Lost Melody

by Lori Copeland

  She winked again before disappearing into the back room. A nagging disquiet made Greg shift in his chair. Say ‘Yes’ to the future.

  He picked up his water glass. With all the turmoil of the past week, the future seemed pretty uncertain right about now. Oh, not the future of the Cove. His future. Jill’s future. What would happen on Tuesday, and how would that affect their future? She’d asked him to stick with her until Wednesday, when all this mess would be behind them, one way or another. He’d agreed.

  So why was he sitting here, when she clearly wanted his support during this interview with CBC?

  Because my father will have a heart attack if he sees me on the news, acting like I support this crazy scheme.

  Not to mention what it would do to his campaign. The message of the bananas sat like a two-ton anchor in his mind, pulling his thoughts to depths he didn’t want to visit.

  I could go and stay in the background. Nothing says I have to appear on camera. Just be there for Jill.

  Whatever Jill was going through, he couldn’t leave her to do it alone. Because when Tuesday came and nothing happened, he wanted her to know he’d still be there. She’d need a strong shoulder to cry on, someone she trusted. Ruth would be no help, because she was too deeply involved in this mess.

  Yeah. That’s what he’d do. Stay quietly in the background, off camera, and support Jill.

  He jumped off the stool. “Hey, Rowe, cancel the cheeseburger. I just realized I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  She appeared in the doorway from the back room, holding a bag of frozen fries. “You want me to wrap it up for you? It’ll be done in a minute.”

  “No time.” He dug a ten out of his pocket and tossed it on the counter. “Sorry for the trouble.”

  His watch read ten minutes past two. If he wanted to get there before the reporter arrived, he needed to hurry.

  The Sign Brigade, as they’d decided to call themselves, clustered around the kitchen table, laying out their plans for Jill. Mrs. Fontaine had been embarrassed at the fact that her daughter-in-law pulled Kaylee from her piano lessons with Jill, and promised to work on Becky as soon as the dream disaster was over. Her certainty that Kaylee would return did little to soothe Jill’s raw feelings, but at least she intended to try. Even if Kaylee studied under another piano teacher, the important thing was for her to continue developing her gift.

  “Now, be sure to mention the time and place to load the buses.” Nana slid a scrawled note across the table to Jill. “I’ve written it all down in case you get nervous and forget.”

  “Nana, I’m not nervous. I’ve performed on stage in front of thousands, and I’ve never had a single case of stage fright.”

  “Don’t say that, honey,” Mrs. Tolliver warned, her features alarmed. “You’ll jinx yourself.”

  “It’s just one reporter.” Jill poured confidence into her smile and bestowed it on the ladies around the table. “I’ll be fine.”

  Mrs. Cramer didn’t appear convinced. “I’ve heard people say when the light goes on that television camera, words fly right out of their heads and they end up babbling like idiots.”

  A comforting thought.

  Nana turned a reproving stare on Mrs. Cramer. “Jill is not going to babble like an idiot.” She glanced at Jill. “You do have your notes written down, though? Just in case?”

  “Nothing formal. Just a few bullet points of things I don’t want to forget to mention.”

  Beside her, old Mrs. Mattingly studied her profile with the intensity of a bird dog eyeing a quail. “I think you need more makeup,” she announced. “They say those reporters wear heavy makeup, and if you don’t have much on you’ll look washed out standing beside them. You were so pale and wan last time you were on the TV.”

  Five pairs of critical eyes inspected her face.

  Mrs. Fontaine agreed. “Definitely a darker shade of lipstick. That one makes you look a tad sickly.”

  Sickly? A flutter erupted in Jill’s stomach. Okay, maybe she was a little nervous.

  Nana twisted around in the chair to glance at the clock on the microwave. “Shouldn’t they be here by now? I thought they’d arrive a few minutes early to set up their camera or something.”

  A tap sounded on the back door. Oh, no. Who could that be? A reporter would come to the front. The flutter in Jill’s stomach became full-blown nausea.

  “I’ll get it.” Nana rose and approached the door with the determination of a barroom bouncer. She cracked open the mini blinds and turned toward Jill with a pleased smile. “Look who’s here.”

