Читать книгу All Tucked In… - Jule Mcbride - Страница 8

THIS WAS HARDLY THE FIRST time Dr. Tobias Free wished he hadn’t discovered steel baron Cornelius Sloane’s nineteenth-century pornography collection. In fact, the only other thing in life that had caused Tobias more sleepless nights was Carla DiDolche, the Italian spitfire who’d left him at the altar seven years ago. Now he surveyed the “artwork” spread across the boardroom table, his eyes trailing over a few pieces before settling on an ink drawing of a whip-wielding woman in a bustier and frilly pantaloons, a pencil sketch of three topless chorus girls, and a watercolor of a man in cross-tied breeches having his crotch fondled.

Then Tobias looked around the crowded board table.

“Well,” Margaret Craig was saying to J. J. Sloane the seventh, sole heir to Cornelius Sloane’s fortune, “we all know how much this ancestral mansion has meant to you, since you used to live here, Mr. Sloane, and we also know how much it means now—” She shot a piercing, significant look at Tobias “—to the University of Pittsburgh, which has been using it to house its sleep clinic research facility for the past ten years.” Margaret paused for a deep breath. “However—and I’m speaking for every member of the Pittsburgh Preservation Society, not to mention the community at large—we feel it’s our duty to open this mansion to the public, especially since Dr. Free has discovered such a vast vault of art….”

J. J. Sloane, whom Tobias secretly referred to as Sloane Junior, was a tall, thin, overly pretty, silver-haired playboy who’d just hit forty and begun to realize that he was an only child with no heirs. He leaned forward, looking interested. “Does the Society really think it could do something with the mansion? Something for posterity that we’d be remembered by?”

“Of course!” Margaret assured him, squaring her matronly shoulders. “We’re prepared to make this your legacy, Mr. Sloane. Stone mansions of this magnitude are rarely found intact, as you can imagine! Most of the places along this part of Fifth Avenue, which we Pittsburghers so fondly refer to as mansion row, have been turned into apartments or businesses. And yet this remained a private home until you left in the nineties, sir, which makes it very special. Its architecture is gorgeous. The extensive grounds are divine. Even the astonishing stone fountain just off the veranda is in working order. With the exception of the Frick mansion in the Point Breeze neighborhood, few buildings in Pittsburgh are this impressive….”

Sloane leaned further forward. “You really think it compares to the Frick museum?”

“Absolutely!”

“And the Preservation Society would…?”

“The plans—and let me tell you, we have many, Mr. Sloane—are all included in the prospectus in front of you. We’d like to offer tours of the mansion, as well as lectures about the many contributions the Sloanes have made to our city. Maybe open a gift shop. Possibly even lend books from the extensive library. And of course, we’ll be opening a gallery, not only for the photographs displayed in this room, but also for the new art found by Dr. Free….”

Tobias’s eyes shifted to the pornographic pictures again, landing on a charcoal drawing of a woman removing veils as she danced. Most of the stuff wasn’t that racy, at least not by comparison to today’s Guess ads, but in the late 1800s, it must have been as hot as tamales.

Tobias shook his head. Under any other circumstances, he would have laughed. Yes, watching the members of the Preservation Society—mostly prim elderly ladies like Margaret with blue-rinsed hair and American flag pins proudly affixed to the lapels of their linen suits—sit around trying to elevate a porn collection to the level of high art would have brought a chuckle.

Except that Tobias’s ten-year lease on this building was over in a month, and these sweet little ladies were truly going to snap his dream clinic out from under him. Having finally realized he lacked heirs, Sloane had become determined to do something to give his life meaning. As near as Tobias could tell, turning forty had been a rude awakening, and now Sloane hoped the Preservation Society could lend his previously dissipated life some credibility.

To add insult to injury, Tobias had once married Margaret Craig’s daughter, Sandy—this was after Carla DiDolche, of course—and while the union had lasted only three disastrous months before it was annulled, Margaret had never forgiven him for leaving her daughter. Now she was relishing taking away the building in which Tobias housed his life’s work. Oh, yeah, he thought now, eyeing her, Margaret definitely carried a grudge. Probably Sandy had told her mother the truth. That even after marrying another woman, Tobias simply couldn’t get his mind off Carla.

