Perhaps it was the wig making her feel hot. She’d never worn a wig before and suddenly it felt like a too-tight hat crushing her head. But it was the wig—she felt certain—that caused the doorman to rush to open the hotel door for her, the bellman to reach so hurriedly for her suitcase and matching totebag and for every other man she’d seen all day to give her admiring glances. This was a totally new experience for her and it wouldn’t take much for her to learn to like it.

Nevertheless, as she crossed the flower-patterned carpeting to the front desk, she saw a long mirror on the side wall in the lobby and couldn’t resist checking her reflection. Yes, the wig was on straight and looked natural, even though she hardly recognized herself under the long, shiny fall of yellowish platinum. Straight bangs covered her forehead and the ends almost, but not quite, touched her shoulders, curving under just the right way, like a pageboy from those old Ginger Rogers films she watched on the movie channel.

She remembered the day last week when she brought home the wig and tried it on in front of her bathroom mirror. Her housemate, Roberta, who had been with her at the time of the purchase and, in fact, had insisted on it, had come in and leaned against the door frame.

"See, what did I tell you? It’s perfect."

"It’s not me," Haley had protested.

"No, it isn’t a mousy schoolteacher who keeps her hair too short and never wears make up. For the first time in years you’re taking a vacation—on a fancy train at that—and you need to look glamorous."

"Different, for sure; I don’t know about glamorous."

"Of course you are. The girl at the cosmetics counter did a great job with your makeup too. I hope you’ll remember how to do it yourself next week."

"I bought the stuff, didn’t I, even against my better judgment."

Roberta crossed her arms over her ample bosom. "We’ve been over this before. You need to meet a man and this will do it."

"In the first place there are no prospects out there; and in the second place, I’m perfectly happy the way I am."

"You think there aren’t any because you never look. When you’re not at school, you’re working with abused women. No wonder you’ve stopped looking: you think all men are jerks and beat their wives."

"No, I don’t. I’m sure there are some good men in the world, but they’re already taken."

"I just hope there are a few on this train trip of yours. I still say you should have taken a cruise."

"Spring break is only a week long," Haley said, "and I hate modern cruise ships. They’re so ugly: they’ve always called them ‘floating hotels’ and now they look like them: just huge rectangular boxes with a million windows. Where are the decks? Where are the smokestacks?"

"They don’t need smokestacks anymore, remember?" Roberta perched on the side of the tub. "I suppose you’d rather they looked like the Titanic."

"Of course." Haley grinned, pulled off the wig and ran her fingers through her own short, curly hair that was somewhere between the color of cinnamon and charcoal.

"Your train trip isn’t exactly cheap," Roberta said. "I know you haven’t spent money on yourself in years, but you only go from New Orleans to Washington, and have to fly back and forth from Denver besides. You could take two cruises for what you’re paying for all that."

"You’re forgetting I get seasick on boats. Besides," Haley added, "this train trip through the South is perfect. Since I teach history—"

"I know, I know," Roberta inserted, "and you love old movies and think the world was a better place fifty years ago."

"—and my next subject is the Civil War, so this Antebellum South Tour will give me a personal look. I’ll teach so much better."

"To a bunch of thirteen-year-olds." Roberta paused. "But I don’t see why you can’t do both, learn some history and meet men too. On a luxury private train you need to look the part."

That was where the wig and fancy clothes had come in, to say nothing of Roberta lending her the beautiful antique necklace that had been her mother’s.

Haley had gone into her bedroom and Roberta, following, picked up the wrinkled copy of Time Magazine from the desk. It fell open automatically to the page Haley had dog-eared months before.

"It says right here in this article about the American Orient Express, quote, ‘all that’s missing is Cary Grant.’ I know you love that movie, North by Northwest, where he met Eva Marie Saint on the train and they fell in love. Well, she was blonde and wore glamorous clothes."

Haley slouched on the edge of the bed. "All Alfred Hitchcock movies had blonde heroines."

"That’s not the only train movie. Silver Streak had a blonde heroine, so did From Russia with Love. I tell you, blonde is where it’s at."

"You’re forgetting Elizabeth Taylor."

"I’ll see your Elizabeth Taylor and raise you Marilyn Monroe."

Haley flopped back on the bed, laughing. "You win. So I’ll go on this trip and meet someone who looks just like Cary Grant; but remember all those movies had murders in them. I’ll probably end up a blonde corpse."

Haley smiled again at the memory of their conversation. She was too practical to think she’d actually meet anyone, much less a Cary Grant look-alike, on this train trip. She just needed a vacation and, as she’d told Roberta, her goal was to enjoy the scenery in a different part of the country and learn something new.

Roberta, however, although a teacher in the same private school, was twenty years older, widowed, and a romantic at heart. She constantly told Haley to get out more, to meet a man, and to get married. To Roberta, the very idea of train travel—and on something called the "Orient Express"—conjured up visions of Agatha Christie intrigue, and she insisted Haley should be more adventurous. If nothing came of it, so what? She would have lived in her beloved past for a little while, and perhaps return better able to manage twenty children whose only link to earlier times seemed to be wondering how anyone lived before video games.

