Once Again (5 page)

On my way home, I couldn’t resist driving
back down Old Birch Lane, past the house that for some reason was
the object of my intense curiosity. I wondered if my interest would
be piqued or satisfied once I’d walked through the building. My
questions would have to wait for another day, since I expected
Jessie to arrive at my house any moment.

Right on time, she pulled into my driveway
right after me, leaving her Mustang parked behind my Accord. She
bounded out of the car, sunglasses pushed up on her head, and I
realized that I was glad to see her. And not just because of her
chemistry expertise.

She’d become a real friend, and the thought
made me smile.

“Hey Jess!”

“Hi there.” She pulled her backpack from the
car and tossed the sunglasses to the front seat. “How was
work?”

“Terribly exciting stuff,” I said, heading up
the front porch steps. “Sweeping and dusting.”

“I think it’s so cool that your dad’s a
musician,” she said as I motioned for her to go in before me. “Was
he ever in a band?”

“A couple of local ones.” I shut the door
behind me. “Mostly he did studio work, played for different artists
on their recordings.”

“That’s so exciting!”

I’m sure dad’s previous occupation sounded
glamorous, but to me it was just the way things had always
been.

“You know what else is exciting?” Jessie
asked, wiggling her eyebrows like she always did when she had
something interesting to share. “I heard we won the cross-country
meet yesterday, and a certain handsome runner came in first.”

“I have no idea who you’re talking about.” I
rolled my eyes.

“Well, I know you’re not crazy about
chemistry, so I thought maybe a little Lucas news would make it
more bearable.”

Studying for the test turned out to not be so
bad, and I actually felt prepared by the time Jessie left. We’d
gone over our notes, re-read parts of the textbook, and, over a
pepperoni pizza, had quizzed each other.

Afterward, I retreated to my room for some
much-needed iPod time. The sun was fading fast, and though it was
early for a Saturday night, I felt drained from work and chemistry
overload.

I hit play, laid back, and closed my
eyes.

The house I’d noticed this morning floated
through that shadowy haze that happens when you close your eyes. It
didn’t take a lot of effort to imagine it newer, pristine, full of
lively activity. I saw it change with the seasons, golden and red
leaves falling in the yard, snow covering the roof, tiny green buds
on the trees, and vibrant in the summer sun.

A woman opened the door, and I immediately
knew she was happy. The scent of fresh bread escaped from the
house, and anticipation coursed through her. She was waiting for
something... or someone.

As if looking through the lens of a digital
camera, I zoomed in on the woman standing in the door. I took note
of her plain dress, the dingy white apron covering her bodice and
skirt. She looked like she could’ve stepped right out of an episode
of “Little House on the Prairie”.

And then I saw her face. My breath caught in
my chest, and my eyes widened in shock.

My own face stared back at me, with a smile
so huge I wondered why her face didn’t crack. She beamed with
elation. I could feel her happiness in every molecule of my
body.

Zooming my dream-lens back out, I saw the man
walking through the yard toward her. He, too, looked like a
throwback to the 1800s, with his boots and suspenders. Instantly, I
knew he was coming home to her. To the woman who had my face.

I looked back to her. She smiled at him with
such abandon. I felt the love that coursed through her for this
man. This woman, who was me, but not me. She would sacrifice
anything for him.

He was her life.

Panning back to the man, I looked to see if
the joy I knew she felt was mirrored on his face.

It was. As I stared into his dark brown eyes,
I knew he loved her every bit as much as she loved him.

It was plain and obvious, on Lucas Ellis’s
face.

Emerson
House of Antiques was open on Sundays, unlike the downtown
businesses like String City. So, after lunch and a quick
read-through of my chemistry study notes, I headed out, on my way
to Old Birch Lane.

It was an easy sell with my parents. I’d
always loved used bookstores, consignment shops and the like, so it
wasn’t difficult for them to believe I was interested in antiques.
And I was positive I would enjoy browsing through the store, even
if seeing the inventory wasn’t my first motivation.