  When she opened the door, the last person in the world Jill expected to see stepped into the kitchen. The nausea evaporated as she jumped out of her chair and flew into Greg’s arms.

  “Hey, beautiful.” His whisper tickled the hair above one ear.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.” The shoulder of his heavy coat muffled her words.

  Strong arms tightened around her. “I couldn’t let you face this alone.”

  “Thank you.” The telltale stinging of tears threatened. She stepped away, sniffing, and grabbed for a napkin to stop them before they ruined her mascara.

  “You look terrific.” His admiring gaze swept her from head to toe.

  She stood a little straighter at the obviously heartfelt compliment. Agonizing hours of indecision had gone into selecting her wardrobe for today’s interview. Jill finally settled on a dark blue suit with an attractive lime-green blouse that created the professional, competent air she hoped to project.

  “She’s going to darken her lipstick,” Mrs. Tolliver informed him from her chair.

  “I think she’s perfect.” Greg’s expression became hesitant. “I want to be here to support you, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be part of the interview because of the campaign and all. I hope you’re okay with that.”

  In other words, he still didn’t believe in her dream, and didn’t want to appear as though he did. Jill’s pleasure in his presence slipped a notch, but she steeled her expression not to show it. She raised up on her tiptoes and planted a lipstick kiss on his cheek.

  “I understand. You can stay here in the kitchen, and you’ll probably be able to hear everything.”

  His forehead wrinkled. “From all the way outside?”

  Nana crossed to the sink to rinse her empty coffee cup. “No, from the living room. We thought Jill and the reporter could sit in the wing chairs. The fireplace will make a cozy backdrop. Sort of like a Barbara Walters interview.”

  Greg’s shoulders heaved with a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “You don’t think that’s a good idea?” Jill asked.

  “I don’t think it’s possible.” His gaze circled the ladies in the room, and realization cleared his features. “You haven’t looked outside, have you?”

  An apprehensive chill zipped up Jill’s spine and throbbed at the base of her skull. She raced out of the kitchen toward the living room window, the Sign Brigade close on her heels. With trembling hands, she pulled back the drawn curtain.

  The front yard was packed with people, and two police officers hovered nearby, anxiously watching the crowd. Parked at the curb in front of the house was not one television truck, but three. The logos on the side panels announced the presence of CBC, Global Maritimes evening news, and CTV Halifax. Several of the people clustered closest to the porch steps were familiar to her from the various news programs, including the newscaster who had run the story on CBC a few days ago. Others jockeyed for position holding microphones and elaborate cameras.

  Greg pointed to a woman in jeans and a navy peacoat. “That’s Brenda Osborne from the Metro News. I met her outside the courthouse when I was defending a case a few months ago. I’m not sure, but I think the guy next to her is from The Chronicle Herald.”

  Stunned, Jill could only stare, slack-jawed, at the mob who overflowed the boundaries of the yard.

  “Look at all those cars.” Awe made Mrs. Fontaine’s voi
ce come out in a whisper. “They’re lined up and down the street.”

  Greg nodded. “That’s why I came to the back door. I had to park on the next street over and cut through the yard behind here.”

  “Look at all those people tromping my lawn into mud.” Nana shut her eyes, a grimace twisting her features. “I hope the grass comes up in the spring.”

  Jill let the curtain fall back into place. Panic churned in the depths of her stomach now. This interview had gotten out of hand. Had all those people come to scoff at her, or were they like the ones yesterday morning who only wanted more information? Either way, this thing had exploded beyond her control.

  “It was supposed to be one reporter.” She shook her head disbelievingly. “One.”

  Greg slipped an arm around her waist. “Well, now you have a full-blown press conference, complete with spectators.”

  Mrs. Montgomery rubbed her hands together, her eyes gleaming. “Think of all the people who will hear your warning.”

  Nana placed a finger against her lips, thinking. “I wonder if it’s too late to hire more buses.”

