“There are six stores,” she says, handing me a brochure. “This one we’re in, this is the original.”
I glance at the brochure. It lists the shop here in University Hills, plus a location in downtown Denver; the one the shopgirl mentioned at Bear Valley; another one in Thornton, a Denver suburb to the north; and two in Colorado Springs. The photographs of the other stores show gleaming new locations in shopping centers or on busy commercial streets.
Of course there is no photograph of the tiny, dingy, long-closed Pearl Street store.
“This place has become soooo popular.” The shopgirl sighs. “Miss Green put out a letter to all employees last week about another store that’s opening in the spring, in Boulder. She says we’re only going to get bigger and bigger.”
“Miss Green . . . do you mean Frieda Green?”
“Yes, that’s her. Do you know her, ma’am?”
“I used to,” I say slowly. “It was a long time ago.” I straighten up a bit and tap the brochure in my hand. “Tell me, where would I find Miss Green these days? Does she work in one of these other stores?”
The shopgirl laughs. “Of course not,” she says. “She’s got a big office downtown. A—what’s it called? A corporate headquarters. It’s on the same block as the downtown Green’s. I went there for the company Christmas party.” She smiles shyly. “I felt like a church mouse; they were all so glamorous.”
I take another breath and plunge in again. “Do you know . . . maybe this is a silly question, but do you know about . . . Miss Green used to have a business partner. A Miss Miller. Kitty Miller . . .”
The shop girl’s face sours. “Everyone knows about Miss Miller.”
“Oh,” I breathe. “Oh, is that true? What do they know about her?”
She looks around. “I shouldn’t gossip like this to a customer, but okay.” She leans forward. “Miss Miller and Miss Green had a terrible fight some years ago. Miss Miller—well, she was married by then, her married name was Mrs. Andersson, and honestly, I don’t know the whole story, but I think that had something to do with it—her getting married, having a family, all that.” Her voice lowers. “Anyway, they had some little bookshop that didn’t make any money. They were in a lot of debt, and they quarreled about it. And Mrs. Andersson just walked away. Left the whole mess in Miss Green’s hands.” She shrugs. “Miss Green picked up the pieces and made a success of it, as you can see. But I heard that Miss Green never forgave her old partner.” She looks down at her book, obviously embarrassed at having said so much, then quickly returns her gaze to me. “But I have no idea what happened to Mrs. Andersson. Or Miss Miller, if you want to call her that.”
I sit in the driver’s seat of the Cadillac, my forehead in my hands. The thought I had while browsing Frieda’s store, my notion that the dreams mean nothing—that they exist purely for my amusement and entertainment—has been crushed, like a fallen leaf buried under the first heavy snow of winter.
Frieda, Frieda, what have I done? What did I do?
What happened between us?
Chapter 18
I wake with a start. It’s pitch-black in my bedroom. The clock reads 2:45. Aslan is there, of course, purring blissfully, happy as a clam. Sometimes I wish I were Aslan.
Rising from the bed, I don my purple dressing gown and slippers and stumble through the darkness to the living room. At my desk, I turn on the lamp and have a seat. I reach for the telephone and dial Frieda’s number.
She answers on about the seventh ring. Frieda is a heavy sleeper; always has been. “Huhhh . . .” she says, something between a grunt and a hello.
“Freeds,” I say urgently. “Freeds, I’m sorry it’s so late—”
“Kitty? What’s wrong? Are you all right?” Her voice is instantly alert, and this warms me. Knowing that she could shift from bottomless sleep into enormous concern for me, just at the sound of my voice—I am comforted by this, and I feel my entire body relax.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m all right. I just . . .” I hold the receiver closer to my mouth and whisper, “I had a bad dream.” It sounds silly when I say it, so I add, “A really terrifying dream.” And then I have to smile, because of course my dream was not terrifying in the typical sense: no monsters, no masked men with handguns, no tornadoes whipping off the roof above my head.
“Oh,” Frieda breathes, and I hear her settling herself. I can picture her curled up in a mound of blankets in her bedroom—the shades drawn, the bedside lamp turned on. I hear the click of her lighter and the long inhale of smoke. “Do you want to tell me about it?”
Do I want to tell her about it? What an interesting question. I have no idea whether I want to tell her about it. On the one hand, it would be wonderful to unburden myself. Especially to a person like Frieda, who would listen and offer practical advice—and then perhaps the whole ordeal would end once and for all. On the other hand, the complete and utter foolishness of it makes me hesitate to put it into words. Even to Frieda, who I’d trust with my life.
“Kitty? Are you still there? Did you dream about the troubles in Cuba? What the president said on the news, about the Russian missiles? Is that what scared you?” She sighs, and I can almost feel her clenching her teeth. “Because, honestly, that whole situation is downright petrifying.”
My mouth lifts into a tiny faux smile, the smile you make when you don’t feel like smiling. “Actually,” I tell Frieda. “I’m not scared about that at all.”
I can’t explain to her why I’m not anxious about Cuba. Everyone else is frightened to pieces by that. And yet I feel an inherent calm about it. I don’t know why, but I’m certain it’s going to blow over—and soon, too.
“You aren’t scared by that?” Frieda sounds surprised. “What is it, then?” She pauses. “Are you all right, sister?”
I stare out at the darkness of the street in front of me. I can’t tell her. I just have to hope the dreams go away on their own. Perhaps they simply have more of the story to tell me. And once the story is over, the dreams will end.
“I’m all right,” I say finally. “I just . . . I had to hear your voice. I had to know that I’m back here. That I’m safe.”
“Your doors are locked?” Frieda asks, exhaling cigarette smoke.
I laugh; of course locked doors can’t keep out what is making its way inside my world. “Yes,” I tell her. “Aslan and I are snug as bugs.”
“Well, then. Go back to bed and try to get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay,” I say, feeling like a child who has been comforted by her mother. “Frieda . . .”
“Yes, sister?”
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Chapter 19