It’s not a moment too soon, either. Last night, her bedroom ceiling leaked so badly she couldn’t sleep, thanks to the steady plopping of water droplets into buckets.
Julia wonders how distracting the roof project will be. She can’t expect to conduct readings in the parlor with workmen overhead, pounding nails and using power tools.
Well, hopefully the job won’t last long. In the meantime, she’ll have plenty of time to spend with Dulcie.
And to connect again with the entity—whether it’s Kristin who’s trying to communicate, or another troubled soul. One thing is certain: the spirit’s persistence and the urgent undercurrent Julia has repeatedly associated with its presence indicates a strong need to get a message across. Somebody is trying to tell her—or Dulcie—something.
After pouring herself a glass of iced tea from the plastic pitcher in the fridge in the kitchen, Julia picks up the telephone and dials Andy’s cell phone number. The least she can do is see how his workshop went yesterday, and thank him again for Saturday evening.
Just when she thinks the call is going to go into voice mail, he picks up, sounding surprised to hear from her.
“I just thought I’d call and say hello,” she says casually. “How did it go yesterday?”
“How did what go?”
“The workshop . . . what else?”
“Oh, that . . . pretty well, thanks. You know, I saw you leaving the message service last night, but you didn’t see me. I was across Melrose Park.”
“No, I didn’t see you.” Julia sips her iced tea.
“I called your name but you didn’t hear.”
Is he making a statement? Or is there accusation in his tone?
Julia frowns, suddenly on edge. “No, I didn’t hear you. I guess I had a lot on my mind. I’m in the middle of this roofing project . . .”
And there’s a troubled entity in Iris’s house, and it scares me. And maybe you’re starting to scare me, too.
But of course, that’s ridiculous.
Just because Andy was acquainted with Kristin, and was here in Lily Dale when she died . . .
Well, that doesn’t mean Julia should even consider that he might have had anything to do with her death.
Of course not!
She’s surprised at where her thoughts have led her. This is ridiculous. She shoves away the unwelcome notion her imagination has conjured, trying to focus on the conversation.
Andy asks her about the roofers, and whether she’ll be attending the Medium’s League message circle scheduled for eight tonight in the auditorium.
“I’ll be there,” she says. Monday message circles are part of the weekly rhythm of life in Lily Dale during the summer season.
“So will I. Maybe we can go out afterward for coffee, Julia.”
She barely allows herself to hesitate before saying, “Sure, that would be nice.”
Yet, even as she speaks, she again senses her grandmother’s presence, discerning a faint aura of disapproval. It isn’t as strong now as it was Saturday night, but it’s tangible enough to cast a shadow of trepidation over her end of the conversation.
Frustrated, she traces a cold bead of condensation on the outside of her glass, swirling it with her fingertip, listening to his voice making small talk without hearing what he’s saying.
Then she’s jarred out of her reverie by a single word.
Kristin.
“What did you say, Andy?”
“I said, I bumped into Kristin’s boyfriend and her daughter this morning at the cafeteria. They stopped there for breakfast. They were on their way to Tops to get groceries. That guy doesn’t like me.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I can feel it, Julia. Maybe he’s just jealous, but . . .” Andy trails off, the implication clear.
“That’s ridiculous.” Her voice sounds higher than usual, and nervous, even to her own ears. “He’s not jealous. Why would he be jealous?”
“Forget I said anything. But—look, he doesn’t like me. I’m positive about that.”
He’s probably right. Paine wouldn’t like Andy. He wouldn’t like anyone in the field of paranormal research. Look at how he reacted to the two parapsychologists who requested permission for access to his backyard.
“It’s just that he’s a skeptic, Andy,” Julia explains. “He doesn’t even trust me, because I’m a medium. And when it comes to Dulcie—”
She breaks off, thinking better of telling Andy that Dulcie is spiritually gifted.
“When it comes to Dulcie, what?”
