Beyond Midnight (78 page)

The only thing bothering Emily was what always bothers women in new social situations:  what to wear.  How did a channel dress for a job interview?  She'd seen one or two people who claimed to be mediums on talk shows, but they were men.  She'd never seen a woman channel; all she had to go on were a couple of book jackets from the seventies in which the women mediums had posed for their autobiographies.

So she did the best she could:  she rummaged through her closet and came up with a Ralph Lauren skirt from his Peasant Period, and a frilly white blouse, and a large straw hat with turquoise flowers.  The outfit flattered her dark eyes and hair; she was even tall enough to carry off the hat.  She looked exciting; she looked exotic; she looked ready for lunch under a palm tree in
Barbados
, which is where she'd bought all the clothes in the first place.

But the JFK Federal Office Building in downtown
Boston
? 

Emily turned slowly around in her full-length mirror, trying to gauge the effect she'd have on Jim Whitewood.  One thing was sure:  she'd stand out from the pack.  She smiled.  The crazy lady in the straw hat smiled back, her dark eyes dancing with mystery.  For an instant Emily believed she really was a psychic.

Whoa
. 
Maybe I've been reading too much of this stuff
.  It was catching.  In a kind of panic she snatched off her hat and threw it on her bed; she pulled off the blouse and skirt and tossed them in a heap on top of an old steamer trunk.  After that she slipped into her softest cotton nightgown, made herself a cup of hot tea, and fished out the Financial Section of the Sunday New York Times.  It was just the dose of reality she needed.  In twenty minutes she was fast asleep.

The next morning found Emily, hat in lap, sitting on the
Boston
"T" and bound for the senator's downtown offices.  She tried hard to focus on the otherworldly, but it wasn't easy:  everyone around her was dressed in three-piece business suits.  She tried hard to be inconspicuous, but that wasn't easy, either.  When the lawyer type next to her jumped up for his stop, he took off with her hat, which had got caught in the open zipper of his briefcase.

If I believed in omens, I would not be comforted by this, she thought grimly, tucking the remaining flowers back into the hatband.

Still, by the time she found herself face-to-face with the senator's secretary, she'd got back her sense of outrage and with it, her confidence.  It seemed completely clear to her that both the senator
and
his aide were gullible at best and unfit for their jobs at worst.

The secretary -- a nice, normal, middle-aged woman dressed sensibly in a linen suit -- was kind but firm.  "Miss, ah, Bowditch, is it?  I'm sorry, do you have an appointment with Mr. Whitewood?"

This was the tricky part:  getting in.  "No, I don't," Emily replied candidly, "but I feel
absolutely certain
that he'll want to hear me."  Emily gave the secretary a significant look. 

The secretary gave her a significant look back.  "Can you tell me the nature of your visit?"

"No-o-o, I'm afraid I can't," Emily answered meaningfully.

"I see.  Well, Mr. Whitewood hasn't come in yet.  Perhaps if you take a seat ... I'll see what I can do.  But I believe Mr. Whitewood is full up with meetings today."

Emily moved away to the reception area.  The secretary took down a black binder and began scanning the page.  Emily was set to spend the whole day waiting if she had to; but she hoped that the secretary was finding a blank slot in the calendar before noon.  After about twenty minutes Jim Whitewood came in; Emily recognized him instantly from the photo in
Etheric
.  He was impeccably groomed, a little slick, maybe even opportunistic, she thought.  He looked more Wall Street than
Federal
Office
Building
. 

She gave him a mysterious smile as he hurried past her into his office.  The secretary followed.  In less than a minute Emily was being ushered in, and it wasn't even nine o'clock.

Whitewood introduced himself and offered Emily a seat.  "I understand you have something to tell me?"

"Well, not
tell
, exactly.  It's more something I have to ... offer you."

Whitewood gave her the briefest of glances, taking in the rounded curve of her shoulders; the cut of her bodice; the hat.

"Really."

Emily blushed deeply.  "I mean, not offer, exactly.  That was probably the wrong word."  Ah, what the hell, she thought.  In for a penny, in for a buck.  She stood up, swept her hat from her head, and glided across the room, coming to rest near an enormous potted Schefflera.  She was going to play this for all it was worth.

She turned to face the senator's aide and said in a throaty voice, "I understand that you extend a welcome to those with ... extraordinary perceptions."

"And you are such a person?" he asked noncommittally.

"I am."

"How do you know?"

She lifted a shoulder.  "How does one ever know?  There are only so many events that can be attributed to coincidence, only so many dreams that turn out to be prophetic -- "

"You're a channel, then?"

"Yes."  Ohboy.  No turning back now.

"Physical or mental?"

"Physical.  No, mental."

"I see."

"Thoughts ... words ... images. 
Feelings
."  Emily had twisted a flower loose from her hatband and was pulling at it absent-mindedly; a soft rain of turquoise petals began fluttering to the floor.

"Full trance?"

"Light."

"I see."

He spun his chair towards an impressive view of downtown
Boston
, then slowly spun it back again.  "You've worked with a teacher?"

"To be honest," she said, feeling her way carefully, "I was hoping you could recommend someone.  Someone with experience in training channels, someone you knew and trusted --"

"Please wait here, Miss Bowditch," the aide said suddenly. 

He left the office and Emily dropped into a pillowed settee.  So far so good.  It amazed her that absolutely anyone could come in off the street, ask to spend time with an aide to a
United States
senator, and then talk utter nonsense with him.   What a waste of a national budget.  Where had he gone off to, anyway?  To consult his Ouija board?

She looked around the beautifully appointed office.  More tax dollars.  Those were real oils, not prints, on the walls.  That Sheraton desk was no reproduction.  The carpet was richly woven, palest cream -- what must it cost to keep clean, for God's sake?  The wing chairs opposite her -- Portuguese crewelwork, or she wasn't from
New England
.  It was all wonderfully understated, all shockingly priced.

Her eyes widened.   Oh, lord. 

From where she sat she could see a dozen giant turquoise flower petals -- fallen soldiers in her battle of wits with the senator's aide -- lying in a heap on the pale carpet.  She jumped up, ran across the room, and was on her hands and knees plucking petals when Senator Arthur Lee Alden III walked in.

Buy 
Emily's Ghost

This is a work of fiction.
 
Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Beyond Midnight

Copyright © 1996 by Antoinette Stockenberg

ISBN: 978-0-9834167-
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