Season of Mists (Young Adult Paranormal Romance) (Cupid's First Strike - Teen Love In The 80's)

by Doreen Owens Malek

  I sensed that I was not alone. I turned my head, and my heart stopped as I saw a dim figure detach itself from the shadows.

  “Cory,” Tom said.

  I gave a glad cry and rushed into his arms. I clung to him desperately, giving way to sobs.

  “Don’t cry,” he said, pushing my disordered hair away from my face. “I’m here. Don’t cry.”

  “I didn’t think you’d be back,” I mumbled, my face pressed against his shoulder.

  He held me at arm’s length, trying to see my face. “Cory, listen to me. I will always be back. I can’t say when, and I know the uncertainty is difficult for you, but I want you to know that I will come to you whenever I can, as often as I can. . . .”

  SEASON OF MISTS

  Doreen Owens Malek

  Published by

  Gypsy Autumn Publications

  PO Box 383

  Yardley, PA 19067

  www.doreenowensmalek.com

  Copyright 1984 and 2012

  by Doreen Owens Malek

  www.doreenowensmalek.com

  The Author asserts the moral right to be

  identified as author of this work

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author or Publisher.

  First printing: 1984

  All of the characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  About the Author

  More Young Adult Romances by Doreen Owens Malek

  Dedication

  For my sister, Erin Owens,

  in appreciation of her excellent company;

  and with thanks to Alice Case,

  real estate agent extraordinaire,

  who first told me the story

  of Yardley’s grist mill.

  Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness

  Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun

  Conspiring with him how to load and bless

  With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run…

  To Autumn

  – John Keats

  Chapter 1

  It had been one of those crisp fall days that made you glad to be alive, with just a hint of winter in the air. The leaves lay ankle deep in the gutters as I walked home from school. I had gym last period and my hair was still wet from the shower. The late afternoon sunshine was warm enough to dry it, and the ends had curled around my shoulders by the time I climbed the porch steps and unlocked the kitchen door.

  Mom was still at work; she had to stay until 3:20 for conferences and extra help. She taught fourth grade at Pennsbury Elementary School out on Big Oak Road. The high school got out at 2:30, so I usually beat her home by forty minutes or so. I dumped my books on the counter and let Stella out of the cellar. She greeted me joyfully and bounded out into the yard when I opened the door.

  When Dad and Mom were still married we had a big colonial in one of the new developments on the outskirts of town. When they divorced they sold the house and Mom used her share to buy this smaller place. It’s a little Cape Cod, forty years old, on the canal only a few blocks from the historical district. I can walk to school and my job, the library, all the stores in the square. I like it much better than the outlying suburbs, where you have to drive everywhere.

  Yardley, Pennsylvania, fans out from a pre-Revolutionary War center of carefully preserved houses right on the Delaware River. The town expanded from this hub and the neighborhoods become more recent as you move outward. The most recent additions are the tract houses being put up by the developers who bought up the surrounding farmland. I know a lot about real estate because I work part time in an agency after school and on weekends.

  I love the building where the office is located. It’s the old grist mill, which dates back to the 1700s and was once used to grind flour with the waterpower from the canal. Now all the floors have been modernized and converted to offices, with a restaurant on the street level. The agency where I work is in the basement, and the new paint and carpeting cannot disguise that wonderful smell of age and experience, or the dampness that seeps in from the water just below it. There’s a big wooden door in the wall at the back of the office which leads to the old cellar. I was in there once. The original beams are strung with cobwebs and moss, and the ancient stone floor is as cool as Christmas on a summer day. They chased me out before I got a really good look, but I’ll get back in there yet. The fuse boxes and electrical switches are all in there, and they have to be serviced sometime.

  I’m in the agency alone a lot, since I work 6:00 to 9:30 two nights a week when the agents are usually out on appointments. I answer the phone and take messages and do light typing. On Saturday the place is pretty hectic, and I mostly hustle coffee and run errands while the agents romance the prospective buyers. I don’t mind. The solitude of the weeknights is worth it.

  Sometimes the phone doesn’t ring for hours, and I can read or do homework and still get paid for it. Spring and summer are the busy seasons in real estate, so things are pretty slow now. I’m looking forward to a quiet night tonight. I have to finish The Bell Jar and write a book report on it for second period tomorrow.

  I opened the refrigerator and took out the milk. Stella scratched to come in as I was pouring a glass, and I shared a couple of my graham crackers with her. The dog will eat anything—lettuce, ice cream, asparagus, saltwater taffy. She actually begs for carrots and french fries. She doesn’t know what dogs are supposed to like; it’s all the same to her. Food.

