The Bookseller(16)
Chapter 5
So. There you go. Now I understand what happened. Lars Andersson did not stand me up, after all. Lars Andersson could not have stood me up, because he was not alive to do so.
Walking out of the library and slowly heading for the bus stop, I am not sure what to do with this information. I feel a terrible sadness for this man I never met—this man I’ve now met in my dreams. And I have to smile at my ridiculous imagination—at my crazy mind, which has come up with an entire dream life for myself with this person.
This man who, purely by a stroke of bad luck, I never got to see face-to-face.
I am almost eager to go to bed that night, curious what might happen and what I might dream. Laughing at myself, I pour a generous shot of whiskey just before bedtime, thinking it might put me to sleep sooner.
To my surprise, my dream places me not in the split-level house, but in a darkened restaurant. The tablecloths are checkered; the walls and linoleum floor are a deep red. The restaurant is crowded, and I can see several couples waiting for tables near the hostess stand. Judging by the hustle and bustle of the place, I think it must be a weekend evening.
To my right is Lars, in a suit and tie, looking respectable and happy, his left arm draped possessively around my bare shoulder. I am wearing a sleeveless forest-green dress made of broad silk; I can feel its slipperiness on my back and across my ribs. We are seated at a booth, facing the restaurant’s entrance. The other side of the booth is empty.
“Welcome back,” Lars says, his bright eyes gazing into mine. “You seemed to go off to dreamland there for a few minutes.”
I smile awkwardly. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I must have been daydreaming.”
“Imagining a more carefree lifestyle for yourself?” He grins.
My smile fades. “What makes you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. Doesn’t everyone do that sometimes?” His smile is wistful. “Especially you and me.”
What in heaven’s name does that mean?
From speakers somewhere above our heads, there is music playing. The clear, lusty voice is unmistakable—it’s Patsy Cline, one of my all-time favorite vocalists. Despite the fact that most of her songs are about heartbreak—or maybe it’s because of that—I love Patsy’s cadence, her musical approach. I love the way that you know, just through her songs, that whatever the reason for your sadness, Patsy would sympathize with you. If you could sit down with her over a drink in some smoky cowboy bar and talk about it, Patsy Cline would assure you that it—whatever it is—would be all right. She would pass a handkerchief to you and order another round. She’d tell you she’d been through the same thing, and worse, and she’d come out the better for it.
I have all of Patsy Cline’s records. But I’ve never heard this twangy, melancholy song before. Like so much of her music, it’s about breaking up. She’s singing about how she would rather know now, would rather just get it over with, if her lover is thinking about leaving her.
If you got leavin’ on your mind . . . Tell me now, get it over . . .
“Is this a new song?” I ask Lars abruptly.
“What, love?”
“This song.” I frown. “This song that’s playing—is this a new release of Patsy Cline’s?”
He smiles. “I believe it is. In fact, I think it was you who told me that this is a new release—just a day or two ago, when it came on the radio at home.”
Is that so? I smile inwardly. Now my brain is making up an imaginary hit parade. How very talented of it.
Lars looks toward the doorway, then glances at his watch. “They should be here any minute,” he says. “Bill is generally quite prompt.” He shrugs again. “I don’t know anything about the wife, though.”
Unsure how to respond to this, I simply nod.
Lars stirs his drink, then takes a sip. “Ah. Here they are.”
He stands as a couple approaches our table. They are about our age, or perhaps a bit younger. The woman has jet-black hair, sleekly pulled back with a rhinestone headband. She wears a furtrimmed cape. Her companion is tall, much taller than Lars; this is apparent when Lars stands up to greet them. The man has that square-faced jock look about him, the type who was probably a football player in high school. The type who always wanted to go out with Frieda, though she generally turned them down. Frieda has never been much for dating anyone, actually, no matter how good-looking a fellow is. Sometimes it seems like she tries to force herself to get out there—like when she contacted some of my personal-ad castoffs all those years ago. But in general, dating is not a big thing in Frieda’s life.
“Bill, meet my wife, Katharyn.” Lars turns toward me. I extend a hand over the table—it would be awkward to try to rise from the booth—and Bill takes it and clasps it tightly.
“And this is my wife, Judy,” he says, releasing my hand. Judy and I exchange pleasantries. I am still trying to figure out who they are. Presumably business associates. Perhaps clients? I shake my head. This would be easier if I knew such details, but since it’s a dream, I suppose it hardly matters what I say or do.
After we’ve placed Bill and Judy’s drink order, and everyone’s food order, we settle down to chat. I learn that Bill is indeed a client. He wants to build an office building downtown, but it will be more than that; the idea is that it will house offices on the upper floors and small shops on the lower floor. This immediately piques my interest, especially the part about the small shops. Ought Frieda and I to be considering downtown? It has never come up in our what-to-do-next discussions. I wonder what the rent would be on such a place. Perhaps, if the men keep talking, I will be able to find out.