Not that Tobias felt any guilt. He’d dated Sandy on the rebound and let her pressure him into marriage. When things hadn’t worked out, she’d quickly remarried a mall developer from North Carolina who’d kept her in high style ever since. Last time she’d visited the Burgh for the holidays, she’d been pregnant with twins.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Tobias tugged the knot at his throat, wishing he could take off his tie. He hated ties. In fact, the only thing more loathsome than ties were the jackets you had to wear with them. Unfortunately, even his best jeans and corduroy blazer couldn’t hold a candle to the suits worn by his competitors. Last night, on the phone, his mother had urged him to go buy some dress slacks. Maybe he should have listened. She’d also mentioned Carla, the way she always did. After seven years, Laura Free still missed the young woman she’d been so sure was going to become her daughter-in-law. She and Sandy hadn’t really hit it off.

Tobias blew out a sigh. What a couple of days! It didn’t help that one of the three male members of the Pittsburgh Preservation Society was Vince Gato, owner of Gambolini and Gato Imports, which was a wine importing business on Liberty Avenue, at the opposite end of the block from DiDolche’s, the family-owned café of which Carla was now the sole proprietor. From what Tobias recalled, the Gatos and DiDolches went way back. They’d known each other since the old country, which meant circa 1850.

Nope. Even after seven years, there was no escaping Carla. She intruded on his thoughts at the most unexpected times. Tobias suddenly realized that Sloane Junior was addressing him and even though Tobias hadn’t actually seen Carla for awhile, he silently cursed her for breaking his concentration. “Yes, Mr. Sloane?”

“Once more,” asked Sloane Junior, “how did you come across the drawings, Dr. Free?”

As if he didn’t know. For some reason, Sloane Junior loved this story. Tobias retold the tale of how, a couple of months ago, when he and a colleague were moving some equipment, he’d inadvertently tripped, hit the side of a mantle in what had previously been Cornelius Sloane’s study—only to have the wall swing inward, just like in an old horror movie, to expose a hidden room.

“What a find!” Margaret exclaimed breathlessly.

“Yes, indeed,” seconded Vince Gato.

“And you were carrying one of those…what was it, Dr. Free?” asked Sloane Junior.

“An electroencephalograph,” Tobias reminded him.

“Ah, yes. An electroencephalograph.”

“Yes,” Tobias added quickly, glad for the opportunity to speak his piece since, as far as he was concerned this meeting had definitely focused too much on the Preservation Society’s concerns. “The electroencephalograph is an incredible piece of equipment. It allows researchers to chart brain activity during sleep by attaching electrodes to the head. And as you know, because of the long-term lease we negotiated in the past, we have been able to make great headway in our research.”

Sloane Junior barely looked interested. “Hmm.”

“It’s really because of you, sir,” Tobias forced himself to repeat, “that we’ve been able to make such great strides in sleep and dream research. And not just in better-known areas such as insomnia, narcolepsy or sleep apnea, but most importantly in the area of guided dream imagery.”

As he spoke, Tobias’s eyes settled on one of the old sepia-toned daguerreotype photographs that graced the walls, this one of turn-of-the-century construction on Liberty Avenue in the block that would eventually house both Gato and Gambolini’s as well as DiDolche’s café. Once more, he pushed away an image of Carla, and yet she always remained in his mind, running under his conscious thoughts like the unseen current in a river. Her image intruded when he least expected it, least wanted it, and, in this case, most resented it. Right now, he needed to concentrate. “We really feel, if given the chance, that the research we do here will change people’s lives.”

“Yes, yes,” said Sloane Junior. “I read the article in Newsweek.”

