After hanging my coat in the closet and taking off my boots, I weave toward the bedroom. The room is dimly lit by a small lamp on the dresser. To my surprise, Aslan is napping on the bed. The relief I feel at seeing him is enormous, as if I have been reunited with a dear friend after years and years of separation.
“My sweet kitty.” I rush over, sit next to him, and stroke his soft yellow fur. He looks up at me with his big green eyes and purrs loudly.
I am still sitting there when I hear Lars come in. I stay where I am, contemplatively petting Aslan and listening as Lars goes up the half flight of stairs, opens one door briefly and then closes it, and then does the same with another. He comes back down. I hear water running in the kitchen, and then stopping. I can see into the hallway as one light after another is turned off, until the only illumination left in the house is the faint glow from the lamp on the dresser. It is into this light that Lars steps, meeting my eyes as I wait for him in our bedroom.
“You feeling any better?” he asks. He has a glass of water in his hand, and he walks over and gives it to me. “I thought you might need this.”
“Thank you.” I take the glass and drink it. I suddenly feel embarrassed by my wooziness, even if it is not real. “I’m sorry I drank so much.”
He shrugs. “It’s understandable, Katharyn.”
I do not know how to answer that, so I remain silent. I watch as he loosens his tie and unbuttons his collar button, opens the closet door, and hangs up his jacket and the tie.
When he turns back to the room, I am looking at myself in the mirror over the dresser. “Lars,” I say softly.
He sits beside me. “What is it?”
I touch my dress, still looking at my reflection. In the soft light, the dress’s color is dazzling, like something an actress or a ballerina would wear on opening night.
“Do you know where I got this dress?” I ask.
He looks at me quizzically. “You got it at May-D&F,” he says. “Where you buy most of your clothes.”
I nod slowly. “And my hair?” I ask, touching the perfect curls. “Who does my hair? What beauty parlor do I go to?”
“Katharyn.” He smiles, puzzled. “You go to Beauty on Broadway, of course. It’s the beauty parlor where Linnea works. She’s done your hair ever since we met.”
“Linnea.” I ponder for a moment. “Your sister, right?”
“Katharyn.” He puts his arms around me. “You really did drink a lot, didn’t you?”
I shake my head and laugh a little. “Well, I guess I did,” I say. I squeeze him tightly and raise my chin, my lips open and ready for his kiss.
Chapter 10
Beauty on Broadway is not at all difficult to find. What is difficult is getting an appointment with Linnea Hershall. “I’m sorry, but Linnea is booked solid until a week from Thursday,” the receptionist tells me on the telephone when I call to set up an appointment for a wash-and-set—profusely apologizing in my head to Veronica at Modern Hair, who I’ve been seeing regularly for at least a dozen years.
“Can I give you my number, in case Linnea has a cancellation?” I ask. “Really, I can come in any time.” I pause. “She was highly recommended to me.”
“Let me just check.” The line goes dead, and I wait a few minutes, then the receptionist’s voice returns. “Can you come in Tuesday afternoon at one thirty? I think she could squeeze you in, if it’s quick.”
I smile and raise my fist in a little gesture of triumph. “I can do that,” I tell the girl, and give her my name.
While waiting for my hair appointment, a few days hence, I amuse myself by going downtown to May-D&F and heading straight for the formal-wear section. I look through every rack, but I do not see the coral-colored dress. “Can I help you find something?” a saleslady asks me.
“I’m looking for a dress that . . . a friend had on.” I describe the dress, carefully noting its color as “coral, or maybe you’d call it more of a peach.”
The saleswoman looks thoughtful. “Honestly, it doesn’t sound familiar,” she says. “Are you sure your friend purchased it here?”
“Well, that’s what I was told.”
“And when was this?”
It occurs to me that I have no idea when it was. Given the blinding snowstorm, it must still have been winter. But for the first time since the dreams started, I realize that they might not necessarily be taking place in 1962. It’s obviously not now, not the first week in October. Denver does get snow in October sometimes, but not big storms like that—and not one storm after another, the way it is in the dreams. Our big storms, our snowiest days, tend to come toward the end of the winter season, February or March. So if the dreams are happening in the present day, why then, it’s either a few months from now, or else it’s last winter.
Then again, it could be an entirely different period altogether. It’s a dream, for heaven’s sake! It could be any time, or no time at all.
“You know,” I say slowly. “Now that I think about it, maybe it wasn’t May-D&F that she said carried it. Perhaps it was somewhere else.”
“Well, we do have a gorgeous new line, just in time for holiday parties. Some of the first items have come in already, and we’re expecting more very soon. If I could interest you in something else . . .”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not right now, thanks.” I turn toward the escalator. “Thank you for your time.”
“Certainly. Come back in a few weeks, dear. All the Christmas and New Year’s wear will be in by then.”
Walking into Beauty on Broadway, I am as nervous as if I’m on a first date. The decor is mauve, with dark purple accents. The shop is large; I count eight hairdressing stations. Women are seated at most of the stations. There is a bank of hair dryers along the back wall, nearly all of them humming happily. A manicurist carefully applies polish to the nails of one of the hair-drying women; others under the dryers busy themselves with fashion magazines or the entertainment section from the newspaper.
The receptionist takes my name, leads me to an empty station, and walks away silently. I wait, looking at my reflection. The lights on either side of the mirror emphasize my pale skin. I pinch my cheeks, trying to bring some color to them. I should have put on more lipstick.
While I am agonizing over this, a middle-aged, brown-haired woman appears in the mirror, approaching me from behind. I put my heel down and spin the chair slightly so we are facing each other. She takes my hand. “I’m Linnea Hershall,” she says, a slight lilt in her voice—the remnants, no doubt, of her girlhood Swedish accent. “You’re Kitty, is that right?”
I nod, gulping and speechless. Up close, her resemblance to Lars is remarkable. She has the same striking blue eyes, the same wry smile, the same rounded nose. Tears spring to my eyes at the sight of her. I cannot believe that I am looking at a real flesh-and-blood relative of my dream man.
Seeing my distress, Linnea softens. “Let me guess,” she says. “First time with a new hairdresser in entirely too many years.” Her eyebrows rise, then lower. “Am I right?”