Even so, Haley would never have agreed to the wig except for Roberta’s insistence. "I dare you to pretend to be a glamorous blonde for seven days," she’d said.

"Don’t be silly."

"I mean it." Roberta added the clincher. "If you do it—if you really wear the wig all the time with no cheating—you get to keep my mother’s necklace."

"I couldn’t. It’s an heirloom—"

"You know I had no children, no one to pass it on to. We’ve been friends for so long, I want you to have it. But only," Roberta added, "if you keep your side of the bargain."

"And if I don’t?"

"Then when you come home, you have to go to every singles dance I tell you about for the next year."

Haley had groaned aloud. "Okay, okay, I agree. But with any luck, I’ll get murdered on the train first."

Roberta had laughed and tossed a pillow at her.

Now in the New Orleans hotel, Haley gave her name to the clerk at the front desk and, after she signed the registration form and received her room key, crossed to the concierge station on the far side of a potted plant.

A white-haired, bespectacled man left his chair and hurried up to her, smiling broadly.

"Can you tell me," she asked, "how far it is to Antoine’s?"

"You wish to have dinner at Antoine’s?"

"Yes. Is that possible?"

"Possible, yes. Probable, no." He paused, a thin frown on his forehead. "A Friday night—with no reservations— Perhaps Monday."

"Oh, dear. I’m taking the American Orient Express tomorrow so it’s tonight or never."

"Ah, you’re with the private train group." The smile returned to his face. "In that case, let me make a suggestion. Several other members of the tour are staying here and I believe some of them are also planning to dine at Antoine’s tonight. Perhaps you could join them."

She didn’t have to consider it for long. She never liked eating alone; and—much as she wanted the experience of a meal at the world-renowned restaurant—she had dreaded the thought of having to face a formally-attired maitre d’ and say, "Table for one."

"Yes, I’d be happy to join the others, if they don’t mind." What good luck: she’d get in without a reservation, in addition to the opportunity to meet some of her fellow passengers.

"I’ll make the arrangements," the concierge said, "and you may meet them here at seven o’clock. Antoine’s is only two blocks away, a very short walk."

The bellman had been waiting for her, holding her bags, and she tried to look as if she did this sort of thing all the time. Glamorous blondes always made others wait, or at least that’s what she supposed. Having never been a glamorous blonde before, how was she to know?

They entered an elevator and rode up to her room. Once inside, she gave him a generous tip, and, after he was safely gone, pulled off the wig and her clothes and threw herself across the bed. Her adventure was certainly starting out well.

* * *

At exactly seven o’clock—schoolteachers were notorious for being punctual—Haley stepped out of the hotel elevator and walked across the lobby. She’d put on the coolest dress of the ones Roberta had selected for her: a sleeveless navy-blue chiffon over silk that had a border print of lavender flowers and—in case Antoine’s kept its air conditioning at "frigid"—a long-sleeved chiffon jacket edged in the print. It felt strange to have a skirt swirl around her legs; she spent almost every day of her life in pants and flat shoes.

At the concierge desk, she discovered she was all alone. No concierge she’d spoken to earlier, no group of people ready to dine at Antoine’s. Fluttering began in her midriff. This sort of thing might happen to her, the real her; but surely it couldn’t happen to the counterfeit blonde she was tonight. Her uneasiness increased and then, finally, the concierge rushed up and a man in a midnight blue suit, white shirt and plum-colored silk tie followed behind him.

Was Roberta clairvoyant or was this a dream and she’d wake up in a minute? The man was gorgeous. The concierge introduced them. "This is Mr. Jonathan Shafer. Miss Haley Parsons. Mr. Shafer will be on the train with you," he told Haley.

With no cleft in his chin, he wasn’t exactly Cary Grant, but he would do until the reincarnation. Handsome, more than average height, slender, with dark wavy hair, he had wide-set blue eyes and a straight nose. But, in her opinion, his mouth was his best feature. It was straight and wide, curving up a bit as if ready to laugh, and not too full. She didn’t like men with puffy lips.

"I’m happy to meet you," Shafer said, taking her hand. Although Cary Grant’s faint British accent would have been a plus, Shafer’s voice was low, well-modulated and television-announcer smooth. His handshake was firm, not too hard, not too soft.

She smiled back at him. "Nice to meet you, too."

How mundane she sounded. On the other hand, she had managed to get the words out without tripping over them. Her heart was banging away inside her chest like a metronome gone berserk. She hadn’t been in New Orleans for a day—hadn’t even begun the train trip that Roberta insisted would introduce her to Mr. Dreamboat—and here he stood already.

Slow down, girl, she told herself, this doesn’t mean a thing. Besides, there were supposed to be others on this dinner excursion. Any moment now, she was certain, his wife or girlfriend would appear. As she’d told Roberta many times, the good ones were always taken.