He sounded so dismissive. Was this dissipated playboy really going to turn a research facility into an art gallery for hundred-year-old porn? As soon as Tobias had stumbled upon the art, the Preservation Society had started angling to open the mansion to the public. “Already—” Tobias forced himself to smile as he continued “—we’ve helped countless people who suffer from nocturnal eating syndrome and REM behavioral disorder.” He implored Sloane Junior with his eyes. Couldn’t the other man see how important this work was? “We’ve done exemplary work with troubled children plagued by nightmares,” he explained. “And now, we’re really making exciting headway with guided dreams, which promises all sorts of therapeutic uses…”

As he spoke, his voice quickened with passion. If he hadn’t been so attached to his work, he’d never have survived the humiliation, not to mention emotional pain, of Carla’s bolting back down the aisle. After that, discounting his brief marriage to Sandy, he’d worked at this clinic around the clock. “We’ve made progress translating electrical impulses into written accounts of what people dream about,” he said. “In other words, we’re identifying patterns that will allow us to examine your brain waves and tell you what you’re dreaming. Someday our researchers will even be able to watch your dreams on a screen….”

One of the Preservationists gave in and voiced curiosity. “You mean, you’ll be able to watch someone’s dreams, like a movie?”

“We hope,” Tobias said just as another lady elbowed the first for showing interest.

Sloane Junior lifted his chin. “Do you really believe you’ll be able to do that?”

Tobias nodded. “Already, by monitoring brain waves, we can make a fair guess as to what you’re dreaming. During guided dream experiments, we’ve discovered we can deliver electronic impulses to disturbed sleepers and change the content of their dreams. We’ve been able to change nightmares into pleasant dreams. As you know—”

Sloane Junior raised a staying hand. “We’ll get back to that, Dr. Free. And thank you for the input. For now, however, I’m ready to announce that I’ll be spending the next two weeks at the clinic while I make my decision. I know that you’ve—” he nodded at Tobias “—accomplished a lot here. And yet, because this mansion is part of my heritage, it may be best to turn it over to the Preservation Society.

“Within two weeks, I should be able to decide the future of the mansion. Meantime…” He chuckled. “I don’t know about the group, but I’m starved, and judging by my watch, it’s lunchtime.”

Smiling around the table, he added, “Dr. Free has arranged for us to dine in the day room. Shall we?”

Everyone nodded assent.

Tobias tried not to let his temper get the best of him. He’d hardly wanted to feed the very people who were about to dismantle his dream clinic, but he didn’t want to appear ungracious. Years ago, he’d needed a science lab, not this drafty mansion, but when he’d landed a grant and found this place, he’d made do, turning it into one of the country’s most prestigious clinics. As much as he’d hoped the University would set him up in a space better suited to his work, competition for funding was fierce. Between the University of Pittsburgh, Carnegie-Melon and Dusquene University, Tobias Free was hardly the only academic in town who needed to house a research facility. If he lost the lease, he—not to mention all the people who’d worked for him for the past ten years—might be out of a job.

As he stood and lifted a briefcase, his eyes strayed to the old photographs on the wall. Taken when Pittsburgh was a boomtown, they were all yellow-toned, depicting crowded streets and skies made dark by smoke pouring from Cornelius Sloane’s steel mills. Some showed barges marked with the Sloane name that had once traveled choked rivers, transporting steel. Others showed the tenements Cornelius Sloane had built to house the immigrants who’d worked for him, many of whom had been Italian.

Tobias’s eyes settled on Carla’s block in Bloomfield, and he visualized the Italian neighborhood as it was today, complete with the West Penn Hospital, the Paddy Cake Bakery and Tessaro’s restaurant. Unfortunately, his mind zeroed in on the Church of the Immaculate Conception—and everything else came in a flash: the white aisle runner, the crowded pews, his four buddies leading her four girlfriends down an aisle strewn with red and white rose petals.

For a second, Tobias’s heart welled with the love he’d felt when he’d seen Carla in the strapless wedding dress. Wild black curly hair had spilled like corkscrewed ribbons over her bare shoulders, and white satin showed off a gorgeous figure made full by the endless Italian feasts her mama served. From under the veil had been only hints of her face, the dark eyes and wine-red lips that Tobias still dreamed about. She’d been only five steps away, almost in his arms, when she’d suddenly gasped, turned on the heel of a slender, white-beaded slipper, and run back down the aisle.

Pulling himself back to reality, Tobias began leading toward the day room, only to have one of the elderly women—he wasn’t sure, but he thought her name was Agnes—politely curl a hand around his upper arm and ask, “What made you decide to work in the field of dreams, anyway, Dr. Free?”

