“She… she doesn’t believe in psychics and told me she’ll read a book in the car while we chat.” Mary clasped her small frail hands together and placed them in her lap.
“I don’t believe in many psychics either.”
“But she did tell me you have quite a reputation in doing”—Mary paused—“what it is you do?”
“Back in the day, I suppose.” Winston used to do three to four sessions a week, but now only took two or three appointments a year.
Mary’s sad hazel eyes looked into Winston’s as if she were trying to decide if she could trust him. He could tell she was nervous, but everyone was anxious when they thought about connecting with their departed loved one.
“Do you believe that I can bring you and your husband together?” Winston asked.
“I feel he wants to talk to me as much as I want to speak with him.” She looked down. “We were close, you know,” Mary continued. “He was the one and only love of my life.”
Winston could identify. “I read in the letter I received that you were married sixty-three years.”
“I was eighteen, and Jerry was nineteen when we married.” Her eyes misted over. “It was such a beautiful day when my daddy gave me away.”
“Five children, I think your daughter told me.”
“Yes, but we lost our sweet Sharon when she was only ten. Cancer.” She made the sign of the cross. “God bless her sweet gentle spirit.”
After they chatted for a few minutes, with Winston asking Mary about her life, he asked, “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” She opened her purse, brought out a rosary and clasped it in her hand.
“Now remember what I told you, I’ll convey what Jerry says”—he placed a hand over his chest—“but not in his voice. He’ll be speaking through me.”
“Don’t we need to close the blinds?” she asked, looking around. “Light candles?”
Winston shook his head, his silver ponytail brushing over the back of his neck. “Would you want to come from the light into the dark?”
A serious expression crossed the elderly lady’s face. “Definitely not.”
“Well, neither does your late husband.” He locked his eyes with hers. “It’s not like the movies where a sudden gush of wind blows out candles, and the room turns cold.”
“Oh, thank goodness.” She put a dainty hand over her throat. “I was concerned about that.”
“Not to worry.”
“Before we begin,” Mary said, “I wondered if you are able to predict the future.”
“I only connect those who have passed with family members.” Winston wasn’t being truthful as there had been times he was able to foresee the future, but not all news was good news.
“I’m curious. Have you ever”—she paused, as if searching for what to say—“met an angry soul?”
“A couple of times.” Winston never took his eyes from Mary, just like he’d done for over forty years with all of his clients. “But most are at peace. There’s a reason for the saying ‘laid to rest.’”
“Do you want to know anything about Jerry?” she asked.
“Your husband will tell me everything he wants you and I to know.” He winced when a jolt of arthritis sizzled up his spine.
“Should I ask him questions?” the elderly lady asked.
“Spirits never stay long. It’s best we don’t interrupt what Jerry has been waiting to say.”
She nodded, her eyes clouding over with tears.
“What you can do”—he glanced down at his left hand, palm up, that rested on his knee—“is open your hand. And you might be able to feel Jerry’s presence.”
“I will?” she asked.
“Some get a warm tingly feeling, while others feel as if their loved one is holding their hand.”
“Oh, I so hope so. That would mean so much to me to have him hold my hand again.”
“Let’s begin.” Winston closed his eyes. Clearing his thoughts of everything but Mary and her deceased husband, he whispered, “Jerry LaBarr, my name is Winston Fry. I’m here with your wife, Mary and we’d like you to join us.”
After a few more invitations, when his palm started to grow warm, he opened his eyes and saw a foggy image standing in front of Mary.
“Jerry is a tall man,” Winston said. He wasn’t always able to see a spirit, so he was pleased.
“Yes. Over six feet.” Mary’s eyes grew wide. “Can you see him?”
“He’s standing in front of you.” He watched Jerry lean over and take Mary’s hand.
She looked down at her hand. “I can feel him,” she said tearfully.
“He says he’s been watching over you.”
Mary started to weep, but quickly pulled herself together.
“He’s saying something about dimes,” Winston conveyed. “Do you know anything about dimes, Mary?”
“He… he collected them. Put them in a mason jar on the counter next to the stove.”
“Have you been finding dimes around the house?” Winston asked.
“I find them all the time in such odd places.”
“He’s been leaving them for you. So you know he’s with you.”
The older lady’s thin lips quivered and Winston could tell she was too emotional to speak.
“And something about a red sweater?” Winston asked.
Mary grinned. “Oh, that silly sweater.” Mary chuckled. “I swear I took it to the Salvation Army and somehow it showed up back in our closet.”
“That was his favorite sweater, he’s telling me.”
“Yes, our oldest child gave it to him years ago. Once I found it, I didn’t try to give it away again.”
Winston closed his eyes, listening to Jerry. “Is there someone in your life named Bridgette?”
“That’s our great granddaughter.”
“Well, he says there’s going to be a new baby coming soon.”
“Really?” Tears trickled down her wrinkled cheeks. “Bridgette and her husband have been trying to have a child for years. We didn’t think…” She started to cry. A few seconds later, Mary said, “Oh Jerry, I miss you, sweetheart.”