  Jill searched Greg’s face and saw resignation there. He didn’t believe her, didn’t want to be associated with her. Was probably embarrassed for her. But at least he was here. Even though he wouldn’t be at her side during the interview, just knowing he would be on the other side of the door gave her a strength she hadn’t realized she would need until now.

  She straightened, gathering that strength around her like donning a mackintosh before a rainstorm. “I think I’ll go put on some darker lipstick.”

  Chapter 23

  JILL DIDN’T WANT TO HIDE the professional image she’d worked so hard to achieve beneath a coat, so at three o’clock she stepped onto the porch in her suit. A frigid harbor breeze ruffled her hair, and she forced herself not to shiver. At least there was no snow falling, and the sky was sunny.

  Nana and her friends followed Jill outside and arranged themselves in a line behind her. When they realized that they, too, would appear on television, there had been a rush for Nana’s dressing table to refresh their makeup. Mrs. Tolliver had gone a little overboard with the powder and came close to resembling a white-faced mime, but Jill couldn’t spare any time worrying about that. She needed all her energy to battle the only case of stage fright she’d ever experienced in her life. Throwing up on camera certainly wouldn’t help her cause.

  Eight or ten people mounted the porch steps to stand in front of her. Microphones were extended in her direction, and three men carrying large cameras on their shoulders arranged themselves to get a good angle. A familiar newscaster extended his hand.

  “Ms. King, I’m Steven Welch with CBC.”

  Jill shook his hand, but couldn’t force any words out. Her throat had become alarmingly tight.

  “Belva Rhoades,” said the woman next to him. “CTV Halifax.”

  Jill managed to smile and nod as she shook the hands of reporters from all of the area television stations and newspapers. When she recognized the man who’d written the front-page article in the local newspaper, she was pleased that she didn’t scowl.

  “Thank you all for coming.” Her voice wobbled, and she flashed a nervous smile at them and the crowd gathered behind them. “We really weren’t expecting a turnout like this. I guess I’ll start out by telling you what’s happening, and then see if you have any questions.”

  The reporters nodded, and as a group, backed down to stand on the second step, giving Jill a clear view of the mob in the front yard. William Akers and another police officer stood off to one side, their watchful stares fixed on the crowd. There had to be at least fifty people there. Some wore curious expressions, some anxious. A few were openly skeptical. Toward the front, she caught sight of the woman who had asked whether Halifax was far enough to take her children to safety. At least that explained how word got out around town. Nana had told them the television reporter would be here at three.

  The papers in Jill’s hands shook visibly. If she’d suspected this kind of press coverage, she would have written out her speech word for word. As it was, she’d have to improvise.

  “Nine days ago, I had a dream. A very vivid dream.”

  “We can’t hear you,” someone at the back of the crowd shouted.

  From the sidewalk came, “Talk louder!”

  Jill projected her voice. “Nine days ago, I had a dream. I didn’t see many details, but when I woke I was left with the impression of a coming disaster. I couldn’t shake the impression that I needed to warn the people of Seaside Cove.” She cleared her throat. “At first, I ignored it. I figured it was just a bad dream. A nightmare, actually. But it kept coming back, and I saw a few more details each time. Fire, and injured bodies. And death …”

  The crowd remained silent as she recounted the events of the past week, how her certainty of the dream’s validity had grown until she knew she couldn’t ignore it. The expressions on the reporters’ faces directly in front of her ranged from professional courtesy to encouraging smiles. She didn’t dare look at the crowd.

  As she talked, her confidence grew until finally the papers in her hand stopped trembling. “When I interrupted the meeting last Monday, I had barely slept for days. I realize now I must have looked like a raving fanatic, and I regret that.” She glanced at the three television cameras in succession. “I don’t regret my warning, though, because I feel more strongly than ever that there will be some sort of disaster in Seaside Cove on Tuesday morning. But I do regret that my erratic behavior may have caused some to discount my message. That’s why I wanted to talk to you again, so you can see that I’m rational, and I’m convinced that the warning of my dream is true.”