For the same reason he’d done many things in his life: Carla. Tobias managed a shrug as he guided the woman through the doorway. “Oh. I don’t know. I started out in biochemical research. One thing led to another.”

It was only the partial truth. Really, he’d wanted to cure Carla’s insomnia. She was so hot, so passionate, so full of life. But she sometimes couldn’t sleep through a night. After their lovemaking, he’d witnessed the torture she endured in her sleep. Not only were her dreams so real that she’d become convinced they’d happened, but she’d also had a bizarre recurring dream about golden underwear.

Over and over, from as far back as Carla could remember, she’d dreamed of seeing a man seated at a shadowy desk in a dark, dank room she couldn’t identify. Each time, the dream was the same. The man would slowly lift a pair of sparkling underwear made of gold.

It might have been funny, except that Carla would awaken feeling terrorized. He’d held her, too. Even now, he could remember the heat of her soft, well-loved body. She was nothing like Sandy Craig, the woman he’d married. While Sandy was angles and points, Carla was curves and cushions. So feminine, too. With her trembling in his arms, not wanting to let go, he’d never felt like more of a man. Everything about her had made him feel…strong. Protective. Necessary.

Briefly shutting his eyes as he guided the woman toward the day room, Tobias envisioned Carla’s repeating dream, conjuring the dark dank room, the man lifting the gold underwear. And then, very close to Carla’s ear, the man’s voice would sound, saying, “If you marry, you will die.”

As far as Tobias knew, that was the real reason Carla DiDolche had run from the altar on their wedding day.

THE BELT!

His palms broke out in a sweat as his eyes drifted nervously over the drawings left on the table. The picture of the belt was nearly buried under the others. His fingers itched to touch it. Somehow, he had to get it.

“Aren’t you going to the day room with the others?” asked Margaret Craig.

Surveying her buxom, matronly form, the blue-rinsed hair and bright blue eyes, he forced a smile. “Just enjoying the art,” he said, shaking his head, glad to hear that his voice sounded steady. “It’s such an incredible find.”

“If we get the lease,” Margaret agreed, “these pictures, not to mention the mansion itself, will be available to the public.” She smiled. “And then I’ll feel I’ve done my duty to the community.”

Shoving his hands into his pockets, he watched her begin gently lifting the pictures from the table. Arranging them between pieces of parchment paper, she placed them into a portfolio.

He swallowed hard, hating how tight his chest felt. All the air seemed to have been sucked from the room. He could scarcely breathe. “Are the pictures catalogued?” he managed, hoping he sounded only casually curious.

She frowned. “You know, it’s funny you ask. I believe so, though, now that you mention it, I don’t know who took care of the matter. It would have been someone in the Society.”

Was it possible she was wrong?

Warding off an excited shudder, he eyed the picture he wanted…the picture he had to have. Of course, the picture of the golden chastity belt was nothing compared to the genuine article, a priceless relic that belonged to him.

Yes, it was his. His alone. Believed to date from the earliest of the Crusades, the gold chastity belt carried a power all its own. The glint of its metal reflected the darker times when it was forged, and bespoke unholy alliances, sieges and slaughters. Those wars and skirmishes were rivaled only by the jealousy of the men who left their women behind, and who’d ensured by any means necessary that they’d never be touched by another man….

The belt was beautiful, the name of its owner lost to time and history. His heart hammered. Sweat beaded on his lip. He’d loved to have seen a woman wear it, he thought, imagining someone young and dark-haired. He could see how the heavy gold would tightly encircle her waist, locking in back.

Only when he heard a chuckle did he remember Margaret Craig was still beside him. Realizing he’d been staring at the picture of the belt, he quickly glanced away, cursing himself. He needed to steal the picture, but he couldn’t even contain his interest, so that Margaret wouldn’t notice.

“Quite something, isn’t it?” she said. “Golden underwear.” Offering a schoolgirl’s giggle, she lifted the watercolor.

Only from the back, he thought. Once turned around, the chastity belt was encrusted with priceless jewels…diamonds, rubies and emeralds that made him salivate every time he saw them.

“Someone had a naughty imagination,” said Margaret.