“Never mind. I’ll see you tonight okay?”
There’s a long pause. Then Andy says, “Okay.”
But I’m almost positive he knows what I was going to say about Dulcie, Julia thinks. And maybe she’s just jumpy and irrational, but that bothers her.
“CAN JULIA TAKE me down to the playground while you’re gone, Daddy?”
Paine considers Dulcie’s question as he munches a potato chip from the open bag on the counter. “I guess so,” he agrees. “If the weather clears.”
“It’s still raining, isn’t it? I can hear it.”
“Yup, it’s still raining.” He sighs, thinking of California sunshine as he pulls a five-pound package of sugar from the paper grocery bag at his feet.
Five pounds?
What was he thinking? He just plopped it into the cart at the Tops supermarket when Dulcie reminded him that he needs it for his coffee. But he could have bought a smaller container of it. They would have to be in Lily Dale for a year for him to use up all this sugar.
And they won’t be here for a year, that’s for damn sure.
Just as soon as they can clean out this house . . .
Just as soon as I figure out what the hell happened to Kristin . . .
They’ll go home.
He shoves the package of sugar into an overhead cupboard, not bothering to pour it into the canister Iris used. That would be too permanent.
“Does it always rain here?” Dulcie wants to know.
“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”
“Here, Daddy.” Dulcie hands him two cans she’s taken from the bag she’s been emptying. “It’s Campbell’s soup, right?”
He smiles. “How did you know?”
“The size of the cans. Way too small for peaches. Way too tall for tuna. And you don’t buy anything else in cans.”
“I don’t?”
She’s right. He doesn’t.
He really should learn how to cook. Little girls can’t live on chicken noodle soup and tuna fish sandwiches alone.
She’s gotten along fine so far on that diet, he reminds himself.
But he can’t help thinking about how he grew up. His mother cooked dinner every night. Meat loaf, roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with homemade gravy, the kind you made from drippings and a little of that flour-water thickener his mother would let him shake up in a jar, when he was in the mood to help her. He usually only ventured into the kitchen when she was cooking if he thought he could filch a snack to hold him over when she wasn’t looking.
When his father came home from work, the three of them sat down in the dining room and ate their meal, Paine’s parents chatting about their days, and Paine chowing down and then wishing he could be excused to get back outside and play with his friends on the block. But his mother always made him stay put until the meal was over and they had coffee and dessert. She said it was good manners.
What about Dulcie’s manners? Paine wonders, glancing at his daughter. She doesn’t have a mother to teach her about things like that. It’s all up to him.
It would have been, anyway. He can’t quite picture Kristin presiding over a family dinner table, much less cooking a meal. With her, you were lucky if she remembered to call and order takeout. Even that was Paine’s department.
Dulcie stops rattling bags and goes still, her head tilted. “Somebody’s here, Daddy. At the door.”
Of course she’s right. There’s a knock as soon as
she finishes speaking.
Paine groans inwardly when he finds Rupert Biddle standing on the porch.
“We need to talk,” the older man says, not wasting time on a greeting.
“I told you the other day, I’m not interested in selling you the house yet,” Paine says.
“I know what you said the other day. But you didn’t hear me out.” The old man’s piercing gray eyes bore into his. “May I please come in?”
Paine hesitates, considering.
Then, with a sigh of resignation, he opens the door.
“KENT, CAN I borrow the keys to the Jeep? I want to go out to get some lunch,” Miranda says, poking her head into his room.
“They’re on the dresser.”
“Do you want me to bring back anything for you?”
“Don’t even talk about food to me,” he says with a groan.
“How about more ginger ale, then?” She crosses the room to the dresser, where the keys are surrounded by a litter of fallen pastel petals from the balding wildflowers in the glass.
“I still haven’t finished the can you brought me this morning.” Kent’s face is as white as the pillowcase behind his head.