As the session continued, Winston relayed incidents that he would have never known unless Jerry LeBarr told him: the summer they’d taken their family to Disney World, the Caribbean cruise on their fiftieth anniversary, and the sorrow they’d felt when Sharon died.
“He said to tell you that Michael is with him.”
Mary opened her purse and took out a dainty handkerchief. “Oh Jerry, Mike’s with you.” She dabbed at her eyes. “He was Jerry’s best friend since high school.”
A few minutes later, Winston felt the warmth leave his hand. “He’s gone.”
Mary started to sob. Winston put his arm around and she put her head on his shoulder. “You’ll never know how much this meant to me.”
“Yes, I do.” Winston held back his tears, thinking of Saul. “I lost someone I loved very much too.”
Mary and Winston said their goodbyes as Winston walked her to the car. Before they left, Mary’s daughter asked if they could come back. Even though Winston assured them they were always welcome, he knew there wouldn’t be a next time, as Mary would pass within weeks. He not only saw the soft glow around her face, a sign that her time was near, but Jerry had conveyed that she would be with him soon.
Standing on the porch, he watched the taillights of the car disappear up the winding road that would take them to the highway. He drew in a deep breath of fresh air and looked out over the peaceful lake. Fall was his favorite time of year. The leaves on the dense oaks, sumacs, and poplars had already turned shades of bright red, yellow, and orange. A gentle wind would send the leaves cascading to the ground like colorful dancing snowflakes. Soon the trees would be barren and Winston would retreat into his cabin until spring.
He went back into the house and closed the door. Just like after every session he was fatigued. He walked around the island that separated the kitchen from the great room and into the
kitchen. After he opened a bottle of merlot, he filled a goblet half full. He took a sip of the full-bodied wine and looked out the double window over the sink. The one thing Winston had accomplished in his life was to bring peace of mind to those desperate to know their loved ones would be waiting for them on the other side. He’d been blessed with the gift at a young age.
He’d been raised in an upscale brownstone in upper Manhattan. As an only child born into privilege he’d attended private schools. He’d hated school as his classmates were as well bred as they were merciless. Winston had been punched, bullied, called a midget, a dwarf, and saddled with the nickname half-pint. And then, there’d been the rumors of Winston being gay long before he even knew. Much of his time as a child was spent alone, daydreaming, or reading.
It was when he was ten that the accident happened. While riding his bicycle, a car came up from behind him and hit him, leaving an already frail Winston teetering on the edge of life and death. After waking from a twelve-day coma, he was excited to tell his parents that while he was asleep he’d met his grandfather and one of his father’s best friends, both of whom were deceased.
His parents were alarmed thinking their son had brain damage from the accident. Winston had been subjected to brain scans and psychological testing, but the findings were normal. Six decades ago, if anyone even mentioned dead people were either committed or locked in their rooms.
From then on, Winston kept the secret to himself. After searching articles and books in the library, he came across the word psychic.
The log home he and Saul purchased when Winston left his position as a professor at Stanford was Winston’s Nirvana, his refuge away from a sad, bitter world.
Everything in the 1,600-square-foot cabin brought back memories of Saul: from the sturdy two-by-four ceiling rafters Saul had installed to give the home a woodsy feel, to the cupboards in the kitchen that displayed fine china and Waterford crystal that the couple had dined on every night after Saul prepared dinner, to the built-in wine rack that had been filled with expensive wines when Saul was alive.
And then there was that damned fireplace where they’d spend hours talking about everything from current events to which part of the world they wanted to see next. Saul had died a week before the trip to the Grand Canyon. And now, Winston had no desire to travel, as a large part of Winston’s lust for life died with Saul.
He looked up. “You with me, buddy?” he asked, but Saul didn’t answer. Most of the time Saul would respond, but when there were three to four days of silence the loneliness got the best of him and he felt empty. When he’d ask Saul what the hell he’d been doing, he would say that he was busy getting their home ready for when Winston arrived.
He carried his wine with him out on the porch and sat down in one of the two red Adirondack rockers that faced the lake. At five foot two, Winston had been grateful when Saul brought the chairs home as Winston could actually lean back with his feet touching the ground.
A few minutes later when he felt the damp air start to settle in his bones, Winston shuffled back into the house. He settled into one of the two chairs that faced the fireplace and put the glass down on the round table between them.
Spotting the open letter he’d received yesterday, he put on his reading glasses and picked up the two hand-written pages.
Most of the correspondence he received asked for his help, Winston would refer to another psychic. He was getting too old and too tired to even try to muster up the energy it took to cross over.
But Charlie Abbott who lived in Sheffield, Iowa had piqued his interest. In all his years of being a telepathic medium, Winston had never heard of anything like this before.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LIKE EVERY MONDAY MORNING, Shannon sat at the desk in her office reviewing complaints and accusations from neighbors or family members. Whether it was neglect, verbal, or physical abuse to a child, it was up to Shannon to decide whether to pursue a possible CINA case.
She put down her pen and took off her glasses, her mind going to Clint Abbott.
It was Shannon who’d suggested that it might be best for Charlie to live with her parents, at least until Mira trusted her mother again. But that was never going to happen. Shannon would see to it.
