Free If Only in My Dreams by Wendy Markham

to her head, murmuring, “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome. Is there somebody you want me to contact for you? A friend, or… your husband?”
    He waits for her to tell him that she isn’t married, even as he chides himself for the shameless ploy. But he can’t help it. What red-blooded fella can overlook the opportunity to ascertain the availability of a beautiful doll like her?
    Unfortunately, a simple “No, thank you,” is her only reply.
    “You say you bumped your head on the train?” he asks. At her nod, he asks, “Did you come up from the city just a little while ago? On the 9:33?”
    Her head bobs again, most of her face shrouded by the towel so that he can no longer see her expression.
    Encouraged by the fact that she hasn’t snapped at him again, he continues the line of questioning. “What are you doing up here in Westchester? Visiting somebody?”
    She hesitates for so long he suspects she doesn’t remember. He read somewhere that head injuries can cause amnesia.
    Then she says, from behind the ice pack, “No, I’m here for… a job.”
    “You’re looking for a job? Well, it’s your lucky day”—
and mine
—“because I happen to be in desperate need of a sales gal.”
    You are, are you?
a disbelieving voice asks in his head.
What about Alice?
    Well, what about her? She’s not here. And Miss Whistle Bait here just said herself that she’s in town looking for work… didn’t she?
    “Oh, I’m not… I don’t need a job,” she says, lowering the towel and looking him in the eye at last. “I’ve got to get back to—the city,” she finishes awkwardly, as though she were about to say something else.
    Disappointment takes hold somewhere in the vicinity of his heart… which had no business beating a little faster just because of her, in the first place.
    He turns away, gladly, to pour her coffee.
    The bell on the door jangles abruptly as somebody steps in from the street.
    “The next train doesn’t come through until ten twenty-one,” he informs Clara, setting down the cup before turning toward the front of the store. “So it looks like you’re going to be here a little while longer.”
    Old Minnie Bouvier is gingerly wiping her black galoshes on the mat. “Good morning, Jed,” she calls as he strides toward her. “My, but it’s brisk out there this morning.”
    “That it is, Mrs. Bouvier.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Clara abruptly turn her head toward the newcomer. “How can I help you today?”
    “I’ll take two dozen pint-sized canning jars. They’ve got Florida oranges at twenty-five cents a dozen over at the grocery. I’m putting up the last of my marmalade this week, before I start in on the holiday baking.”
    “Well, I can hardly wait for that. I count on you to bring me one of those delicious fruitcakes of yours every year.”
    “Oh, I’ll be bringing you a few, don’t you worry. That reminds me—I need heavy brown paper to line the pans…”
    Jed points her in the right direction, then keeps one eye on Clara as he counts the jars into a sturdy carton.
    She’s still sitting there on the stool with the coffee untouched in front of her, and she’s fretting. Even from several yards away he can see her wringing her hands and biting her lower lip.
    Maybe he should lock up the store after Mrs. Bouvier leaves, and take Clara over to see Doc Wilson. She might have a concussion. She sure as heck is confused, and she probably shouldn’t be boarding a train back to the city by herself.
    For a split second, he fancies himself going with her—and all but snorts out loud when he realizes how outlandish an idea
that
is.
    For one thing, she’s a complete stranger who, for all he knows, is married or engaged, ring or no ring.
    For another, he has a business to run. He can’t go chasing after every Able Grable who happens to cross his path.
    The trouble is, it isn’t every day that an Able Grable crosses his path here in Glenhaven Park, unless you count the gals