Dreaming Anastasia by Joy Preble Read Free Book Online Page A

doesn’t have royal aspirations?
    And what I really like even better is that every piece in this shop has a story, and everything used to belong to someone else. I guess some people might find that kind of icky—like Tess, for example, who last time she was here with me picked up a pair of intricate, coral clip earrings and commented, “I can just see these on some fat old lady with boobs that look like a shelf”—but I don’t mind at all.
    I like knowing that there’s a story behind this bracelet and tiara and that they used to touch someone else’s skin. Maybe even though I think the bracelet is the definition of hideous, some lady somewhere thought it was really pretty—or maybe she didn’t, but she wore it once in a while because her husband or lover or whoever had thought it made her look beautiful. All of which, in my opinion, is way more romantic than Adam telling me that my new, pink, Gap scoop-neck T-shirt would look better if he could take it off me.
    In any case, my mother and I are alone in the store, because the owner, Mrs. Amelia Benson, is off this afternoon, and currently, no customers are in sight. Mom is cataloging new pieces, and I’m arranging the displays, only the tiara and bracelet were too over the top to pass up, so I convinced her to let me try them on. I stopped in on impulse—something I clearly don’t do enough, judging by the level of surprise on my mother’s face when I arrived about ten minutes ago. But my day has been just so crazy that I found myself heading over here without even thinking.
    Not, of course, that I plan on telling my mother about the whole Ethan thing or the pain in my arm that’s still lingering just under the skin like a nagging toothache, or even about last night’s dream, for that matter. And I’m certainly not planning on telling her about the voice that echoed in my ears while the whole world started spinning just outside the cafeteria, because beyond the obvious that maybe I just imagined the whole thing, who in her right mind tells her mother that she’s hearing voices?
    Besides, that’s the way it works with us these days. Since David. I don’t worry her, and she doesn’t push for information.
    But it’s sort of soothing to just stand here helping her while she fiddles with the jewelry, and I try on tiaras, and she gives directions to someone who called on the phone. “Yes, we’re on Second Street. Two blocks from Main, next door to the Wrap Hut and across the street from Java Joe’s.”
    â€œWhere did these come from?” I unclasp the bracelet and then reluctantly lift the tiara off my definitely-not-so-princess-y head and lay them both gently back on the black velvet cloth in the display case where they belong. My mother loves the items’ stories too, so I figure it’s a good way to draw out this visit a little longer since, ballet or no ballet, I really just don’t want to leave.
    â€œEstate sale up in Lake Forest,” my mother says. “Kind of sad, really. This woman, Owena McChesney, lived all over the world, collected all sorts of stuff—art, sculpture, jewelry.” She smiles as I roll my eyes back at the bling-ilicious bracelet and tiara. “Okay, not all of it is your taste. Or mine. But there’s some pretty cool stuff. And now her kids are just basically selling it all off.”
    There’s a small pause, during which I’m absolutely sure that both of us are pondering the knowledge that David’s room is exactly as he left it two years ago. Nothing’s been moved even an inch, except to dust it. If he’d been a girl with a tiara, it would be right where he—okay, she—had left it.
    But as there is nothing either of us can do about that, my mother collects herself and says, “No, really, Anne. There are these Russian boxes she had that Amelia purchased. Lacquer boxes, they’re called.