If Only in My Dreams by Wendy Markham Page B

Hollywood magic can make anything possible. Clara has seen, at the hands of capable set designers, the southwestern desert become a tropical island beach, a wall of white Styrofoam blocks transformed into an ancient Roman villa.
    All right. Maybe they’ve created some kind of optical illusion to camouflage the condos.
    It would have been nice if somebody had mentioned that, too.
    And what about the enormous bronze statue on the green—the one that depicts the eleven lost soldiers of Glenhaven Park? Obviously, it’s been removed for the duration of filming. Yet she could have sworn the set designer tried—and failed—to have the statue relocated. The townrefused to allow it to budge an inch. Yes, and Denton had to alter a number of long, establishing shots as a result.
    Clara glances again at the spot where the statue should be. Nothing there now but a towering maple tree. The kind of tree that can’t be plunked down by a set designer to hide an unsightly bare spot. The kind of tree that takes centuries to grow… and wasn’t there last week. Or yesterday.
    But that’s crazy. You must be imagining things
.
    And no wonder. It’s so cold, and her head hurts, and this suitcase weighs a ton. Is it so surprising that she can’t think straight at the moment?
    Noticing that the actor in the store is now out beneath the striped awning, holding the door open for her, Clara covers the last stretch of icy sidewalk quickly, and gratefully.
    “Come on in… chilly out today, isn’t it?” he asks pleasantly as she steps over the threshold and deposits her suitcase on the worn wooden floor with a thud.
    “That’s the understatement of the year.” Her teeth are chattering as he closes the door behind her.
    “Have we met?” he asks, and she turns to find him looking curiously at her.
    “I don’t know.… I’m Clara,” she says politely.
    “I’m—” Instead of introducing himself, he frowns, peering into her face. “I thought you looked familiar, but I didn’t realize…”
    You were the star,
Clara thinks.
    How often has she heard that? People are always saying she comes across as a regular gal because she doesn’t put on airs like some actresses.
    “… I was wrong,” he concludes the sentence unexpectedly.
    He was wrong?
    She looks into his eyes and sees that he doesn’t seem to have a clue who she is. Either that, or he’s a terrific actor.
    He smiles pleasantly, revealing teeth so white she wants to ask who did them and how much he paid. She’s had her own professionally whitened twice in the last year by two different oral-health-care experts, with less than perfect results.
    She wonders why this guy’s dentist didn’t repair the slight gap between his front two teeth while he was at it. Then again, if it weren’t for that barely visible flaw, he would be almost too handsome.
    He’s clean-shaven with angular features, a full mouth, and a deep cleft in his chin. His hair, so dark it’s almost black, is neatly trimmed over his ears without a trace of sideburn. It’s so short it spikes up on top with the help of some gel, as though he combed it straight up from his forehead with his fingers. His eyes, wide set beneath straight, sooty slashes of brow, are the striking blue of the sky on a clear winter day.
    Clara is so busy noticing his good looks that it takes her a moment to confirm that the lack of recognition is mutual. She’s never seen this guy before. He must be a local. She thought he looked familiar when she spotted him from afar. But up close and personal like this, he’s as much a stranger as anyone else in this town.
    Disconcerted by his expectant blue gaze, she looks away and is startled to find that the dime store’s interior now matches the forties’ facade. It isn’t just the pressed tin ceiling, exposed pipes, soda fountain, or antique register…
    The set dresser went to a lot of trouble to track down authentic-looking merchandise, too. Everything on the shelves and in the