Less than a minute to go.
“Extension one-eighteen.”
Transfer. Next line.
“Good afternoon, Overseas Corporate Funds, where may I direct your call?”
No reply.
“Good afternoon?”
Nothing.
Her hand stiffens on the receiver. “Hello?”
There’s a click, and then a dial tone.
Laura’s heart pounds erratically . . . and for no good reason, she tells herself. When you’re a receptionist whose job it is to answer the phone hundreds of times a day, a percentage of those calls are going to be wrong numbers, cranks, hang- ups, whatever.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Still . . .
She’ll ask the temp agency not to send her back here tomorrow. Just in case.
She looks at the clock again.
It’s five.
I’m out of here.
She sets the phone system to go into automated answering, pushes back the rolling chair, gathers her things, and goes to find the office supervisor, Ellen.
“Leaving already?”she asks when Laura hands her the agency’s time sheet for a signature.
“It’s five o’clock. Those were the hours, right? Nine to five?”
The woman merely gives her wristwatch a pointed glance before scribbling on the time sheet and handing it back to Laura.
“Thank you. Have a good night.”She makes a beeline for the elevator.
Funny how all the companies she’s worked for over the past few months have stressed the importance of a punctual arrival for their office temps but apparently don’t expect the temps to make a punctual departure.
Ordinarily, Laura might have offered to stay later if they needed her.
But not tonight.
Not here.
Not after that strange phone call.
Not so strange at all. You’re being paranoid.
It was just a hang- up.
Nobody knows where you are. Least of all, her.
And even if she’s somehow found out . . . she’s in jail. There’s nothing she can do about it.
You’re safe here, Laura reassures herself as she steps out onto West Fiftieth Street and is gladly swallowed up by the rush hour pedestrian crowd.
EIGHTEEN
Lily Dale
Thursday, October 11
6:22 p.m.
“You know, Odelia, when you said you were making something special for dinner tonight, I really wasn’t sure what to expect.”Dad sets down his fork and pushes his empty plate away. “But this was good.”
“I’m glad you thought so. Did you like it, Calla?”
“Um . . . sure. Most people wouldn’t think to mix ham, cheese, bananas, and potato chips in a casserole,”she says, hoping to deflect their attention from the fact that she’s barely touched her food once again.
“Oh, I can’t take the credit,”Odelia says, absently toying with her paper napkin. She, too, has barely touched her food, Calla notices.
She’s been pretty quiet all night. Much more so than usual.
“What do you mean you can’t take the credit?”Dad asks. “This isn’t takeout, is it?”
“No, but I didn’t make up the recipe. I saw it on the Food Network.”
“Well, I’m sure most people who saw it on the Food Network wouldn’t dare give it a try,”Dad says, “so you still get a big thumbs- up from me.”
“Who am I to argue with that kind of reasoning?”
Odelia starts to get up, but Dad stops her. “I’ll get the dishes. You just relax and get your poker face on. Ramona said she’ll be over at eight with the cards and a couple of rolls of pennies. The stakes are higher tonight.”
“That sounds fun, Jeff, but I can’t. I have an appointment coming here.”
“This late?”
“Oh, I do appointments at all hours. I’ll be done by eight, but . . . maybe you and Ramona can play cards next door?”
“I don’t know . I spend so much time over there as it is, I thought a change of scenery would be good.”
Calla looks from her father to her grandmother to her father again, wondering what he’s up to.
Obviously, he hasn’t yet mentioned to Odelia that he’s figured out the truth about her. Calla hasn’t, either.
Maybe she should have, but she’s had much too much on her mind—particularly after the meeting with the detectives.
She told them the whole story.
When they left, she recapped it for Odelia.
Well, most of it.
She didn’t mention the baby. She was about to, but Dad showed up for dinner.
He asked about her meeting with the detectives, and she could tell her grandmother wanted her to give him the details, but she just couldn’t. Not yet.
Not while she was still feeling guilty for telling the police about her mother and Darrin’s secret baby.
She felt guilty bringing it up but told herself that it had happened a long time ago. Plus, what if there’s some connection between that and what Sharon Logan did to Mom and Darrin?
Is there?
A little voice inside her head— maybe not her own—has been asking that question ever since the detectives left, promising they’d be in touch again soon.
“Odelia, there’s something you should know . . . .”
Uh- oh. Calla’s attention jerks back to her father.
“What is it, Jeff?”
“I know what kinds of appointments you do.”
Odelia pauses before asking, “What kind?”
“I know you’re a psychic medium.”
Calla has never seen her grandmother’s dyed-red eyebrows shoot quite that close to her dyed-red hairline.
“So is Ramona,”Dad adds, and leans back in his chair to wait for the reaction.
It takes a moment to get one.
“Ramona didn’t tell me she told you.”
“She didn’t.”
Odelia looks at Calla.
“I didn’t tell him, Gammy. He figured it out.”