Charlie Abbott had it all: a big two-story home that sat on acres and acres of prime Iowa farmland, a beautiful little girl, and Clint Abbott. But Cheerleader Charlie had blown it big time. There was no doubt that being called to the Abbott house wasn’t happenstance; it was Shannon’s karma.
The only love affair Shannon had ever had lasted a little less than a year. Cory the pig had called it quits, going so far as to calling Shannon a “possessive, conniving bitch” before he walked out.
Of course, Shannon had times when she got angry as hell at Cory. On one occasion she’d thrown a frying pan with hot oil at him. But what couple didn’t fight from time to time?
After the break up, Shannon had stayed in bed for days. She’d called Cory multiple times a day, begging him to talk to her. She’d stalked his apartment just to try and catch a glimpse of him. But when she’d listened to a message on her machine with Cory shouting, “Listen, bitch, if you don’t leave me the fuck alone, I’ll file a restraining order,” Shannon lost it.
A restraining order? Bastard. She’d given him almost a year of her life, and this was how he repaid her? She’d envisioned running over him, or cutting off his dick so he’d never hurt another woman, or putting poison in his beer and watching him die a slow, painful death. But he wasn’t worth it.
If the SOB took out a restraining order, she’d lose her job. She’d rationalized that he wasn’t much to look at, and God knew he could take a few lessons in making love, but nothing eased the pain of rejection.
After Cory, there’d been a couple of fathers Shannon had met through her CINA cases that she thought were possibilities. But the attraction didn’t hold a candle to what she felt for Clint.
On her way to the car, she pulled the collar of her new bright yellow peacoat up around her neck. On her way home, Shannon noticed the parking lot of the grocery store was packed. People were stocking up for the snowstorm that was predicted. She hoped the weatherman was right this time because Shannon had big plans.
By the time she pulled into the driveway of her modest, two-bedroom home the snow was now coming down at a heavy clip. Yippee! Hurrying through the back door, she took off her gloves, letting them drop to the floor, and tossed her coat on the couch. She had work to do.
“Gotta clean this dump up sometime.” Using her foot, she pushed plates and clothes out of her way as she traipsed to her bedroom. “What a pig sty.”
After she changed into a robe she went into the only bathroom and took a shower. As she dried herself off, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the sink. Turning side to side, Shannon was pleased with the results of the yoga classes she’d started a couple of weeks ago. “You don’t stand a ding-dong chance, Charlie.” She smiled at her reflection. “Not after Clint and I seal the deal.”
She blew her hair dry that she’d had cut, colored, and conditioned in the salon yesterday. She shook her head back and forth, watching the light-brown auburn hair sway from side to side. The hairdresser had even shown her how to wrap her hair around the curling iron to make soft curls. She took extra time with her makeup and then put in the contacts she hadn’t used since Cory bid her adieu. “Cory,” —she leaned into the mirror—“eat me.” She let out a cackle.
Back in her bedroom, she opted to wear the dark-blue tunic sweater and matching leggings she’d found in Omaha last weekend. She suddenly remembered the petite, twenty-something clerk that waited on her. “Oh, that makes you look so slim and trim,” the idiot told her.
Made her look slim and trim?She was slim and trim. Women had always been jealous of Shannon. But instead of getting all worked up about a snide remark from an employee who had shit for brains, Shannon had just smiled at her.
At the back door, she slipped in
to her new leather knee high boots, grabbed a plaid scarf and tucked it inside the neckline of her coat. On her way to the car, she blew out an anxious breath. “You got this, Patterson,” she told herself. “You so got this.”
On the highway, the winds whipped the blowing snow in every direction, making it difficult to see.
“Yes!” Shannon shouted, tightening her grip on the steering wheel.
“Shannon?” Clint said when he opened the door. “What the devil are you doing out in this storm?”
She stepped inside, tossing her head back, hoping Clint would notice her new look. “I was visiting with a family close by when this all hit. Jiminy Christmas.” She nodded at the door. “This kinda weather just scares the bejesus outa me.”
“Wow, you are very dedicated to your job.” Clint closed the door.“No one should be out in this.” He walked behind her and helped her out of coat. When his hand touched her shoulder her tummy did a cartwheel.
“I am dedicated to children who have no one to be their voice. I’m their voice,” she said and then quickly added, “Thank God Mira has you.”
Clint hung her coat on the rack and Shannon draped her scarf around the collar.
“I’m so sorry to impose on you, but I wondered if I could hang out until it’s safer to drive home.”
“Shannon?” She turned and saw Mira standing under the archway. She bent over and opened her arms. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Mira hurried into her arms and looked up at her. “You have new hair.”
“I do.” Shannon glanced at Clint briefly. “You like it?”
“Uh-huh.” Mira grinned. “It’s the same color as Charlie’s.”
Shannon felt her cheeks grow warm. “Is it? I guess I didn’t realize that,” she lied.
“Daddy and I made pizza. You want some?”
“Oh no”—she waved a dismissing hand—“I don’t want to intrude.”
“Nonsense.” Clint walked to the stove, the savory aroma of pepperoni and cheese filling the room when he opened the oven door. “We have plenty. Right, Mira?”
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