were doing menial labor. And any holes would have been patched.”
“Now you pay more for holes.” Emily’s wry tone dissolved in laughter.
From across the room came a gurgling sound, followed by a hiss of steam.
“I think the coffee’s ready,” Devin said.
God knew she could use a cup. Setting aside the jacket and skirt, she went over to pour mugs for both of them. When she returned, Emily was pulling something else from the box.
“What’s this?”
“Ooh, that’s an overcoat. Wait till you see it. Here.” She handed her sister both mugs so she could take the coat.
After shaking out the wrinkles, she held it in front of her. Like the jacket, it was fitted at the waist and had padded shoulders. Devin fingered the placket of buttons that ran down the middle and stroked the soft wool gabardine. The quality was evident.
“Wow! I’m not a fan of the Forties, but that coat is gorgeous. And it hardly looks worn.”
“I know.” Devin decided to put it on, going so far as to fasten all of the buttons. It fit perfectly. More than how it fit, it felt perfect.
“Gosh, Dev, that looks like it was made for you.”
“You’re right.” Even though Yesterday’s Closet could use the income, she murmured, “Maybe I’ll keep this piece for myself.”
At the front of the shop was a trifold mirror bracketed by a pair of dressing rooms. Devin picked her way through the boxes and went to stand in front of it so she could study her image in triplicate.
Her brown hair was straight and fell even with her shoulders, rather than being swept up in a fashionable Forties ’do. Still, the hat looked pretty good on her. Maybe she would keep both pieces.
On a sigh, Devin dipped her hands into the pockets. Her fingers brushed against something in the right one. It was round and cool to the touch. She pulled it out. A lady’s watch? Before she could make out the time, however, the room exploded in light.
Chapter Two
A blinding light engulfed her. Devin closed her eyes against its brightness and winced at the loud, soniclike boom that followed.
What had just happened? Some sort of freak power surge? When she opened her eyes, however, the scene that greeted her was surreal and caused her to doubt her sanity.
She was no longer standing in front of the trifold mirror. In fact, she wasn’t in her shop at all or even in the East Village. Despite some cosmetic differences and the absence of electronic billboards, she recognized the spot as Times Square. It was packed with people, all of whom were celebrating.
Women were cheering. Men were clapping one another on the back. Sailors in uniform sauntered in their midst, randomly tossing their white caps high into the air. All of them were absurdly happy, but what struck Devin most of all was how they all looked. Their hairstyles, their clothing…vintage 1940s, an era she knew well.
Something about the scene tugged at her memory. It was as if she’d seen it before. In one of her dreams perhaps? But she was awake now and at her shop, or at least she had been. So that didn’t explain why she was seeing it now. Not just seeing it, she thought, as an older gentleman bumped into her. It was as if she was experiencing it, right down to the acrid smell of smoke coming from the cigarette clamped between the man’s lips.
He pulled it away, puffed out some smoke that she swore had her eyes stinging. With a polite tip of his lightweight fedora, he added, “Pardon me, ma’am.”
When he was gone, Devin discreetly touched her forehead, almost hoping to find a wound that would explain things. A concussed person might succumb to detailed delusions such as these, but there was no wound, not even any tenderness.
Had she suffered some sort of blackout or seizure then? Neither seemed to be the case. She felt fine, if confused. Other than that blinding light and hearing the thunderous boom, she’d experienced no other physical symptoms.
That left two possibilities, only one of which was rational, so she eagerly latched on to it: This was another one of her dreams—a dream within a dream. She had never begun to unpack the boxes or even gone to her shop that morning. She was still in her apartment, sound asleep in her bed. The alarm on her nightstand had not yet gone off. She dipped her hand back into the coat’s pocket. The watch that had seemed to start it all wasn’t there. She sighed. A dream within a dream. That made sense.
Especially when she spied him in the crowd.
He was taller than most of the men in the square, his shoulders broader. His mouth was wide and sensual, the kind of mouth that looked just as good in a relaxed line as it did curved with a grin. His cheeks were lean and sculpted. At this distance, Devin couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but suddenly she knew. They were blue. Not an icy light blue, but the fathomless midnight of the deep ocean.
He wore a brimmed hat over his brown hair and was dressed in dark trousers, a crisp shirt and tie, and a dark blue blazer with brass buttons that ran down the placket. The uniform she recognized as United States Navy, vintage World War Two. Devin wasn’t up enough on the other details to know his military rank, but suddenly, in addition to his eye color, she knew his name.
Gregory Prescott.
It whispered through her mind as if someone had spoken it aloud and left her feeling as unsettled as she had after the blinding light and loud blast. She’d never known his name before. Why did she know it now when she had dreamed of him so many other times in the past?
She must have heard it somewhere. The letter at the estate sale. It had been signed by a man named Gregory. Maybe she had even seen his face years ago, although she couldn’t recall ever bumping into him. But wasn’t that usually how people showed up in dreams, whisked to a person’s subconscious after a chance meeting in real life?
Although she was far from satisfied with the explanation, Devin stopped caring the instant their gazes met. Awareness, interest, physical need—as always, she experienced all three in the split second it took for a grin to steal over his handsome face.
She smiled in return and raised her hand slightly. It took only that and he broke into a run, shouldering his way through the dense crowd.
Her heart sank. Tears stung her eyes and made her throat ache. He wouldn’t reach her. He never did. Any moment now she would find herself back in her apartment, opening her eyes to surroundings as familiar as the disappointment she always felt upon waking.
“Devin!”
When he called her name, however, she began to push through the revelers. As futile as it might be, she needed to try. The distance between them grew narrower and narrower. She was closer to him than she had ever been before. So close that she could see the crinkles that fanned from the corners of his eyes and make out the shadow of beard stubble on his jaw.
Driven, feeling desperate, she reached out again, knowing that any second he would be lost to her, every trace of him gone until their next slumberous meeting. But instead of waking up in the usual tangle of sheets, she felt their fingers touch, after which their hands clasped.
Devin cried out in surprise. The contact was not only unexpected, but seemed almost electrically charged. His eyes widened as if he felt it, too, and then his grip tightened.
“Don’t let go!” she cried. “Please!”
“Never.”
When he drew her toward him, the pulling sensation she experienced was more than physical. It was as if she were being pulled through time itself. Her knees buckled, but a pair of strong arms saved her from collapsing and she found herself staring up into a face that was every bit as familiar as her own.
At last.
She didn’t say the words aloud,