Only he knew the chastity belt was real, not just the subject of an artist’s picture. He worked to tamp down the sudden dark anger that churned within him. He had to get the picture Margaret Craig was putting into the portfolio! Before today, he’d never even known this picture existed. Years ago, Cornelius Sloane must have seen the picture first, then tracked down the genuine article, to add to his collection….

Realizing Margaret was speaking to him, he lifted his gaze.

“Ready for lunch?”

His throat tightened. “Would you like me to put the pictures away for you?” Could he somehow steal the picture now, without getting caught?

“They go in the safe downstairs. I’ll take care of it.”

The safe downstairs? Could he get the combination? How had he managed not to see this picture before today? He’d joined the Preservation Society hoping to find information about the belt, especially any documents that might identify the original owners. But now…the picture had to be destroyed. If it was made public, hung in a gallery in the Sloane mansion, there was a possibility Carla DiDolche might see it someday.

And Carla, who had dreamed of golden underwear, might realize the truth: that what she’d dreamed wasn’t really a figment of her imagination, but a dangerous reality….

“MA, YOU AND POP CAN’T visit,” Carla DiDolche muttered into the portable phone as she took a final glance around the apartment, wondering if she was forgetting anything. She’d shared this place with her parents years ago, before she’d moved to Oakland where she’d intended to live with Tobias after they married. Two years ago, after her parents retired to Florida, Carla had moved back home. Since she was running the café downstairs now, it was more convenient. “I love you dearly,” she continued. “But if you and Pop visit, you’ll criticize everything I’ve done to the café.”

Her mother gasped in horror. “We would never do that!”

“Oh, yes, you would,” returned Carla, heading downstairs. As she opened the lower door and headed into the café, she was relieved to see Jenna already hard at work, standing behind one of the espresso makers.

Despite how tired she felt this morning, Carla smiled and took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scents of her childhood. A hundred percent pure Italian coffee, she thought. There was, quite simply, nothing like it. Almost every morning of her life, she’d breathed the heady scent that had always been the DiDolches’ lifeblood. Waving at Vince Gato, who was seated near the front windows with Sylvia Rossetti and Salvatore Domico, Carla beelined for Jenna, saying, “Is mine ready?”

“Coming right up, boss,” returned the other woman cheerfully. A moment later, Jenna turned. She was dressed in black, and when she grinned, the silver loop in her eyebrow flashed every bit as much as the smile. She set a heavy white cup and saucer on the counter. “This is that new Kenyan blend you wanted to try.”

“Kenya?” Mary DiDolche said into the phone. “Did I hear Jenna say Kenyan blend? You know we’ve never used that. Your father gets his shipments from Jack Liotta in the Strip District.”

“Mama,” Carla cut in, gripping the phone more tightly and trying her best not to lose her temper as she lifted the glass lids of the cake plates on the counter and carefully scrutinized cookies and pastries. In about fifteen minutes, the morning rush was going to begin. “I know how you and Pop feel about expanding our repertoire, but Starbucks is killing us. Besides, the Kenyan beans did come from Mr. Liotta.”

Her mother made a shocked sound. “Jack Liotta has quit selling Italian products?”

“Of course not. But he knows that we have to expand our menu. Just as he has to expand his. To keep up with the times.”

“We have our faithful customers,” her mother said defensively.

“I know, Ma, but…” Sighing, Carla decided not to point out that her parents’ friends weren’t going to be around forever. “We need to bring in new customers. The Marcottis retired to Florida around the time you did. And the Tuccis are trying to sell their place.”

“Vince Gato is still loyal to us,” claimed her mother.

“True,” Carla said, shooting Vince a quick grin. “He’s having his espresso right now, but we need more than one customer, now, don’t we?” Actually, there were seven in the shop. Not bad for this time of the morning, but if her parents would let her offer breakfast cereals, she could pull in some of the college kids. Lifting the lid of a cake dish, she took one of the decadent, sugar-loaded morning pastries that DiDolche’s had been serving the public, along with its turbo coffee, since 1888. “I take it Louie got here,” she said to Jenna as she took a bite, tucking the phone beneath her chin, “but where’s the tiramisu?”

On the phone, her mother inhaled audibly. “Did you just say there’s no tiramisu?”

“Calm down, Ma,” Carla said as she chewed. “If Louie didn’t bring all the cakes, he’ll be back, okay?”

