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these days.
    The scent was wholeheartedly recommended yesterday by Luna, the aromatherapist at her mother’s favorite health store. Clara stopped in on a whim to load up on organic produce, herbal supplements, books on holistic medicine… as much supposedly healing merchandise as she could carry.
    “Do you think this was once a smoking car?” one of the extras asks.
    “They were all once smoking cars, dude,” somebody replies.
    Cigarettes. Why did you have to smoke all those cigarettes when you were younger?
    Cancer. You have cancer
.
    Her thoughts catapulted back to her diagnosis, Clara can’t help but wonder if things might be different now if she hadn’t.
    You can’t second-guess everything you ever did
, she reminds herself.
What good is that now?
    What is, is
.
    Nothing to do but accept this. Accept it, and fight it
.
    “Clara?” someone prods impatiently, and she realizes that nearly everyone is in their places now.
    Everyone but the bit actor playing the conductor—and the leading lady.
    Fighting the overwhelming urge to scratch the itchy spot where the rough woolen collar brushes her bare neck, Clara takes her designated spot standing beside the door. She’s supposed to be the first passenger off the train.
    Her character, a disillusioned office worker, is eager to reach her small-town destination and begin her new elementary school teaching position at the redbrick schoolhouse.
    Little does Violet know that she’s about to be swept off her feet by the so-called swooniest fella in town.
    “Here you go, Clara.” With a grunt, Lisa, the prop mistress, sets an authentic 1941 Samsonite Streamlite suitcase on the floor at her feet.
    “It looks heavy. It
is
heavy,” Clara exclaims, lifting it slightly to test the weight. “What’s in this thing? Sandbags?”
    “I stuck a bunch of outfits from wardrobe inside. Stuff we decided not to use. You can go through it after the shoot and keep what you want.”
    “Are you kidding? I can’t wait to get back into real clothes when this shoot is over. I don’t know how women back then dealt with being this dressed up every day—and can I ask why this suit doesn’t have more than one pocket?”
    “For what? Your iPod?”
    “Nope, it won’t fit. I keep that right here.” She grins and lifts her jacket, showing Lisa the slim device tucked into her waistband. The skirt fits loosely, and she can’t seem to get used to the fact that it’s a size twelve—which, as the wardrobe mistress has repeatedly reminded her, is the equivalent to a modern four, her usual size.
    “Hey!” Lisa protests. “You can’t carry one of those in the scene. This is supposed to be 1941, remember?”
    “Shh! Nobody knows it’s here. And I’ll take it out when we shoot later. It comes in handy in this endless blocking.”
    “What if it falls out of your skirt?”
    “It won’t.”
    “It might. Hand it over.”
    “Oh, relax, I’ll just pop it in here.” Clara opens her large black leather clutch purse and drops it in. “There. Nobody will ever know it’s there.”
    “
You
will. It might interfere with your authenticity.”
    “Nah, I’m a pro, and anyway, we’re not shooting yet.” Clara sighs and scratches the back of her neck again. “God, I would kill to be wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.”
    “And here I thought you were a glamour-queen actress,” Lisa says dryly. “So much for the Hollywood illusion.”
    “Yeah, but I look like one today, right?” Clara asks with a grin, reaching up to pat her head beneath the trim hat. The hairstylist tamed her brunette mane into a controlled pompadour high above her forehead, with sleek waves falling to her shoulders.
    Her smile fades as she remembers that it won’t be long before her hair is falling to the ground in clumps.
    “Places, everyone!”
    At last the train is ready to steam toward Glenhaven Park for the first run-through.
    Clara clutches her purse in one hand and grabs a pole with the other in anticipation of