  She paused to let her gaze sweep across the crowd. “I know this sounds insane. Like I’m acting on little more than a gut feeling. But I have to ask — how many of you have ever had a feeling you couldn’t ignore? A small, still voice urged you to do something. On impulse you made a phone call to a friend, then discovered she was going through a hard time and needed encouragement at exactly that moment. Or it’s four days until your next paycheck and your refrigerator is already starting to look empty. You feel the urge to look in the pocket of an old coat, and you find a twenty-dollar bill.” The next words clogged her throat for a minute, but she forced them out. “Or you choose a taxi over the subway even though it costs more, and the subway train you would have been on crashes.”

  Heavy silence met her words. She took a moment to collect her composure before continuing.

  “Or maybe you’ve had a feeling like that, and ignored it. Just imagine this: What if you hadn’t? What if you’d acted? Just imagine.” She straightened and lifted her head high. “That’s what I’m doing. All I can do is what I feel is right. If there is something to my dream, then my warning may help save lives, lives of people I care about in Seaside Cove. If I’m wrong, well, at least I followed my conscience and no harm was done. So you see, I just had to deliver the message. You have to decide for yourselves if you believe me.”

  That seemed like a perfect place to stop. Jill folded her papers. “The buses,” Nana hissed from behind. “Don’t forget the buses.”

  “Oh, yes.” Jill switched to the second note, the one with Nana’s expressive scrawl. “The ladies standing behind me have been extremely supportive in helping to get this message out to the residents of the Cove. They’ve arranged for buses to evacuate those who have no other way to leave. If you’d like a ride out of the Cove, you should be at Harbor Square by seven thirty Tuesday morning. Space will be limited, so only bring what you can carry in your lap.”

  A rumble rose from the crowd as people commented on that news.

  Steven Welch from CBC asked a question, his voice pitched loud enough to be heard by most of the watchers. “Ms. King, have you had any other prophetic dreams?”

  Jill shook her head. “Never. There’s nothing special about me at all.” The memory of the disabled child and her desperate mother surfaced.
She looked directly at the CBC camera. “I have no special powers or anything like that.”

  “Then how do you explain this dream?” The reporter from the Metro News asked.

  “I can’t,” Jill answered without hesitation. “It’s never happened before, and I sincerely hope it never happens again.”

  “I have an idea.” Mrs. Tolliver stepped up beside Jill, her eyes gleaming in her abnormally white face. The rest of the Sign Brigade buzzed like startled bees.

  Jill swallowed a groan. Please don’t pull out the Dream Dictionary for Dummies.

  “I found something interesting on the Internet and haven’t had a chance to tell you, dear.” The elderly woman smiled up at Jill, then turned her attention to the reporters. “There’s evidence that people who’ve suffered a blow to the head sometimes develop psychic abilities. It has to do with using different parts of the brain that aren’t damaged.”

  Jill struggled to keep her face impassive. Surely Mrs. Tolliver had not just told the reporters she had brain damage. Possible headlines erupted in her mind, none of them good.

  “I don’t have an explanation,” Jill hurried to say before someone could ask Mrs. Tolliver a follow-up question. “All I know is that I believe something is going to happen on Tuesday.”

  “You’re crazy!” The shout came from somewhere near the driveway.

  “Yeah. She’s a real loon,” agreed someone on the opposite side of the yard.

  The rumble of the crowd grew loud, with some shouting, “I believe her!” and others saying, “She’s a nut case.” The high-pitched warbling wail of a loon rose over their voices.

  The television cameras swung away from her and swept over the crowd. Voices rose as arguments became heated. The reporters in front of her started shouting their questions to be heard over the noise, but they all spoke at once and Jill couldn’t understand them. She cupped a hand around her ear and leaned toward them.

  Something hit her shoulder, then landed with a wet splat on the wood in front of her feet. More startled than hurt, Jill looked down at an overripe tomato splattered on the porch. Juice stained her suit jacket, and a couple of seeds clung to the fabric. Another one whizzed by her head. It hit the house with a thud and exploded. Somebody was lobbing rotten fruit at her! The hovering police officers rushed into the crowd as the newspaper photographers’ cameras clicked with furious speed.