“That’ll teach you to order biscuits with sausage gravy in a greasy spoon,” she says, shaking her head. “You should have stuck with plain old waffles, like I did.”
“You’re talking about food,” he groans, his arms folded across his stomach. “Stop.”
“Kent, you’ve been sick for twenty-four hours now. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be. It’s obviously food poisoning.”
“I know, but if you aren’t better by this afternoon, I think I should take you to a doctor.”
“Fine. But leave me alone for now. I just want to sleep.”
Miranda stops by the bed and pats his head. “Okay. I won’t be gone long.”
“Is it still raining out there?”
“Yup. We wouldn’t have been able to do an investigation last night anyway.”
“What did you do with yourself yesterday while I was here, barfing my guts out?”
“Went to that workshop on past-life regression. Wound up chatting with the presenter. We had dinner afterward at this nice Italian restaurant about fifteen minutes away from here. I’ll show you where it is when you’re better. They had amazing lasagna.”
“There she goes again,” Kent says, mustering the strength to roll his eyes.
“Sorry.”
“Get out of here before I throw up on you.”
“I’ll see you later,” Miranda says, closing the door behind her and heading down the corridor.
Kent is so wrapped up in being sick that he didn’t bat an eye at the news that she had dinner with someone.
Good.
She isn’t in the mood for the usual Kent interrogation. After all, she’s just had one date with Andy.
One date . . . enough to know that he could be dangerous.
Charming Andy is one of those men she finds too damn hard to resist. No wonder she found her way into his arms when they went for a walk by the lake after dinner.
He was kissing her, really knocking her socks off, when he suddenly broke off, looking disturbed.
When she asked him what was wrong, he told her that he had just spotted someone across the park—a woman he’s been dating.
Naturally, disappointment coursed through Miranda, followed swiftly by elation when Andy said not to worry—that it wasn’t a serious thing.
Then he asked her if she’s free for lunch today . . .
Which is where she’s headed now.
Andy said it would be better if they met somewhere off the grounds. He doesn’t want to chance running into that woman he’s been seeing.
“I’m going to cool it with her,” he said, “but I just haven’t had a chance to talk to her about it yet. We’ve both been busy.”
“It’s okay,” Miranda told him, against her better judgment. “It’ll be good to get away from Lily Dale for a little while. I’m going a little stir-crazy here.”
“That’s understandable.” He gave her directions to the restaurant, saying she should meet him there.
As she hurries toward Kent’s Jeep, smoothing her suitcase-rumpled flowered rayon summer dress over her broad hips, she tells herself that she’s only having lunch with Andy out of boredom. She certainly isn’t thinking anything can possibly come of it. Neither of them is in Lily Dale permanently, and even if they were . . .
Miranda has learned the hard way not to fall for a man like him. For all she knows, he has no intention of dumping his girlfriend.
But even if he is about to become available, Miranda’s insecurities have her wondering . . .
Why on earth would someone like Andy want to be with me?
LINCOLN ALWAYS BREAKS for lunch early.
When you have breakfast at dawn and spend the morning working in the field, you’re famished long before the noon hour. When Corinne was alive, she cooked their main meal to be served midday. She had a Crock-Pot, and used it to make pot roasts, spaghetti sauce with meatballs—you name it. She’d just dump the ingredients in when they got up, and by late morning, the house was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of a hot meal. For supper, they usually had lighter fare—soup and sandwiches, maybe an omelet.
Today, it isn’t quite eleven o’clock when Lincoln heads from the barn to the house and opens a can of ravioli in the kitchen. He dumps the contents into a chipped bowl and puts it into the microwave, not bothering to cover it with a paper towel, the way Corinne liked him to do. That way, she said, she didn’t have to scrub out the microwave all the time.