“Really.”She throws up her hands. “Well, Jeff, you can’t blame me for not wanting to tell you. I know how Stephanie always felt about what I do, and I knew she didn’t want you or Calla to know .”
“Obviously not.”
“Are you . . . okay with this?”
“I guess so. As long as I don’t have to—you know— witness it, or participate in anything like . . .”
“Like levitating?”Gammy asks, deadpan. “Spoon bending?”
Dad laughs. “Exactly.”
What he doesn’t know is that she isn’t kidding. During the summer season, there are workshops in Lily Dale on both those topics—and more.
No need for baptism by fire, though. Calla figures— or at least, she hopes— that by the time summer rolls around, her father will be as used to life in the Dale as she is.
“So Ramona knows that you know, Jeff?”
He shakes his head.
“Well, you might want to tell her so that she can hang her shingle again. Business is slow at this time of year as it is, and she’s losing walk- in traffic.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “Walk- in traffic?”
“Right.”
“So . . . what does that mean? People just come here and wander around looking for someone to . . .”
“Do a reading,”Calla supplies. “That’s how it works.”
“But the official season is July and August,”Odelia amends, “so you won’t see crowds of visitors in the streets at this time of year, and there are no daily programs in the auditorium. In fact, most of the mediums live somewhere else the rest of the year.”
“Is that so.”Dad looks intrigued, absorbing the information with a lot less animosity than Calla ever imagined. “And it was like this when Stephanie lived here?”
“It’s been like this since the town was established as the birthplace of modern spiritualism back in the 1880s.”
“I just can’t believe she never told
me,”Dad murmurs, shaking his head.
“She always kept herself separate from what went on around here, Jeff. She was a lot like her father. She even looked just like him.”
“That means I must look like him, too,”Calla speaks up. It’s not the first time she’s thought about that—but it’s the first time she’s dared to bring up the subject of her grandfather since Odelia told her about him the other day.
“Of course you do,”her grandmother says agreeably. “You look just like your mother.”
Calla dares to voice the question that has been in the back of her mind since their conversation. “Does he know, Gammy? About Mom?”
Odelia hesitates. “I didn’t tell him . . . if that’s what you’re asking.”
Dad’s eyes widen. “Are you talking about Jack? You’re in contact with Jack?”
“No,”Odelia says quickly. “I’m not in contact with him. But I know where he is.”
“Stephanie didn’t.”
“Yes, she did. I told her. Years ago.”
“But she said—”Dad shakes his head. “She said a lot of things. And I’m starting to realize that there are a lot of things she didn’t say— and could have.”
“Some of them might have just been too painful for her.”Gammy lays a hand on Dad’s arm. “She didn’t want anything to do with her father. He hadn’t been a part of her life from the time she was a young child—probably too young to remember him.”
“I always told her she should try to find him, though. Family is family.”
“Yes, and blood is thicker than water. But that didn’t stop my daughter from shutting me out of her life, either.”
Calla is taken aback by her tone. She’s never heard her grandmother speak angrily of Mom.
Now might be a good time to ask Gammy whether they’d had some kind of argument that had driven them apart. Something about dredging the lake.
But . . .
Not with Dad here.
“You know how stubborn Stephanie could be.”Dad pats Odelia’s arm. “I’m sure she had her regrets. For the record, I encouraged her to mend the fences with you, too.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“I still can’t believe she knew where her father was all along. Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Maybe she was afraid you’d talk her into getting in touch with him. And that it would dredge up all those emotions she’d managed to bottle up for years. And that he’d reject her all over again.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t have,”Dad tells her, as Calla wonders if her grandmother is just talking about Mom.
“Well, we’ll never know, will we?”
“I don’t think it’s fair.”Calla speaks up at last.
Both Dad and Gammy look at her.
“He should know what happened to Mom. You should have told him, Gammy.”
Odelia hesitates. “Maybe I should have, but . . .”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Maybe I’m afraid of the same thing Stephanie was.”
Dredging up old emotions.
Being rejected all over again.
She never stopped loving him, Calla realizes in surprise, watching her grandmother reach up to brush a tear from the corner of her eye.
And over her shoulder, a pair of figures materialize. One is a striking auburn- haired woman with a coiled bouffant. She has on plaid Bermuda shorts, knee socks, and loafers. She’s laughing up at a handsome man with sideburns, wearing a paisley-patterned shirt tucked into peg-leg pants.
They’re gone the instant before Calla realizes who they are.
Gammy and her husband, in happier times.
Stunned, she looks across the table and sees, in Odelia’s weathered face, a hint of the young beauty she once was.
Her grandmother pushes back her chair abruptly, gets up from the table, and heads for the doorway.
“Where are you going?”Calla asks worriedly, wondering if she, too, caught a glimpse of the past—and couldn’t bear it.
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Odelia disappears into the front of the house.
Calla and her father exchange a glance.
“I probably shouldn’t have brought it up,”Calla says guiltily. “You know—about her telling Mom’s father that she’s . . . gone.”