“He’d better.”

Carla laughed softly. “If he doesn’t, I’ll call cousin Carmine, okay?” Carmine, who owned a locksmith business, was generally acknowledged as the toughest of all the DiDolche relatives.

“Carmine knows how to handle things,” agreed her mother.

Carla was still busy doing her usual morning once-over. The plate glass windows were gleaming, and she felt a surge of pride as she took in the green, gold-tipped lettering on the glass that read DiDolche’s Since 1888.

It was a wonderful café. Above, was the original tin ceiling; below, black-and-white marble floor tiles deeply veined with green. Curved-glass cases were chock-full of the rich, homemade Italian deserts Louie delivered every morning, and fresh daisies in vases graced marble-topped tables on iron stands laden with scrollwork. Carla frowned as her eyes settled on the green bench outside. “Mrs. Domico’s poodle is by our bench again,” Carla reported.

“That woman!” exclaimed her mother, outraged. “She never picks up after that awful animal.”

Through the plate glass, Carla caught Mrs. Domico’s eye and mouthed the words, Pick up. To her mother, she said, “Don’t worry. I just told her.”

“Good!” said her mother. Before Carla could start arguing once more about the changes she needed to make to keep their business in the black, her mother continued, “It’s nearly eight. Why are you just now getting downstairs? It’s those dreams again, isn’t it, Carla? You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

“I’m fine,” promised Carla.

“No, you’re not. And if you can’t sleep, you can’t run a business. DiDolche’s has been around since 1888.”

The words put the fear of God into Carla. “I can run a business just fine.” At moments like this, it was hard to believe her parents had retired and lived in another state. If they decided to reclaim the business, Carla would be crushed. As far back as she could remember, she’d wanted to run this place. “I have a business degree, Ma. And you’re not coming here to go over the books.” If her father saw that she’d introduced three new kinds of coffee, she’d be in deep moose caca.

“I knew it when I called and you were still upstairs in the apartment,” said her mother, ignoring her. “It’s those dreams.”

“I’m fine,” Carla assured her just as her eyes landed on the Pittsburgh Post Gazette. The headline read Pittsburgh Preservation Society May Take Over Sloane Mansion. Her heart lurching, she edged closer and began reading. What on earth had happened? Was Tobias going to lose his clinic? That place was his life! Her cheeks warmed as she thought of how happy he’d been when he’d gotten the lease ten years ago—they’d had dinner at Tessaro’s to celebrate—then she mentally flashed on their wedding and how she’d run back down the aisle.

And then Carla firmly reminded herself that Tobias had married Sandy Craig, who was definitely everything Carla wasn’t: tall, thin, blond and Protestant.

She forced herself to finish reading the article. Of course, through Vince Gato who was a member of the Preservation Society, she’d known that Tobias had discovered Cornelius Sloane’s hidden porn collection, but she’d not known that he could lose his lease. Wouldn’t the university give him more funding, for another space he could turn into a clinic?

If not, what would he do? A dream researcher of his caliber would probably have to relocate to work. He’d even been written up in Newsweek. Somehow, she simply couldn’t stand the idea of him leaving the Burgh. This was his home. Even though they barely spoke anymore, she and Tobias had begun dating in high school, and he was the only man she’d ever slept with. Even though they weren’t in love, he was…

Hers.

It didn’t matter that she’d caught him trying to avoid her when they’d bumped into each other in a grocery store last month. Deep down, she knew that if she ever really needed something, she could call on him.

“Are you listening, Carla?” demanded her mother.

“I was reading an article about Tobias,” she admitted.

“See!” her mother exclaimed as if she’d just won a long-standing argument. “You still think about him! You can’t get over him! He never leaves your mind!”

“He’s in the paper, Ma,” she said defensively. “It sounds like the clinic might close.”

Her mother offered another of her trademark, theatrical gasps. “Well, this means you’d better make an appointment and see if he can cure you, Carla.”

“Ma,” she managed as two customers came in, signaling the beginning of the rush hour, “I’ve really got to go. I need to look at the air conditioner.” It had gone on the blink for an hour yesterday. Not good, in the middle of August. Carla glanced longingly at a strip of unused ground beside the building. It would be the perfect place to build a patio and serve drinks—if only her parents would allow her to make the change.