Lincoln doesn’t mind the food spatters that are building up inside. He figures sooner or later, he’ll clean the thing. That, or get a new one. This one’s pretty ancient, like the rest of their appliances. Money isn’t as low as it used to be, since he got the life insurance settlement. Besides, there’s always the Sears charge. Corinne didn’t like to use it unless it was absolutely necessary. But Lincoln figures one of these days, he’ll drive down to Jamestown and replace the microwave and the toaster and the Mr. Coffee that drips so slowly he’s taken to starting it before he takes his shower in the mornings.
As he waits for the three minutes to pass before his ravioli will be ready, he uses the small bathroom off the kitchen, then scrubs his filthy hands. There’s no towel to dry them on—he has yet to fold the clean laundry heaped in bushels in the dining room. But at least he got it off the line before the rain started falling.
Thinking of the laundry reminds Lincoln of yesterday’s unexpected visitor. Pilar.
Why did she have to barge in and stir up old memories?
It’s not as if he doesn’t think about Kathy every damn day of his life as it is. But having that woman here talking about it has left Lincoln feeling raw. He didn’t sleep well last night; kept thinking about Kathy, and Rupert, and Nan, and all that happened so many years ago.
Back in the kitchen, he spreads three slices of Wonder Bread with a thick layer of margarine. He gobbles the bread and his ravioli in less than five minutes, seated at the wobbly wooden table in the corner by the window.
Corinne liked to call it the “breakfast nook,” but that was just wishful thinking. The rooms in this old farmhouse his grandfather built are rectangular and unadorned by nooks or alcoves or even moldings, unlike some of those fancy gingerbread houses over in Lily Dale.
On only two occasions was Lincoln ever inside the house where Kathy grew up. The first was when she brought him home to meet her parents after they had been dating for a few months.
Lincoln’s mother—who adored Kathy—bought him a new shirt for the occasion: a short-sleeved cotton one with buttons and a collar. She said he could wear it again a month later, for his high-school graduation. She even ironed his least-worn pair of jeans before he dressed for the dinner at the Biddles, and assured him that he looked fit to meet President Nixon.
But not fit to meet Rupert Biddle, he
thinks now, stung even three-plus decades later by Kathy’s father’s obvious and immediate rejection. Though his wife at least attempted to be civil, if stiff, Rupert was cold to Lincoln from the start. Lincoln could feel the man’s assessing gaze traveling over him from head to toe; could see in his eyes that he didn’t approve. As they all picked at the elaborate dinner Nan prepared, only Kathy chattered—nervously, almost desperately, trying to find common ground between her father and Lincoln.
There was none.
What did a farmer’s son who had never been more than thirty miles away from Sinclairville have in common with a middle-aged, well-known, well-off medium?
Absolutely nothing.
Before the evening was over, as Kathy helped her mother clear the table, Rupert managed to pull Lincoln aside and warn him not to get too attached to his daughter.
“She has big plans for her life,” the man said.
Plans that don’t include you.
He left that part unspoken, but the meaning was clear.
“She’s not going to be around Lily Dale much longer,” Rupert told him.
“I know she’ll be going to college in less than two years,” Lincoln replied. “I would never want to take that away from her.”
“No, you won’t be taking that away from her,” Rupert said, almost in a warning tone. “But I’m not talking about college. Katherine may be finishing her high-school education elsewhere. The local school system isn’t challenging enough for her. She deserves the best education we can give her. The best of everything.”
“Yes, she does.”
“Then we understand each other,” Rupert said evenly.
Lincoln nodded, his gut twisting at what Kathy’s father implied.
When he later questioned Kathy about her leaving Lily Dale before she went away to college, she brushed it off, telling him her father was always talking about sending her to a fancy boarding school. Her parents were both from New York City, she said, and even after all these years in Lily Dale, they were a bit snobbish about certain things.
Anyway, Kathy assured Lincoln that she had no intention of leaving Lily Dale. Not now, and not ever. She said she wanted to go to college at the state university over in Fredonia. They had an excellent school of music, and that was what she wanted to study. She loved to play the guitar, especially folk music.
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