Last night’s dream ran through my mind again,
as it had all day long. I’d never had a dream so vivid and alive.
In the bright afternoon light, it was easy to tell myself that my
mind had imprinted my face and Lucas’s face on my dream-people
simply because of the friendship we’d developed. Well, that
and
my over-active imagination where he was concerned.

But that was no explanation for the depth of
feeling
I’d experienced. I’d woken earlier than usual for a
non-school day, and in the dim light of the morning, still warm
under the covers of my bed, and before the sun broke over the
horizon, I’d been swamped in the emotions of the dream. Love
flooded through me, so strong it brought tears to my eyes. Feelings
I had no experience with, or frame of reference for, burned bright
inside my heart. And there in my bedroom, in the early morning
hours, I’d cried softly for the beauty of the love between two
people I did not know and who probably didn’t exist.

It would’ve been humiliating had it not been
in the privacy of my own room.

I wasn’t sure what I thought a trip to
Emerson’s Antiques would solve, but it seemed the only thing to do
after its appearance in my dream.

Two vehicles were parked in Emerson’s
circular driveway. A silver sedan was near the door, and behind it
sat an older, dark green Ford Bronco. I decided the Bronco was
probably a sensible choice, from what I’d heard about Maine
winters.

I parked next to the Bronco and stepped out
of my car. As usual, the air carried a salty, briny smell. It
wasn’t strong or unpleasant, but being so different from Tennessee,
I always noticed it. I wondered if others here were aware of it,
and figured they probably weren’t. I liked to think that maybe Sky
Cove was sharing a few of its secrets with me, to make me feel more
at home.

As I headed to the front door, each step
seemed filled with purpose, as if the short journey from my car to
the store would somehow change everything.

Again, crazy, stupid thoughts.

It was unlike me to make a mountain out of a
molehill, but over the past two weeks, I’d become quite proficient
at it.

A bell jingled when I opened the front door,
and I thought to myself that the place even smelled old. Not in an
icky way, like an attic full of mold and dust, but rather like
something cured to perfection by the passage of years.

To my left were cabinets filled with antique
glassware. Fenton and Carnival glass, according to the labels, all
of it sparkling and gleaming from the lights in the display cases.
Directly in front of me were rows and rows of old stuff, dolls and
dishes and books and costume jewelry. Beyond the front room, I
could see another room, put together in much the same way...
breakables and valuables in cases on the left side and other
miscellaneous antiquated things on shelves in the middle section of
the room.

I was just about to wander down the cabinets
of pretty glassware when someone came in from the back room.

“Can I help you?” asked the attractive lady
with dark auburn hair. I guessed her age at around thirty.

“Just looking around,” I replied. “I noticed
the place yesterday, and thought I’d come in and look around.”

“You’re new to Sky Cove?” She walked behind
the counter, hopped up on a stool, and leaned across toward me, as
if we were old friends having a conversation.

“I’ve been here about a month.” I walked over
and offered my hand. “I’m Layla Bradford. My dad’s the new owner of
String City.”

“Oh, right,” she said, shaking my hand. “I
heard the place had changed hands. I’m Ashley Emerson.”

I’d never put much stock in déjà vu, but if
it could be described as a weird sense of impossible recognition,
maybe this was it.

It really sort of wigged me out.

“I drove through this neighborhood on my way
downtown yesterday, and I couldn’t help but notice this house. It
looks older than the rest.” Wigged out or not, might as well see
what I could learn about this place, and maybe figure out why it
showed up in my dream last night.

“You’re absolutely right,” Ashley said. “It’s
been in my husband’s family since the 1800’s. Originally, it was
the only house around and the rest of the area was used for crops
or grazing animals.”

My curiosity was definitely in overdrive, but
I didn’t want to make a pest of myself with questions about the
house. After all, the dream had merely been a product of my
subconscious anyway.

“Nice that it’s still in your family,” I
said. “An antique store is a lovely way to showcase the house.”

