A Most Excellent Midlife Crisis : A Paranormal Women's Fiction Novel : Good To The Last Death Book Three

by Robyn Peterman

  “That would be good. I’d like to get to know Alana. Were you aware she was seeing Clarence Smith?”

  Gram scratched her head then sighed. “Can’t rightly say I was. Your mama was real private about her beaus.”

  “Did you know the ghost she died for?”

  Gram paled and levitated. “No. I didn’t. Once your mama took over as the Death Counselor, I stopped seein’ the dead. Told her she didn’t have to start the job since I was still kickin’, but she said she wanted to. Said it gave her something to be proud of.”

  Being a Death Counselor made me feel proud, too. I wondered if I had other things in common with the woman who had given me life.

  “How did you find out she’d died?” I asked. “I mean, about the suicide.”

  Gram’s movements grew faster and her agitation made her flying clumsy. She fell right out of the air and landed at my feet.

  “Oh my God,” I cried out as I gently picked her up and held my weightless grandmother in my arms. “I’m so sorry… so sorry. I know how much this upsets you. I shouldn’t have asked. We can just talk about the happy times. I’m good with that.”

  Laying her head on my shoulder, Gram sniffled. “No, little girl,” she whispered brokenly. “You have a right to know everything. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

  “No. I’m sorry,” I insisted.

  “Nope,” Gram countered. “I’m sorry.”

  I almost said it again then shook my head. “How about we agree that we’re both sorry and table this conversation until later?”

  “Works for me, child,” she said, smiling. “I get all riled up when I talk about your mama’s… Alana’s death. I guess you never get over the loss of a child.”

  My heart hurt and I felt awful. “We don’t have to talk about the sad parts. Ever.”

  “We do. Should have hashed it all out when I was alive, but it just never felt right,” she said. “Now that I’m dead, I think we should give it a shot.”

  “We have really strange conversations,” I said, relieved that she truly wanted to talk about my mother.

  “That we do,” she replied. “That we do, Daisy girl.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “You drive fast,” I pointed out.

  Gideon glanced over at me and grinned. “I’ve been in the car when you drive.”

  “Your point?” I inquired, loving that the morning after the best sex I’d ever had wasn’t awkward in the least.

  Everything felt natural and right—the way it was supposed to feel. I still got a little breathless when I looked at him, but I doubted that would ever go away.

  “No point,” he said. “Simply an observation that your driving skills make mine look amateur.”

  “You’re saying you drive like a granny?” I teased.

  “Not sure I would have chosen those words,” he said, highly amused. “However, you definitely win that exchange.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gideon chuckled. “Wasn’t exactly a compliment, but you’re welcome.”

  I was silent as Gideon continued to navigate the country roads. John Travolta didn’t live in town as I’d expected. I was sure he had a mansion on the ritzy side of town, but I was incorrect.

  “So, John Travolta is a country kind of guy?” I asked, needing conversation to calm my nerves.

  “One could say that.”

  “How long has he lived in his house?”

  “About a hundred years, I’d guess—maybe a hundred and fifty,” Gideon replied.

  I scrunched my nose as questions flooded my brain. “In the same house?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does that work? I mean, he clearly ages himself, but wouldn’t people catch on? I would have thought you guys would relocate all the time so you wouldn’t get busted for being, you know…”

  “Older than dirt?” Gideon finished my sentence with a raised brow.

  “I was looking for a nicer way to say it, but yes,” I replied with a sheepish grin.

  “The truth is the truth,” he pointed out. “Some of us do move around, but this area has the strongest portal between Heaven and Hell in the Universe.”

  “So, most Immortals live around here and reinvent themselves every generation?”

  Gideon nodded. “Many do. Occasionally, Immortals have to leave for a while. If we like a particular piece of property or a home, they simply leave it to a family member in their will. Then we take a quick leave of absence and return as the younger niece or nephew of the original owner.”

  “The original owner and the new owner being the same person.”

  “Yes,” he said, casting a sideways glance at me. “Does the reality disturb you?”

  Did it?

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, thinking it out as I spoke. I lived with dead people. Not much freaked me out lately. “Although, it’s still surreal to me. The logistics are mind boggling. How long have you had your house in town?”

  Gideon thought for a moment. “About seventy years, give or take a few.”

  “And have you died off and left it to a relative?”

  Gideon again glanced over. “Once. Left it to my son. Gideon Jr.”

  “That’s handy,” I said with a laugh. “Do you own a lot of houses?”

  “I do.”

  “How many?” I questioned.

  Gideon shrugged. “Lost count.”

  “Dude,” I said. “That’s not right. One house should be enough for a person.”

  “I’ll pare it down,” he promised, amused.

  “Wait. Do you have a house in Greece?” I asked.

  Stories about Greece were something special I remembered about my mother. It was a vague and fuzzy memory, but I’d held on to it. She’d told me Greece was a magical place filled with love and that she would take me there one day. That had never happened, but the stories had stuck with me always.

  “Three,” he replied, looking guilty.

  I laughed. “Keep one of them, please. I’ve never been to Greece and it’s on my bucket list.”