Even now, months later, it’s hard for her to say it aloud any other way. Dead . . . murdered. . . . Those words are much too harsh.
“No, you were right to say it,”Dad assures her. “He deserves to know . He’s still her father, no matter what. If it were me . . .”
He falls silent as Odelia returns to the room, carrying a piece of paper.
She hands it to Dad.
“What is it?”Calla asks, leaning over his shoulder.
She sees the name Jack Lauder and a Pennsylvania address in Odelia’s spidery handwriting.
“I don’t have a phone number. He’s unlisted. But that’s where he is. Or at least, he was, last I knew.”
“Odelia—”
“Calla’s right. He deserves to know about Stephanie. And that he has a beautiful granddaughter.”
Calla looks questioningly at her father. He folds the slip of paper into his wallet.
“Thank you, Odelia.”
She nods.
Seeing the faraway look—and hint of tears—in her grandmother’s eyes, Calla knows she’s thinking of the wife and mother she once was, and the husband she loved so very long ago.
NINETEEN
Lily Dale
Thursday, October 11
10:26 p.m.
No wonder nobody uses a dial-up connection anymore. It takes forever to accomplish even the simplest online task.
Waiting for her e-mail to load, Calla can hear the faint sound of Ramona’s laughter coming from downstairs.
They’re still playing poker at the kitchen table. At least, they were, when Calla interrupted her homework an hour ago to go down for a snack. Her appetite had finally drifted back to her as she worked on her math.
Or maybe it was more like, math was so horrible she needed a diversion.
“Come play with us, Calla,”Ramona invited, sitting at the table with Dad, Odelia, and Odelia’s friend Andy, who liked to drop in to check on Gert, a product of his cat’s recent litter.
“I wish I could, but I have a ton of homework.”
Ramona shook her head. “So does Evangeline.”
Calla nodded. She had spoken to Evangeline earlier, to fill her in about the meeting with the detectives. When she ended the conversation with a “See you tomorrow morning,”Evange-line told her she had to be at school an hour early for extra help in chemistry.
“I keep telling her that working on her homework with Russell isn’t a good idea,”Ramona said as Andy shuffled the cards. “I don’t think they’re getting much done, other than mooning around at each other.”
Funny Ramona should mention that, because Calla noticed that was pretty much what Ramona and Dad were doing.
Though he did interrupt his flirtation to say, “Calla, don’t forget to pack a weekend bag tonight so that I can get it in the morning. We’re leaving right from school when I pick you up.”
“I will,”she promised, and made a hasty escape back up to her room with a healthy snack of crackers, baby carrots, and hummus— along with one of the big chocolate brownies Ramona had baked for Dad.
Well, she claimed to have baked them for everyone. But she was looking at Dad when she said it.
Calla finished her homework, then threw some stuff into her duffel bag for the weekend trip. They’re heading first to Penn State in State College, Pennsylvania, then back up to New York State: Cornell in Ithaca and Colgate in Hamilton. The circular route Dad’s mapped out will bring them back home late Sunday night.
As she waits for the screen to load, she wonders when she should break it to her father that she’s pretty sure she wants to stay closer to home— home, as in Lily Dale—next year. She looked over the brochures Mrs. Erskine gave her, a
nd Fredonia State University seems to offer everything she should probably be looking for.
Not that she’s looking for much more than a solid school that happens to be nearby.
Oh, well. She’ll worry about all of that later, because at last, her e-mail has popped up on the screen.
Sure enough, there’s one from Kevin.
No, not one.
One . . . two . . . three?
Frowning, she opens the most recent.
Okay, now I’m being a pain, I know . But I’m really worried about you. You don’t have to write a long note back. Just a quick one to let me know that you’re okay. Otherwise, I might show up on your grandmother’s doorstep to see for myself. Love, Kevin
Calla sits for a moment with her fingers poised over the keyboard.
Then, her mind made up, she begins typing.
I’m fine. Don’t worry.
She pauses.
Should she tell him she and Dad are going to be visiting Cornell this weekend?
No.
She simply types in her name.
It looks funny without anything before the signature.
Anything . . . like love?
No way.
She backspaces, erasing her name, then hits Send.
He’ll know who it’s from.
As she suspected, her in-box contains a few other e-mails. One is from Billy Pijuan, an old friend of hers in Florida, a few are from Lisa, the rest are spam.
She clicks on one of Lisa’s.
Come on, hurry up.
It’s taking forever. This is going to be—
Suddenly, a screen pops up—and it isn’t Lisa’s e-mail.
It’s a new sign- on screen— and her mother’s screen name is already typed into the User ID box. The cursor is blinking like a beacon in the password box.
How did this screen pop up?
Puzzled, Calla wonders if she hit some kind of automated button by accident.
Maybe.
Now that she’s here . . .
She finds herself typing in her mother’s password.
Then, inhaling deeply, about to hit Enter . . .
She smells it.
Lilies of the valley.
The room is filled with the fragrance.
“Aiyana?”Calla turns in her chair and there she is.
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