“It was my mother-in-law’s idea,” she
answered. “She and I run the place together.”

The ringing phone interrupted our
conversation, so I began meandering through the store, stopping
occasionally to look closer at some trinket that caught my
attention. I tried to find some kind of feeling, some kind of vibe,
but the more I focused on
trying
to feel something like what
I’d felt in the dream, the more I felt nothing. I gave up and
wandered into the back room.

And was hit full force with a wave of
nostalgia. It was a physical feeling, chills on my skin and a pull
in the pit of my stomach. A swell of yearning that took my breath,
as if I’d walked into the most important place in all of history.
But it was only little room full of old things, with one other
customer besides me.

And that customer was wearing a brown tee
shirt, tucked into a pair of nice jeans, with a brown leather belt
at his waist, all of which accentuated the dark blond hair on his
head.

And the dark brown eyes that turned and
immediately locked on mine.

Lucas Ellis.

My brain shut down and simply refused to
comprehend what it was seeing. Lucas was here, in this house, the
very same one I’d dreamed about last night, the very same one he
was coming home to, while I stood at the door and waited anxiously
for him.

That
wasn’t
me. And it
wasn’t
him. It was a stupid, stupid dream. I reminded myself that I’d
decided the dream was nothing more than a subliminal expression of
my attraction to him.

But why was he here? No matter how I chose to
compartmentalize the dream, Lucas being here today was one heck of
a coincidence.

I don’t know how long I stood there, no doubt
looking like a complete loser, but at some point I realized he was
talking to me.

And he was standing right in front of me.

“Layla?” he asked. “You okay?”

The sound of his voice snapped me out of
it.

“Sorry.” I blinked my eyes, shook my head.
“Guess I was in a daze.”

Good grief, could I be anymore of an idiot?
Standing here, staring at him, acting catatonic in the middle of an
antique store.

“Yeah, you kind of zoned out there for a
minute.”

Thanks so much for pointing that out.

“What are you doing here?” As soon as the
words left my mouth, I knew they sounded snippy. I backpedaled
quickly. “I mean, this is a rather weird place to run in to
you.”

“I could say the same,” he said, smiling.

Man, his smile did things to me... the way it
lit up his eyes. Made me feel all mushy and warm inside. And made
me lose my train of thought.

What had he said? Oh yeah.

“I’m just killing some time,” I said,
scrambling to stay on topic. “I noticed this place on my way to the
store yesterday, so I decided to come check it out.”

“Yeah, I’m killing some time, too.” He picked
up a saltshaker that looked like a tiny bottle of Tequila. “What’s
the point in this?”

“Novelty, I suppose.” I shrugged. “How often
do you come here?”

Oh fantastic. That sounded like a corny
come-on line. I could picture a poorly dressed man with too much
cologne saying, in a smarmy voice, “Hey baby, do you come here
often?”

If Lucas noticed, he didn’t point it out or
even grin. He just sat the margarita-esque saltshaker down and
looked back up at me.

“Not a lot.” He folded his arms across his
chest, which pulled the brown tee shirt that matched the color of
his eyes tight across his muscled upper body.

I ordered myself not to drool.

He continued. “I’ve been here a couple of
times with my mom. She gets into weird stuff like this. I thought I
might find something for her for Christmas.”

“Wow, you’re really on the ball. Christmas
shopping right after Labor Day? And for your mother?”

“Well, like I said, my mom’s into weird
stuff. Sometimes it’s hard to know what to get her.”

I had a hard time believing that he’d come
here, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon in September to buy a
Christmas gift for his mother, but I decided to give him kudos for
even thinking of it.

I made a mental note to add “appreciates his
mother and treats her right” to my list of things to look for in
the opposite sex.

Along with dark blond hair and chocolate
brown eyes. And shirts that were always tucked in and looked
neat.

I silently screamed at myself to get a grip.
I changed the subject in an effort to get my thoughts under
control.

“I heard you guys won the cross-country meet
yesterday. Congratulations.”