  “Done,” Gideon said with a smile. “I’m here to make your bucket list wishes come true.”

  The line was familiar. Steve had said something similar earlier. Both Steve and Gideon loved me. However, neither were or would ever be responsible for making my wishes come true. But it was a lovely thought.

  “And John Travolta? Who did he leave his house to? A son? A brother? A long-lost nephew?” I asked.

  “Not sure, you’ll have to ask John Travolta.”

  “It’s not really a social call,” I reminded him.

  “Correct,” Gideon agreed. “However, that’s exactly how we’re going to treat it. For lack of a better way to put it, we’ll call it a father-daughter get-together.”

  “Sperm donor and unwanted spawn slightly polite visit,” I corrected him.

  “Definitely more accurate,” Gideon commented. “I’d suggest polite interaction unless he gives us reason to behave otherwise.”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking going in with metaphorical guns drawn was probably a bad plan. “Does he know we’re coming?”

  “No. I figured since he’s been fond of surprises lately, we’d give him a taste of his own medicine.”

  We drove on in silence. Unsure of how I was going to get the information I was after, like why he was reluctant to go after Clarissa, why she was after me, along with his lifelong denial of me, I made plans A, B, C and D inside my head. With life as off-kilter as it was, I’d probably end up going with plan Z, but rolling with the changes had become my new way of life. It was that or the mental institution.

  “We’re here,” Gideon said in a calm voice. “You ready?”

  I nodded and swallowed back my fear and anger. Neither would serve me well this morning.

  The tree-lined drive was impressive—manicured and lovely. However, the house made the landscaping pale in comparison.

  John Travolta lived in an enormous white marble mansion. It was fascinatingly beautifu
l and horrible.

  One could argue that the white exterior represented the purity of an Angel. On the other hand, one could say it was as cold as ice—lifeless and without character. I was of the second opinion.

  Thinking about my old farmhouse, a small smile pulled at my lips. It wasn’t perfect by anyone’s standards, but it was loved and lived in. It had a warmth that was sorely missing here.

  My stomach roiled and I grabbed the dashboard as Gideon parked in the circular drive.

  Gideon’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Daisy, what’s wrong?”

  “Having a déjà vu,” I whispered, trying to figure out what it meant. “I think I’ve been here before.”

  “Here?” he questioned. “At this house or in this area?”

  “This house,” I said, squinting at it and trying like hell to remember. Adrenaline shot through my veins and my heart raced. Something was important, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Had something horrible happened here? “Maybe I dreamed it.”

  Gideon watched me as I worked through my panic. Did it matter if I’d been here? Had my mother described it to me as a child, and I just felt as if I’d seen it? Had I finally lost my ever-loving mind for real?

  “Tell me what else you remember about it,” Gideon said, rubbing my back for comfort. “Details. Any details you remember, tell me now before we go in.”

  “Have you been here before?” I asked.

  “I have. What do you recall?”

  Breathing in through my nose and exhaling slowly through my mouth, I closed my eyes. What would help was to run ten or twenty miles. Running let my thoughts come freely and without any filter on my part. Going for a run wasn’t in the cards at the moment. Plus, I was wearing high-heeled boots and cashmere—not really running attire.

  “Gold,” I whispered as pictures raced across my mind. “Gold fountain. Paintings—frescos on the ceilings. Angels. Violent Angels. Pale pink clouds.”

  Gideon’s hissed intake of breath wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I was onto something.

  “No rugs. Squares. White and gold square tiles on the floor.”

  Opening my eyes, I stared at Gideon. He stared right back at me.

  “Am I right?”

  “You are,” he said tersely. “Do you remember when you were here? Who you were with?”

  I shook my head. “No. I had to be young, but I don’t remember anyone else being around. Could I have dreamed it?”

  “I don’t see how,” Gideon said, gripping the steering wheel. “I’m not sure this visit is a good idea. I don’t like how I feel right now. Too many puzzle pieces missing. It gives the Archangel the upper hand.”

  “Too late,” I whispered.

  John Travolta stood ten feet from Gideon’s car and eyed us with curiosity. He didn’t seem angry. Although, he certainly didn’t seem excited to see us. He was more resigned than anything else. Maybe the man had known we were coming after all.

  “Follow my lead,” Gideon said.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “Not a clue,” he replied. “You with me?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The interior was eerily like the memories I’d described. It did absolutely nothing to calm my already jangled nerves. It increased them. Today, I was unearthing parts of my past that I’d buried long ago. It wasn’t fun.

  “May I ask what brought you here today?” my father questioned as he led us through the grand foyer to an opulent office.

  The office was unfamiliar. Gideon covertly caught my eye and I shook my head no. He nodded curtly.

  “We were out for a drive and found ourselves in your neck of the woods,” Gideon replied in a cold tone.

  “I’m supposed to believe that?” the Archangel shot back equally as cool.

  “You’re welcome to believe what you want,” Gideon said, taking a seat on a white marble bench in the office. “Not very comfortable.”

  “Not meant to be,” my father replied with a dismissive shrug. “Ensures guests don’t get too comfortable and overstay their welcome.”

  “Not very Southern of you,” I commented, looking around.

