“We’ll be patient,” Missy promises. “Anyways, there’s lots to do while we wait.”
“Anyway,” I correct her. “It’s not ‘anyways,’ Missy—it’s ‘anyway.’”
She ducks her head, chided. “Sorry, Mama.”
Lars smiles. “Mama the schoolmarm.” His eyes twinkle at me across the long table. “Once a teacher, always a teacher. Right, Katharyn?”
I raise my eyebrows. “That was a long time ago.”
He lifts his glass and takes a sip of water. “A whole other lifetime ago.”
I don’t reply. Instead, I get up to clear the table. As I am rising, Michael swings his arm in front of himself, and his milk glass tumbles over.
“Michael!” I say harshly. His face crumples, and I can tell he’s about to start shrieking.
I put my hand to my mouth. “It’s okay,” I tell him, softening. “It happens. We’ll clean it up.” Lars comes around the table and puts both hands on Michael’s shoulders, trying to calm him before he explodes.
I go through the swinging doors to the kitchen. While I am getting a dishcloth from the sink, Lars appears behind me and puts his arms around my waist. “Everything okay in there?” I ask.
“Yes, he’s fine. I got to him in time.”
I nod, relieved. Lars nuzzles my neck. “You don’t seem too enthused about our afternoon plans.”
I shrug.
“Honey.” He spins me to face him. “Let me take them. You take the day off. Go do something you enjoy.”
I can feel my face brighten. “Really? Are you sure?”
He laughs. “Of course. You need it, love. You’ve had a hard week.”
I bite my lip. “I really have,” I reply. “And there are things . . . I need to do some things, so yes . . . thank you, Lars.”
“You take all the time you need,” he says. “Take the Cadillac. Go shopping. Go see Linnea, get your hair done.”
But shopping and getting my hair done—even by Linnea, who I’m dying to see in this world, if for no other reason than to see how she compares with the Linnea in my other world—these are the last things on my mind. Although I do plan to go to one shop in particular.
If indeed such a shop exists.
I wanted to ask Lars what day it is, but I would have felt silly doing so. Since he’s home during the day, it must be the weekend. I’m hoping it’s Saturday, not Sunday. If it’s Saturday, Sisters’ ought to be open. A few years ago, Frieda and I decided to open on Saturdays. It cuts off our weekends, certainly, but it makes good business sense. With so many women in the workforce these days, we want to cater to not only the housewife but also the working girl. So now Sisters’ is open Tuesday through Saturday each week. We are still closed on Sundays, of course, as are all the businesses on our street. We’re also closed on Mondays, making those our own personal Saturdays.
After bidding good-bye to the family, I head to the garage and slide behind the wheel of Lars’s car, backing it carefully out of the garage.
The Cadillac is a dream to drive. It seems to have every imaginable convenience: firm but cushiony Naugahyde seats, a heating system that cranks to life and warms me within minutes of turning on the ignition, and an automatic transmission. All I have to do is shift the car into R to back down the driveway and then D to move forward. The steering is remarkably responsive; as I make a left onto Dartmouth Avenue, the car turns with a flick of the wheel. It must be the new power steering that my father has mentioned, wistfulness in his voice; my hardworking father hasn’t had a new car in a dozen years or more. I smile, wondering if, here in the dream world, Lars lets him drive the Cadillac. My father would be in heaven, driving this car.
I turn on the radio and tune it to KIMN. They’re playing that new song by Patsy Cline, the song that Lars and I heard in the restaurant the night we were there with his clients. I hum along softly.
The car glides smoothly up University Boulevard. I take a left on Evans and head west. Everything looks the same as always. The same University of Denver taverns, drugstores, and filling stations, the same buildings on campus. I note this with slight surprise; the world has not turned upside down just because my life is different.
On Pearl, I turn right and head north. There’s not much auto traffic. It’s a crisp, clear day—no snow in the skies and I’m guessing none in the forecast, at least not here in town. The mountains in the distance to my left are bright with freshly fallen snow; even from here, I can see the sheen that the sun puts on them.
When I reach our block, I cruise by slowly. I’m dismayed, but not entirely surprised, by what I see: Sisters’ Bookshop is not there. Bennett and Sons, Attorneys-at-Law, still have their office in the right-hand side of the building. But the display windows on Frieda’s and my side are boarded up, and there is a hand-printed FOR LEASE sign on the door. Bradley’s telephone number is printed beneath the words. The sign is faded and weathered; it looks as if it’s been there for a long time. Months, at least, perhaps years.
I park across the street and walk toward what used to be my bookshop.
I don’t know exactly what to do. The glass-fronted door has no board over it, so I peer inside. It’s empty. All of our shelves, our countertop—everything is gone. The linoleum floor is bare; the Turkish rugs that we bought secondhand at a thrift store have disappeared. The posters on the wall announcing the latest books and movies—vanished. The door to the back room hangs open, but it’s too dark to see past it. But I know what would be there—nothing.
I turn toward the doorway at the side of the building. It leads up a flight of stairs to Bradley’s apartment above the store. His number is on the FOR LEASE sign; that means he must still own the building. Does he still live upstairs, too? I tread carefully up the stairs and knock on his apartment door.
No one answers for a full five minutes. I am about to leave when finally the door slowly opens. Bradley looks older here than he does in the other world. He is hunched over, his kind brown eyes behind their spectacles sunk deep into ashy sockets. It takes him a moment to figure out who I am.
“Well, as I live and breathe,” he says finally. “If it isn’t Miss Kitty.”
Hearing someone speak my name—my real name, in this unreal world—almost moves me to tears, and I blink rapidly a few times. “Bradley.” My voice cracks a bit. “It’s good to see you.”
He opens the door wider. “And to what do I owe the pleasure?”
I shrug. “I was . . . in the neighborhood, and I just . . .” I lower my eyes, look away, then back at him. “I thought I’d stop by.”
“Well, come in.” He opens the door the rest of the way. “I was just making tea. Would you like some?”