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
