If Only in My Dreams by Wendy Markham Page A

her Daisy.”
    Of course they are. Because it rhymes with Maisie. Poor kid.
    “Well,” he said, “Arnold thinks it’s a boy.”
    “Arnold took the Dodgers in the World Series,” Maisie retorted with a
what-does-he-know?
shrug.
    “A lot of people did.” Jed excluded, of course. Being a Yankees fan, he was thrilled when the Bronx Bombers pulled off an unlikely victory against their crosstown rivals.
    “How about a nice pale-yellow yarn?” he offered Maisie.
    “No, thank you. If Arnold is right by some chance, and this baby is a boy, he’ll just have to wear pink booties and sleep in a pink nursery, because we’re painting this weekend.”
    Jed has no doubt the baby will be a girl.
    Maisie has a way of knowing things she can’t possibly know. Women’s intuition, she likes to call it.
    Arnold calls it phonus bolonus.
    Which makes a fella wonder why he married a gal like Maisie in the first place. Then again, with his wiry build and thick glasses, Arnold, who is now an accountant, has never exactly been known as what Jed’s sisters might call a Hunk of Heartbreak.
    About to return his attention to the store, Jed notices big fat flakes in the air—drifting lazily, almost horizontally in the air as opposed to falling furiously as they did early this morning.
    He turns away from the window—then back, realizing that he just glimpsed a familiar figure coming down the block.
    It isn’t roly-poly Alice.
    As he trains his eyes on this woman, he’s so caught up in admiring her shapely legs—even as he notes that she appears to be wearing stockings, and wonders where she managed to find them—that he momentarily forgets to look up to see who she is.
    When he manages to tear himself away from those glorious gams, he realizes that he doesn’t know her after all.
    Or does he?
    He takes in the well-made hat and coat, the waves of chestnut hair curled fashionably above her shoulders…
    Even from here, he can see that she’s a real dish.
    He can also see that she’s hauling a large suitcase. Is she coming or going?
    Coming. Definitely. Because she seems lost. He can tell by the way she’s looking around, as though she’s searching for something.
    She must have just stepped off the train from Manhattan. In fact, everything about her says Glamour Puss.
    Still, there’s something familiar about her.…
    Jed is almost one-hundred-percent positive that he’s seen her someplace before.
    So certain is he that he raps on the plate-glass window to catch her attention.
    She looks up, startled.
    Her smile is at once tentative, relieved, and laced with recognition.
    So I must know her,
Jed realizes, watching her approach the store.
And obviously, she knows me
.
    It’s about time,
Clara thinks, waving at the guy in the window of the old-fashioned five-and-dime. At last, a temporary haven from the icy wind, and a familiar face.
    Not nearly as familiar—or as welcome—as, say, Michael’s would be. Or Denton’s.
    But this costumed bit player—whom she must have met in passing on the set at some point—is better than a total stranger.
    She just can’t help wondering why she didn’t recognize any of the other vintage-fashion-clad extras she glimpsedhurrying along the sidewalks as she walked over from the train station. Maybe she was just too busy trying to figure out what on earth was going on with the set… and the scene she’s supposed to be blocking.
    She supposes something could have come up and caused the camera crew, Denton, and Michael to beat a hasty retreat.
    Maybe Michael’s contagious stomach bug has infected the whole production.
    Or maybe there was a problem with the filming permit. The town’s administration is a stickler for rules.
    It just would have been nice if somebody had mentioned the abrupt change in the schedule to the cast and crew on board the train.
    Yet a communication breakdown doesn’t explain the vanishing condo complex on the hill. A cluster of buildings can’t just walk away.
    Then again,