The Bookseller(26)

Greg tears through his book in a single day. “I read it start to finish,” he tells me proudly. “The words on the cards really helped. I know them all now. After I read the book, I read it again, and then I read it to my mother. She . . .” He looks down, sheepish, his face reddened. “She said she was really proud of me.”

“I’m proud, too,” I say. “Very proud.” I put my hand lightly on his shoulder. “Shall I write another one?” I ask. “Would you like that? I can make more cards, too. We can add to your collection of words you know.”

“I would love that,” Greg replies. “Thank you, Miss Miller. Thank you very much.” He rewards me with a big smile, then hops enthusiastically across our shared porch and goes inside his own house, cheerfully banging the door behind him.





Chapter 9


And then, after over a week of dreamless sleep, my nighttime visions return.

We are out of the house again, Lars and me. Goodness, we socialize a lot in this fanciful world. In my real life, I go out in the evening two or three times a month, perhaps. Every now and then I go see a movie with old friends from my teaching days, but many of those friends have to plan weeks in advance to get a night out of the house without their husbands and children. Frieda and I dine in a restaurant now and again, and once in a while we attend a book signing at one of the bigger bookstores or department stores around town. These stores are always the venues for such events; our little bookshop does not attract celebrity authors—or even noncelebrity ones, for that matter.

But most evenings I’m at home, curled up on the sofa reading or watching television, Aslan at my side. Thinking about this, I wonder if my subconscious wishes I spent more time dressed up and running around, like I do in my dream life.

In any event, I find myself standing next to Lars at a cocktail party. He is in a suit and tie, and I am in a satin party dress—coral-hued, a color I actually like quite a bit in my real life, too—with a sweetheart neckline, a full skirt, and a wide bow at the waist. It reminds me of something I saw Jackie Kennedy wearing in Life not long ago; clearly, when doing my clothes shopping in this world, I follow the First Lady’s trends. On my feet, I am wearing pointed heels in the same shade as the dress.

Music is playing from the speakers of a gleaming hi-fi stereo cabinet in the corner of the room. The Kingston Trio is singing about how they don’t need booze to be high; apparently, seeing their woman smile does the same thing for them as a good stiff drink.

Well. I’m not sure my dream persona can say the same for herself. In my hand is a half-empty martini glass. Unlike Frieda, who adores a good martini, I rarely drink martinis in real life; nonetheless, I take a sip. It’s surprisingly sweet. It must have something else in it, besides the usual gin and vermouth. I sip again, thinking that I could get used to this—if it were real, of course.

Lars and I are standing with a redheaded woman who is wearing a black satin sheath dress and holding a martini like mine. The room is crowded with couples, the men in suits and the women in cocktail dresses. I scan the room for Bill and Judy, our dinner companions from a few dreams ago. I smile inwardly; even here in a dream, a recognizable face would be a fine thing to see. But I don’t see them.

We are in a house, but it is not our house. Like ours, however, this home is contemporary and lean. The living room stretches the width of the front of the house, with a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows looking toward the street. Over my shoulder I see that the dining area is open to the kitchen, which in turn has a sliding glass door that presumably leads to the backyard—which is no doubt as expansive as everything else in this world.

“Katharyn, that color is gorgeous on you,” the redhead says, bringing my attention to the conversation in front of me.

I smile and sip my fruity drink. “Thank you . . .” Of course, I have no idea what her name is, so I cannot call her by it. This bothers me greatly. My mother always impressed upon me the importance of learning—and using—other people’s names. “You’ll always have plenty of friends and social invitations if you remember names,” Mother told me throughout my formative years. I’m not sure she’s right about that, because I am quite good at names—yet in the real world, at least, I have a fundamentally nonexistent social life. I give a little laugh, and suddenly realize I feel a bit light-headed. I wonder how many martinis I’ve already put away.

Gently but firmly, Lars takes my elbow. “Jean, I always tell Katharyn that she’s pretty in pink.” He raises his eyebrows. “Of course, I told her that tonight before we left home, and she insisted that it’s coral, not pink, that she’s wearing.” He lifts his shoulders in the playful shrug of a hapless male. “What man could be expected to know a thing like that?”

I laugh merrily. “Jean,” I say, planting the name in my mind. “Would you call this more of a coral, or more of a peach? The saleslady called it peach, but . . .”—I finger the sateen fabric of my skirt with my free hand—“I think it’s more of a coral.”

“It’s coral,” Jean says firmly. “Peach would be lighter, which wouldn’t be suitable for this time of year. But that . . .” She looks me up and down. “It’s perfect, my dear.” She glances toward the darkness outside the front windows. “Just make sure you bundle up before going home. What a storm! You didn’t walk, did you two?”