,
Clara thinks ruefully, uncertain about what to do next.
Maybe Denton called a meeting in one of the trailers. Maybe he’s going to adjust the blocking schedule because of the snow.
It doesn’t make sense—none of this makes sense—but it’s the only explanation Clara can come up with.
She looks in the direction where the location trailers were parked in an A&P supermarket lot down the street.
That spot is occupied by a large Victorian mansion with a mansard roof.
Huh? Where’s the supermarket?
She squints, blinks.
No trailers.
No parking lot.
No A&P.
Maybe she’s mistaken. Maybe the trailers were on the opposite end of town.
She turns her head—still throbbing from the bump on the train—to look the other way.
No trailers.
No parking lot.
No supermarket.
All she can see, beyond the white steeple of the Congregational church, is the tree-lined hillside overlooking the town.
Her heart pounds so violently—and her knees weaken so abruptly—that it’s all she can do to remain on her feet.
Just the hillside.
Nothing
on
the hillside but trees.
Nothing
.
Somehow, an entire condominium complex has vanished into thin air, along with the rest of Clara’s world.
CHAPTER 3
A t the sound of a car horn honking in the street, Jed looks up to see wiry, bespectacled Arnold Wilkens, a childhood friend, passing by the five-and-dime in a new blue Packard. Arnold waves at him, and Jed waves back, wondering whether his wife, Maisie, has had their first baby yet. She must be due any minute now, judging by her enormous belly when she stopped in the store to pick up some pink knitting yarn a few weeks ago.
“Why not blue?” Jed asked.
“I’m betting it’s a girl,” Maisie said with the same self-confidence she’d displayed since their kindergarten days. “And we’re going to name
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