Was that George? George McBride, her beloved husband?
Why did he look like a twenty-five-year-old man, striding across the field behind Snowberry Lodge in a soft flannel and worn jeans, moving with that understated but manly swagger earned from years of hard work and clean living?
Transported forty years into the past, MJ feasted her eyes on the man she’d married who was definitelynotthe same middle-aged George she’d tearfully buried six years ago.
Wait. Was he…singing?
No, no, he was whistling. Blowing out that melody she knew so well. She recognized the lilting notes of Louis Armstrong on a scratchy record player in their bedroom, and remembered dancing in their pajamas after the baby fell asleep.
Just the two of them, singing about…trees of green…red roses, too…and…what a wonderful world.
“It’s always going to be our song, MJ,” he called out to her, holding up a hand as the whistling got louder and louder. “Nobody else’s, sweetheart! Just you and me, forever.”
He whistled the crescendo of the song, the notes high-pitched. They no longer sounded like a human but a digital beeping. Or was that?—
MJ’s eyes popped open, then she blinked, lost and confused, surrounded by a pitch-black room, her heart hammering, her palms damp, her soul aching for…George. Young George. Her George. Her one and only…
“It was a dream,” she groaned as the realization hit.
Then she sat up straighter, not trusting her own ears.
“Then why do I still hear the music?”
Shocked by the distant but distinct melody, she threw back her comforter and let her bare feet hit the warm rug over hardwood floors. Taking a breath, she reached for her robe at the bottom of the bed, then stood, frowning and disoriented.
That song!
Why was it playing? Where was it…
She flexed her fingers and wiggled her toes. Totally awake, so this wasn’t part of her dream.
A recurring dream, she acknowledged, about her late husband. He was always in the back behind Snowberry Lodge, coming from her mother’s old garden, a tool or two dangling from his hand, their favorite song on his lips as he whistled.
But this dream had audible music and…it hadn’t stopped!
She reached to the lamp on her nightstand, turning on the light to spill a golden glow around the bedroom.
As soon as she did, the music stopped.
Okay. It was a dream. Just a vivid, wonderful, unexpected dream.
Slightly shaken, MJ pulled her robe over her arms and belted it, longing for something to make her feel steady and secure.
“Oh, George.” She rubbed the fleece sleeves, giving in to a shiver that she hoped would shake off a dream she hadn’t had in, oh, almost a year.
In fact, she realized, she hadn’t dreamed about George…since she’d met Matt.
Sighing, she walked to her phone charging on the dresser and tapped it to see it was a few minutes past three. She normally rose with no alarm at five, so there wasn’t much point in trying to go back to sleep.
She eyed the bed, which looked warm and inviting and…empty.
Now that Matt Walker had arrived at Snowberry Lodge, keeping a written promise he’d made a year ago, did MJ need to think about her bednotbeing empty?
The only man she’d ever shared a bed with was…the handsome one in her dreams whistlingWhat a Wonderful World.
Would that change now that Matt had returned to Park City?
“Slow down there, girlfriend,” she whispered to herself. “He only came back last night.”
