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the train’s movement. Time to conjure an expectant, exhilarated feeling.
    You’re going off to start a new life.
…
    The train starts chugging. It quickly picks up speed.
    “How can you ride facing backward?” asks an extra seated nearby. “Doesn’t it make you feel sick?”
    Clara merely shakes her head, trying to focus on her character’s motivation.
    It’s 1941… you’re Violet… off to start a new life.
…
    “Hey, did you drop this?” somebody asks, and hands her something from the floor.
    She looks down to see the photo business card she had tucked into her shallow pocket earlier. Jesus had used it to scribble his life coach’s phone number… which she has every intention of throwing away.
    But there’s no place to toss it now, so she opens the purse and tucks it in.
    Nearly losing her balance as the train rounds a bend, she holds on tighter to the pole, wondering if they should be going this fast. Positioning her too-tight vintage platform shoes farther apart to keep her balance, she glances at the landscape flying past the window.
    Get into character. Come on. You’re an actress
.
    Yes, an actress with a hell of a lot more on her mind this morning than work. But there will be plenty of time to brood later.
    The train hurtles forward toward Glenhaven Park, and Clara stares at the back wall of the car, convincing herself that she’s Violet. Violet, living her uncomplicated 1941 life, embarking on a new adventure in a brand-new place.
    Any second now, you’re going to meet the man of your dreams.
…
    Yes, and he’s going to go off to war and die.
    But Violet doesn’t know that now.
    Violet is all hope and anticipation.
    Lucky, lucky Violet. Healthy. Happy. About to make a fresh start.
    What I wouldn’t give to be in her shoes for real
, Clara thinks wistfully.
Not forever
.
    Just for now
.
    Just for the happy stuff… like not having cancer and falling in love with Jed Landry
.
    “I don’t know… maybe I like the blue one better after all. What do you think, Jed?”
    Mustering every shred of his threadbare patience, he pretends to study the woolen muffler Mrs. Robertson is ostensibly about to purchase for her son—after a good twenty minutes’ deliberation, with Jed as a reluctant participant and model.
    “The red looks more Christmasy.” He points at the muffler in her hand. “Definitely the red.”
    There’s a moment of silence as she contemplates that. A train whistle sounds in the distance. Jed can hear the 9:33 chugging away from the station across the green, and fervently wishes he were on it.
    “But Theodore will be wearing the scarf for the rest of the winter,” Mrs. Robertson protests, thrusting the scarf away. “He won’t even open it until Christmas morning. Maybe I should—”
    “The red will be keen in February, too,” Jed cuts in hastily, flicking his gaze to the clock hanging just beyond the stovepipe on the far wall. “You know, with Saint Valentine’s Day, and George Washington’s birthday and all.”
    “George Washington’s birthday?” Mrs. Robertson’s eyebrows raise toward the tilted brim of the black felt hat she bought here at Landry’s Five-and-Dime last winter—a purchase that enveloped well over an hour of Jed’s time and a month’s worth of patience.
    This morning, she was waiting by the door when he arrived to open the store at nine, barely giving him time to shovel the new-fallen snow from the sidewalk before starting in with questions.
    He isn’t in the mood. Especially not today.
    Not when Alice, the increasingly inept young woman he hired as Christmas help, has yet to show up.
    Not when it’s the first of December, and his thoughts are consumed by his father. It’s been two years. Two years since—
    “I beg your pardon, Jed, but what on earth does George Washington’s birthday have to do with a red muf—”
    “George Washington cut down a cherry tree. Cherries are red.”
    At that, Mrs. Robertson’s eyebrows disappear