11 Distracted by the sound of voices in the hallway, I leave my coffee mug on a stack of boxes and lean toward the door. A quick look through the peephole reveals Mrs. Bellingham calling to someone, undoubtedly Aurora, as she summons the elevator.
I chuckle and turn away, amused by the women’s close relationship. Mrs. Bellingham is undeniably a busybody, happiest when inserting herself into other people’s affairs, but Aurora doesn’t seem to mind the woman’s frequent visits. Most of the young women I know are proud of their independence and determined to maintain it. In New York, anyway.
I return to my moving boxes, take one last sip of my rapidly cooling coffee, then head toward the kitchen. I’d hoped to unpack a few boxes before I have to leave, but time has slipped away. I still need to run a comb through my hair and find a tie before I can go downstairs and hail a cab. I’ve found a small community church in midtown that feels like home, and the worship service begins in half an hour.
I dump my cold coffee in the sink, leave the mug on the counter, and am halfway to my bedroom when someone knocks on the door. My irritation vanishes when I discover Aurora Norquest in the hallway. Two bright spots of color mark her cheeks—what on earth?
“I’m really sorry to disturb you,” she says, glancing at her hands when I open the door, “but I wanted to apologize again for waking you last night. From now on, I’ll try to keep my music turned down.”
She looks half-frozen, a deer ready to bolt. Who is this woman? Why is she so skittish?
“It’s okay.” I lean against the doorframe, then gesture over my shoulder. “Want to come in? I was getting ready for church, but if you want to talk—”
“I don’t want to hold you up.” She half-turns, then crinkles her nose. “Is . . . is that popcorn?”
I laugh, caught off guard by the wonder in her voice. “I had some last night while I watched a movie. You like popcorn?”
“I . . . I used to. I had to stop buying it when Mother started to choke on the kernels. I couldn’t eat anything she couldn’t eat because she always wanted whatever she saw me eating and we’d get into these huge arguments . . .”
Her voice trails away. I nod, suddenly fighting an inexplicable urge to pop her a bowl full of popcorn, slathered with butter, salt, cinnamon, anything she wants—but she shrugs and takes a half step back. “Well, that’s all I wanted to say. I’m sorry about the noise.”
“Hey—that reminds me.” I straighten and open the door wider. “I won’t keep you, but after talking to you last night, I remembered I have a book you might find interesting—it’s about dreams.”
She tilts her head and gives me a small smile. “You’re interested in dreams?”
“A little—economists need a basic understanding of human nature, so I’ve done some reading on psychological subjects. Let me get that book for you, okay? I’ll be back in a sec.”
Not wanting to spook her, I leave the door open and cross to a cardboard box outside my bedroom. “Sorry about the mess,” I call over my shoulder, “but I haven’t had time to unpack everything. But this box says ‘nonfiction,’ so if my system holds up, the book we want should be right here . . .”
“You have a packing system?”
I glance back at her. “Don’t you?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I’ve never had to move.”
I flip through the contents of the box, shuffling through outdated texts on economics and societal trends, then I pull a gray and white paperback from the stack.
“Here it is.” I wipe dust from the upper edge, then hurry back to the doorway. “The author gives the interpretation of several common dreams and nightmares. I’m not sure any of this will pertain to you, but it might.”
Her eyes narrow, but she takes the book. “Dream Diagnosis,” she reads, “How to Understand Common Images God Plants within Visions.”
She snorts with the half-choked mirth of a woman who rarely laughs. “I was expecting something more . . . psychological.”
I slip my hand into my pocket. “I think you’ll find there’s plenty of psychology between those pages.”
“But this looks like a religious book.”
“Are you not religious?”
“Not really. Mother stopped going to church shortly after I was christened. Clara attends St. Pat’s every week, but I think it’s more of a social obligation than anything else.”
I’m sure she’s going to hand the book back, but after a moment she shrugs and lowers it to her side. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Lots of plans for the day, huh?”
“Something like that.”
I tilt my head, trying to figure out what’s different about her. She’s combed her hair and put some color on her lips, but it’s more than makeup. Her eyes now look like they’re lit by sunshine.
I nod. “See you later, then.”
“I’ll bring the book back tomorrow or the next day. I’m a fast reader.”
“No rush. Keep it as long as you want.”
She laughs again. “I’m not sure I want it at all.”