Dovetail: A Novel(55)

“As far as I know, it is.”

“I’ve seen that chandelier and medallion in one of the dreams, dozens of times. It’s the same exact one. So what that means,” he said, “is that at least one of the dreams took place here, in Pullman, a place I’d never been before. There’s a reason I’m here, and I feel like I’m getting closer to figuring it out.”

She nodded thoughtfully, then pulled the fruit off the skewer and ate the cherry. “So tell me about the dreams. Do you remember them?”

“Remember them? I can’t forget them.” He told her every detail of every dream, starting with the Piano Dream, the one that took place in the Victory Theater. “That’s what the flickering lights in the background were,” he said, suddenly realizing. “There was a movie playing.”

“So this was after it was converted from the ballroom to a theater,” Kathleen said.

“I would think so.”

“If there was a piano player, this was probably during the era of silent films.”

“That would make sense.” He went on to tell more, making sure to include everything he could remember, including how he felt during the dreams and his mental state when he awoke. By the time he was done explaining it all, they were done with the salad course and the prime rib had arrived.

“You know what we should do?” she said. “Write down every detail of every dream and see if we can figure out when and where they took place. If you’re dreaming of being the same man, and one of the dreams took place in Pullman, there’s a good chance all of it happened around here. Maybe that will help us figure it all out.” She tapped the table. “I can try to find out when the Victory had silent films. Maybe they’ll have records telling who they hired to play the piano. We might be able to track down your mystery girl.”

“So you believe me, then? You don’t think I’m crazy?” Relief washed over his face.

“Of course I believe you. Why would you lie about it?”

He exhaled. “I’m so glad. I wanted to tell you about being at Trendale, but there was some small part of me that didn’t want to look like a head case.” He smiled. “You’ve become really important to me, Kathleen. You’re such an open, honest person and my only friend in Pullman. I didn’t want there to be this big secret between us, but I wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“I’m glad I told you. Thank you for taking it so well.”

He was so clearly relieved; she could almost see the tension lift off his shoulders. How would that feel? she wondered. To say the thing you didn’t want to say, to announce something that wanted to stay hidden? She felt the shame of the truth about Ricky and their marriage, the ugliness that emerged out of what had been, she’d thought, real love. But it hadn’t been real love at all, just the illusion of love. She’d not been a good judge of who he was and what they were together, and so it felt like a failure on her part, although logically she knew that wasn’t true.

“We all have something in our past that we’re not eager for people to know,” she finally said, drawing the words out. “For instance, no one in Pullman knows I’m divorced.”

His fork came down with a clang; his eyes widened. “You’re divorced?” he said, clearly astounded. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“I didn’t think you were that old.”

“Hey!” Her eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Not that twenty-six is old. I just thought you were closer to my age.”

Closer to my age. So he was younger? Kathleen had assumed he was her age or maybe even a year or two older. Not that he looked all that much older; he just had a mature vibe. An old soul. “And what age would that be?”

“Twenty-three as of last week. Old enough.” He studied her face. “If you don’t mind my asking, who in their right mind would want to divorce you?”

She was surprised and touched by his words. Most people wanted to know who was at fault or who had initiated filing the paperwork. That always made her feel like she’d attempted something and failed, but Joe’s question put the blame squarely in Ricky’s camp. Who in their right mind would want to divorce you? As if only a fool would let her go.

“It was my fault,” she said, after a pause. “The man I married, his name is Ricky—I saw glimpses of his true colors right from the start, but I brushed it off because I thought I was in love with him. I found out who he really was after we got married, when it got ugly. He was possessive and jealous and controlling.” She sighed. “And cheap too. He was a terrible tipper. I was always so embarrassed when we went out to eat. I used to pretend I’d left something behind and go back and leave more money on the table. So he had all these not-very-nice personality traits, but he was also charming and smart, and he loved his mother. I thought the jealousy was sweet when we dated, that it meant he was passionate about me. He kept it in check in the early days, but after we married, his temper emerged. He’d fly into rages over nothing. If he saw me smile at the teenage bag boy at the grocery store, he was convinced I was flirting with him, and when we got home, he would viciously berate me. It didn’t matter what I said. I would apologize and everything, but it never helped. It would continue to escalate and build until he was out of control. It was terrifying. Believe me, I didn’t want a failed marriage, but I had to get out. It was the only way for me to live a peaceful, happy, safe life.”