She bit her lower lip and shook her head slightly from side to side. I wondered if I’d overstepped my bounds and was all set to apologize when she broke into a big smile.
“I love it. You have a real knack for this, Taylor. I think we should revamp all the displays. My arrangement was functional, but yours is much more attractive. It’s a work of art.”
“That’s just what I told her!” Minerva exclaimed. “Artistic!”
Ali laughed and gave me a high five. “I’m learning new things about you every day,” she said, her sunny mood seemingly restored. She poured herself a glass of lemonade and nibbled on a sugar cookie while I waited on Lucinda Macavy, who’d come in for some Burnt Sugar peanuts.
“I’m addicted to these,” she said with a girlish giggle. “I suppose everyone has a guilty pleasure, don’t they?”
“Probably,” I agreed, smiling at her. Lucinda is so prim and straitlaced, it was amusing to think of her admitting to any pleasures, guilty or otherwise. I filled a large bag for her while she checked out the new gummy bear display.
“I think I dreamt about poor Chico last night,” she confided. “Do you remember how Persia said we could will ourselves to dream about him? I tried it, and to my amazement, I believe it worked.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It was a very odd dream.” She seemed to be waiting for some reaction from me, so I nodded for her to continue.
“You dreamt about Chico? Oh, do tell us about the dream, dear,” Minerva said, and turned toward us, all ears. For an octogenarian, she certainly had an acute sense of hearing. Rose learned forward, her elbow planted on the counter, hoping to catch every word.
“It was all very odd. I’m not even completely sure it was Chico. I was watching a man dancing in the ballroom of a lovely mansion with a very attractive woman. She was wearing a flowing white gown, and he was swirling her around and around in a waltz.”
“A waltz?” Ali piped up. “That’s odd. Chico taught Latin dancing. I don’t think he ever did ballroom dancing.”
“I know, Ali, but remember Sybil told us that details get all mixed up in dreams,” Minerva said pointedly. “Sometimes one person stands in for another and one thing is substituted for another. It’s all about symbolism. You can’t interpret them too literally.”
“I do recall her saying that,” I said, inwardly wincing. I hoped we weren’t going to get into a long spiel on dream analysis. Ali’s dark mood had dissipated, and I didn’t want to dredge up the tragic events of yesterday.
“Tell us more about the dream, dear,” Minerva said encouragingly. She settled herself on a black leather stool next to the counter, and Rose moved to a pale lavender antique side chair that Ali had picked up at a garage sale. It was obvious that they were settling in for a good long chat, and I shot a nervous glance at Ali. Her features looked serene; either she really wasn’t upset by the conversation or she was managing to hide her discomfort.
“It was the most beautiful ballroom I’ve ever seen,” Lucinda went on. “Every detail is so vivid. I can see it in my mind. It was the most gorgeous room, like a painting.”
“It was like a painting?” Rose asked eagerly. “So you mean it was strictly a representation of a scene, not an actual scene?”
Lucinda gave a dismissive little wave of her hand. “No, wait, I think I’m getting confused.” She bit her lip and scrunched up her face. “It
was
a real scene, but there were beautiful murals on the walls and on the ceilings. That’s what made me think about paintings.”
“What sort of paintings?” Ali looked intrigued.
“Angels and cherubs. They reminded me of something . . .” Her voice trailed off as she pursed her lips and then snapped her fingers. “I know what it was! They looked like paintings I saw on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I was a chaperone for a senior class trip to Rome
“I love it. You have a real knack for this, Taylor. I think we should revamp all the displays. My arrangement was functional, but yours is much more attractive. It’s a work of art.”
“That’s just what I told her!” Minerva exclaimed. “Artistic!”
Ali laughed and gave me a high five. “I’m learning new things about you every day,” she said, her sunny mood seemingly restored. She poured herself a glass of lemonade and nibbled on a sugar cookie while I waited on Lucinda Macavy, who’d come in for some Burnt Sugar peanuts.
“I’m addicted to these,” she said with a girlish giggle. “I suppose everyone has a guilty pleasure, don’t they?”
“Probably,” I agreed, smiling at her. Lucinda is so prim and straitlaced, it was amusing to think of her admitting to any pleasures, guilty or otherwise. I filled a large bag for her while she checked out the new gummy bear display.
“I think I dreamt about poor Chico last night,” she confided. “Do you remember how Persia said we could will ourselves to dream about him? I tried it, and to my amazement, I believe it worked.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It was a very odd dream.” She seemed to be waiting for some reaction from me, so I nodded for her to continue.
“You dreamt about Chico? Oh, do tell us about the dream, dear,” Minerva said, and turned toward us, all ears. For an octogenarian, she certainly had an acute sense of hearing. Rose learned forward, her elbow planted on the counter, hoping to catch every word.
“It was all very odd. I’m not even completely sure it was Chico. I was watching a man dancing in the ballroom of a lovely mansion with a very attractive woman. She was wearing a flowing white gown, and he was swirling her around and around in a waltz.”
“A waltz?” Ali piped up. “That’s odd. Chico taught Latin dancing. I don’t think he ever did ballroom dancing.”
“I know, Ali, but remember Sybil told us that details get all mixed up in dreams,” Minerva said pointedly. “Sometimes one person stands in for another and one thing is substituted for another. It’s all about symbolism. You can’t interpret them too literally.”
“I do recall her saying that,” I said, inwardly wincing. I hoped we weren’t going to get into a long spiel on dream analysis. Ali’s dark mood had dissipated, and I didn’t want to dredge up the tragic events of yesterday.
“Tell us more about the dream, dear,” Minerva said encouragingly. She settled herself on a black leather stool next to the counter, and Rose moved to a pale lavender antique side chair that Ali had picked up at a garage sale. It was obvious that they were settling in for a good long chat, and I shot a nervous glance at Ali. Her features looked serene; either she really wasn’t upset by the conversation or she was managing to hide her discomfort.
“It was the most beautiful ballroom I’ve ever seen,” Lucinda went on. “Every detail is so vivid. I can see it in my mind. It was the most gorgeous room, like a painting.”
“It was like a painting?” Rose asked eagerly. “So you mean it was strictly a representation of a scene, not an actual scene?”
Lucinda gave a dismissive little wave of her hand. “No, wait, I think I’m getting confused.” She bit her lip and scrunched up her face. “It
was
a real scene, but there were beautiful murals on the walls and on the ceilings. That’s what made me think about paintings.”
“What sort of paintings?” Ali looked intrigued.
“Angels and cherubs. They reminded me of something . . .” Her voice trailed off as she pursed her lips and then snapped her fingers. “I know what it was! They looked like paintings I saw on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. I was a chaperone for a senior class trip to Rome
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