  She will not, however, eat dog food. Anything resembling those delicious meaty chunks advertised on television is met with a disdainful stare. My mother and I decided once that we were going to train her to eat dog food. We put out a bowl of tasty yummy whatever it was and left it on the floor for two days. We wouldn’t give her anything else. It crusted over and hardened into a solid mass and she wouldn’t touch it. On the evening of the second day I was eating an apple and looked over at the dog. She had saliva running out of the corners of her mouth. I gave her the apple and we forgot about regular dog food. Her vet is horrified by her diet, but she seems to be healthy enough, so Mom and I have made up our minds not to worry about it.

  Stella followed me into the TV room and jumped up next to me on the couch. I put on one of the soap operas. I hadn’t seen it for a week, and got a kick out of the fact that on the soap it was the same day. The characters were in the midst of a wedding, and nuptials are always played for all they are worth. Stella fell asleep as one of the guests at the reception poured a glass of wine over the head of another guest. They were fighting over the same man, and the recipient of the champagne shower certainly deserved it. She had done everything but set fire to the altar to prevent the wedding from taking place, and was hardly gracious in defeat, making snide remarks to all and sundry while the bride threw the bouquet. I watched enough of it to be able to tell Linda what had happened, and then
switched off the set. Linda had detention for being late for homeroom and would miss the show.

  I wandered into the living room and picked up the newspaper. There are four rooms on the first floor of our house—a big kitchen with a dining area, a living room, and two bedrooms which we use as a study and a TV room. The two bedrooms upstairs are for Mom and me. Mine is neat, under the eaves with a slanted roof and a window seat. The leaves press against the windows in warm weather and it’s like living in a tree house. I could just imagine the advertisement if the house were put up for sale: “Charming vintage Cape Cod, lovely treed property, conveniently located.” I shook my head. The business must be really getting to me.

  The newspaper revealed, not surprisingly, that nothing earthshaking had taken place in Yardley that day. As I was refolding it for Mom to read later she came home, and we started dinner. While peeling potatoes and washing salad greens she told me all about her plans for the week. Since the divorce she fills up her time completely; in addition to her job she teaches adult school at night and volunteers at Delaware Valley Hospital. I know this makes her loneliness more bearable, but it kind of leaves me out in the cold. My father is gone as well as her husband; I feel as though he had divorced me too.

  The phone rang and it was Linda, back from detention. She asked me to drop off my lab notes at her first period study in the morning. She has the same teacher in a different class, and we are on the same experiment. Linda is my best friend, and pretty smart in general, but if she passes earth science it will be an unqualified miracle. She just turns spastic when trying to test rocks and minerals and can’t tell mica from feldspar or a sedimentary deposit from an igneous one. Last week she ignited sulphur fumes and set fire to her blouse. Her boyfriend, Ken, did a cartoon for the school paper captioned, “The Incendiary Lady: She Goes Up in Flames,” showing Linda holding a smoking rock sample while being doused by a fire hose. Thereafter Linda gave up and settled for rewriting my notes and handing them in as hers. I think the teacher, Mr. Lazarski, knows what’s going on, but he’s secretly relieved that Linda won’t have any further opportunities to incinerate his equipment.

  Mom and I finished dinner quickly, then loaded up the dishwasher and put things away in silence. We both had our minds on the evening ahead. She was on the reception desk at the hospital tonight, and I had a lot of homework to do.

  The evening became cool as darkness fell, and I took my heavy sweater out of the hall closet. I let Stella into the yard for a last run before I left, and stood at the gate watching her vanish into the shadows.

  I love autumn, it’s my favorite season. Many people prefer spring, thinking of it as a time of new beginnings, but to me nothing can compare with the glow of Indian summer enhanced by the multicolored palette of turning leaves. Late September and early October in southeastern Pennsylvania are glorious. At daybreak a white mist rises from the cornfields, burning off as the sun climbs the sky, and by lunchtime it is often as warm as a June day. But the humidity that characterizes Delaware Valley summers is gone by then, and you can always look forward to a soft night with a refreshing breeze. For some reason, I always get nostalgic and melancholy in the fall, and wind up thinking about the vanished Lenape campfires and the Yardley of long ago.

  Stella shuffled through the leaves and barked once at a fleeing squirrel. I leaned against the fence and watched her making a big deal out of nothing, amusing herself. She charged into the bushes and I looked up at the night sky, where a full harvest moon hung like a brooch pinned to black velvet. Wisps of clouds drifted across it and dimmed its glow. Stella emerged from the azaleas and raced around me, trying to get me to join the game. By the time I hustled her back into the house I had to leave.

  Mom took off in her car as I was putting my books and a couple of plums into my pack. Stella stared at me accusingly while I put the straps over my shoulders. We went through this every time I left her alone in the house. She did her best to lay a guilt trip on me as I left a light on in the kitchen and locked the door. I knew from experience that she would be asleep in minutes, but she always made me feel as if I were abandoning her forever. Stella for star, the world’s most spoiled dog.