  “I’m not Southern,” the Angel pointed out. “Have you heard from the Angel of Mercy?”

  My head whipped up and I pinned the man with a glare. “No. Have you?”

  He walked around his desk and seated himself before he spoke. “I have not.”

  “Did you warn her before she ran? Your reluctance to punish her is suspect,” Gideon ground out as John Travolta’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “I did not warn her,” he said evenly. “Is that why you came? To ask me if I’d apprised Clarissa of the bounty on her head for her plethora of crimes?”

  I narrowed my eyes at the man. “You clearly have a conflict of interest, Darth Vader.”

  “I thought it was John Travolta,” he replied.

  I shrugged. “I like to change it up.”

  “You’re going to answer a few questions,” Gideon announced.

  “Am I?” The Angel raised a brow and glared at the Grim Reaper.

  “You are, Archangel.” Gideon smiled. It was not a nice smile. I’d have to classify it as terrifying.

  “We shall see, Reaper.”

  This wasn’t going what I would call well. Gideon and John Travolta didn’t like each other a bit. It was becoming very clear that the meeting was going South—pun intended.

  “Gideon,” I said, wondering if I was making a gargantuan mistake. “Can you give my father and me a moment?”

  Gideon jerked his head in my direction and looked at me as if I was nuts.

  I was nuts.

  However, I came for information and I wasn’t going to get it at this rate.

  “Bad plan,” he hissed.

  “The plan we’re working with now is worse,” I told him.

  I was in love with Gideon, but that didn’t mean he was always right. Not that I was either, but my gut said I’d get more out of the Angel if it was just him and me.

  “You heard her,” John Travolta said smugly. “Leave.”

  “Pipe down,” I snapped at my father, whose expression registered shock at my rude admonishment. “I did not tell Gideon to leave at all. I’d just like to chat with you alone… with Gideon on the other side of the door.”

  “As you wish,” Gideon said, standing up and moving to the door with great reluctance. He turned as he was about to leave and smiled once again at the Archangel. “If one hair on her body is harmed, I will destroy you. Heaven and Hell be damned.”

  “I’d expect no less,” he answered, sounding unsurprised by the threat.

  With a curt nod, Gideon left the office and closed the door behind him.

  John Travolta and I stared at each other warily. He seemed as intimidated by me as I was of him. It was ludicrous since he could most likely turn me to ash with a flick of his hand.

  “I will answer two questions, Daisy,” he said, still seated behind his big desk. “Choose them carefully.”

  “Your cryptic games are getting boring,” I said, approaching his desk. It felt good to be looking down at him. The man was much taller than I was, but from this vantage point I felt more in control.

  He shrugged. “Not games. Parameters.”

  “Safe limits so you don’t reveal yourself,” I said with an eye roll. “Nice.”

  “Call it what you wish. It is what it is. What do you want to know?”

  “I’ve been here before,” I said flatly. “A very long time ago.”

  His eyes widened ever so slightly. It was barely noticeable, but my eyesight was killer now.

  “That wasn’t a question,” he said mildly.

  “Correct,” I agreed. “It wasn’t. Say her name. Say my mother’s name.”

  “Not a question,” John Travolta snapped as a brief flash of sadness passed his handsome features.

  “It was a demand,” I said. “You owe me a few things.”

  He
sat silently and stared at me. I held his gaze. The length of the stare-down went far past what was considered socially polite, but it was an unusual situation. Under normal circumstances, I would have dropped my gaze.

  Not today.

  “You look so much like her,” he whispered.

  “Her name. Say it.”

  Michael the Archangel closed his golden eyes and said the name of the woman he’d impregnated to the child they’d created together—the child he hadn’t wanted. “Alana. Her name is Alana.”

  “Was,” I corrected him. “Her name was Alana. She’s dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you love her?” I asked, and then shook my head in disgust.

  It wasn’t one of the questions I wanted to ask. I’d just wasted a request on a child’s need to know her daddy loved her mommy.

  “I did. With everything I am,” he replied. “Second question?”

  If I could have kicked my own ass, I would have. I was an idiot and he was a liar. If he loved my mother, he had a shitty way of showing it. Taking back control was necessary. Statements and demands were in order.

  “Clarissa is after me and I don’t know why,” I began, then held up my hand as he started to speak. “That wasn’t a question. It was backstory so you’ll be able to answer to my satisfaction.”

  John Travolta sat back in his chair with an expression I thought might be pride. I had to be mistaken. Wishful thinking would screw me up. The man didn’t give a crap about me.

  “Please continue,” he said.

  “I will,” I shot back. “I thought it had to do with my relationship with Gideon, but Clarissa was the cause of Steve’s death long before I knew Gideon. There has to be another reason behind her actions.”

  “Are you sure it’s you she’s after?” my father asked.

  The question was absurd, but he’d left himself open. Today I would miss no openings.

  “If you ask a question, I get an extra one,” I informed him.

  He sighed then chuckled. “As you wish.”

  I had two questions again now. “Yes, I’m sure it’s me she’s after. She killed my husband and tried to send him wrongly into the darkness. Pretty heavy evidence that she’s trying to destroy me.”