Carla suddenly looked at Jenna and squinted. “Why are you here? Didn’t you have a doctor’s appointment?”

Jenna’s eyes widened. “Uh…nope.”

Her mother heaved a sigh. “It’s those dreams again.”

And it was, as much as Carla didn’t want to admit it. Months had passed in nocturnal bliss, but then suddenly, last night, Carla had tossed and turned. She’d awakened with damp sheets twisted around her body. Right now, she could absolutely swear she and Jenna had had a conversation about her taking the day off.

Yes. The memory was razor-sharp, as clear as this hot, scorching day promised to be. Jenna was standing near the counter, wearing a black sundress.

And yet it was only a dream.

The nightmare had returned, too. Carla could recall hazy visions of mazes and secret passageways. Stairs that led to nowhere. A dark, enclosed, musty-smelling cramped room where a man seated at a desk slowly lifted a pair of golden underwear. Golden underwear! What a crazy notion! So crazy that the dream shouldn’t have been scary, and yet it was. Carla had never been able to make sense of it. Now she shuddered. Because, for a second, she could almost hear his voice at her ear, saying, “If you marry, you will die.”

“Carla?” her mother was saying. “Carla?”

She snapped back to attention. “Huh?”

“This settles it,” she said. “Your father and I are coming to Pittsburgh next week. No ifs, ands or buts. I want to know what you’re doing at the café. The DiDolches have had this business—”

“Since 1888. I know, Ma. If you and Pop would start having some faith in me—”

Once more, her mother gasped. “We have faith in you!” she defended quickly. “You’re our daughter! You’re a DiDolche! We love you!”

Despite how drained she felt from the lack of sleep, Carla finally smiled. “I know you do.”

“So, we’re coming next week. And while we’re there, you’re going to take a few days off and go to that dream clinic, huh? What do you say, Carla?”

She slid her eyes to the newspaper article again, and her heart did that awful telltale flip-flop. Oh, she’d never forgive him for marrying Sandy Craig, but she guessed when it came to hurting each other, they were now even. And yes, he’d definitely hurt her. Deeply. Not that it made any more sense than her dreams, since it was she—not he—who had run out on the wedding. Still…just thinking about seeing him made her whole system start going off kilter. His name alone could give her sweating palms, a racing pulse, a melting core. You name it.

“Carla,” her mother was saying, “as soon as we hang up this phone, you get right back on it, call the clinic and get yourself an appointment.”

Carla hedged. “Ma…”

“If you don’t, your father and I might have to come back home and help with the café….”

Carla’s lips parted. “You know you’re matchmaking, don’t you?” Before her mother could answer, she added, “It really is over between me and Tobias, Mama.” Their near-marriage was seven years ago, past history. She still wasn’t completely sure why she’d run. Was it really because of some stupid dream? Was she that haunted by phantoms of her own imagination? By things that weren’t even real?

“I’m not matchmaking!” her mother was saying. “I’m worried about your health. And if you don’t make an appointment with Tobias, I’m afraid you’ll be too tired to run the café. The DiDolches have been in business—”

“Since 1888. I know, Ma.” If she’d heard it once, she’d heard it a thousand times. Lifting her mug from the counter, Carla decided to ignore her mother’s veiled threats about reclaiming the café she took a deep draught of coffee. The new Kenyan blend was going to be a keeper, she realized instantly. “You know what happened at the church, Ma,” she finally said. “I can’t make an appointment with Tobias.”

“You can’t,” her mother rejoined decisively. “But you will.” Another audible breath sounded. “Or else I really will come back and run the café myself.”

“You’re not serious,” Carla muttered. But then, when it came to the manipulations of Mary DiDolche, one never knew. Carla hesitated, then she thought of last night, which had been pure hell. Then she had an image of her parents coming back to town and working in the café again. “Okay,” she agreed. “I’ll call the clinic. I promise.”

“If any man can turn a woman’s nightmares into dreams,” declared her mother on a relieved sigh, “it’s probably Tobias Free.”

And how, thought Carla. Mothers might know best, but they usually didn’t know the half of it.