  It was a four block walk to the grist mill. There was a breeze off the river, stirring my hair and carrying the clean scent of water. I strolled past the Boar’s Head Inn; the trade was slow on a Tuesday night and there were few cars in the lot. Hurricane lamps cast a soft glow through the curtained windows. The inn was big on “authentic colonial atmosphere.” This always amused me. From what I’d read, authentic colonial atmosphere had more to do with straw on the floor and chamber pots than the cutesy knickknacks and overpriced dishes featured at the Boar’s Head. Oh, well. Linda worked there part time as a waitress and she said the food was good.

  I turned the corner and passed the doctors’ offices in a red brick building, all closed for the night. I crossed through the shopping center parking lot, passing the grocery store and the bakery. Werner Real Estate was down a flight of stairs from the street entrance.

  Benti Bradley was on duty. She was a sprightly German woman with a Brunhilde accent, an attractive blonde in her forties who was a million seller three years running. The plaques hanging on the wall above her desk attested to this fact. My arrival meant that she could leave, so she was glad to see me. She picked up her purse and blazer, rattling off some last minute instructions. She grabbed up her multiple listing book and hurried home to dinner and her family .

  I stopped off at the main desk in the reception area. Down another series of steps was the agents’ room, a big carpeted area with ten identical gray metal desks, all manned with phones. Blowups of local maps were pinned to all available wall space, and the desks were piled high with scattered index cards, loose papers and registries the size of telephone directories. It looked like chaos, but it was not. The agents knew where everything was.

  I liked the silence of the empty office. It was almost like being in school after all the buses had left and the students had gone home. There was something sad about it; this was a place that, like a school, should be bustling with activity. But it was secretive and special too. I was in command now, and the old building spoke to me in a silent, reassuring voice. Linda, who couldn’t stand to be alone for five minutes, constantly asked me if I was lonely when I was by myself in the office. I didn’t know how to explain that I felt lonelier in my physics class than I did on my own in the basement of the grist mill.

  I arranged my books on the desk and went to lock the door. I didn’t like surprises at night; when I worked alone all comers had to ring the bell. Then I sat down and called in to the Washington’s Crossing office. I was taking their calls tonight too, as their fill-in girl was sick. I set the phone to ring (when I got absorbed I didn’t always see the flasher), and got down to work.

  An hour passed before I took a break. I had finished the book and was ready for a rough draft of the report. I stretched and went to the rest room in the agents’ area, pausing to stare in the mirror at a pimple that was forming on my chin. Rats. It would be a headlight by tomorrow.

  When I came out there was a guy sitting in my chair waiting for me.

  I stopped short, glancing at the door. Hadn’t I locked it? I thought I had, but the bolt was new and stuck sometimes. So much for my safety measures.

  “Hi,” I said. “May I help you?”

  He didn’t seem surprised to see me, which I guess was understandable. He had merely walked in and waited for someone to show up. He was young, eighteen or nineteen, wearing a faded cream knit sweater with well worn jeans. He stood and smiled slightly as I approached, but he didn’t answer.

  “Are you looking for a house?” I asked stupidly. He didn’t seem like house-buying material; that type ran more to harried couples in their thirties with two screaming kids in tow. He said nothing, just kept staring at me intently. I began to get a little edgy. Had some nut case wandered in off the street? I was alone, and the Yardley police (a skeleton crew abroad in fou
r ancient squad cars) were not exactly known for their daring rescues.

  He shook his head. Ah, a response. We might even have a conversation soon. Maybe he was not the Pennsylvania Strangler after all.

  I moved closer, and met his eyes directly for the first time. A strange feeling came over me. My nervousness vanished completely and a growing fascination took its place. He had the most extraordinary expression: penetrating, yet not disturbing. I felt drawn to him suddenly, as if he were an extension of the building itself, where I had always felt embraced and comfortable.

  “Are you lost?” I asked him. He did look out of place, bemused.

  He spoke at last. “Lost?” He smiled, as if at a private joke. “No, I know where I am.”

  “Good. Did you want to see one of the agents?”

  He cleared his throat. “Actually I was looking for a . . . map. That’s it, I need a map. Do you have one I could see?”

  “Sure. There’s a pile of town maps over there on the bookcase.” We kept them to give out to prospective customers. He went and got one, pocketing it without looking at it.

  “That’s the big version of it right there,” I added, indicating the wall behind him. “You can see everything better on that one.”

  He turned to look at it, giving me a clear view of the back of his head. And a very nice head it was too, topping off a very nice body. He was tall and slim, with broad shoulders and thick, reddish brown hair. He studied the map for a long moment and then turned back to me.

  “A lot has changed in Yardley since I knew it,” he said.

  “Yes, there are quite a few new developments going up now. Are you from around here?”