In the Blink of an Eye (20 page)

His jaw drops.

“She's saying that you could probably manage to make yourself cinnamon toast, at least.” Pilar smiles. “My guess is that she's joking around with you, Mr. Reynolds. I get the impression you're not much of a cook?”

He shakes his head, speechless.

Pilar watches the image of his wife fade away as her energy evaporates simultaneously.

“She's still with you, Mr. Reynolds,” she says softly.

“I . . . I don't know what to say.” He pauses. “I never believed in that stuff.”

“Do you believe it now?”

“I don't know what to think.”

There's a long silence.
It's peaceful here,
Pilar thinks, looking around. Nothing around but the farmhouse and the barn and a couple of old sheds, and acres of farmland. Not another house in sight.

“Do you want to come in?” the man asks suddenly, as though he should have thought of it before. “I don't have any . . . lemonade, or anything . . . but if you want . . .”

She shakes her head at his awkward invitation, thinking about what Christina and Tom would say about that. They're always saying she has to be careful now that she's alone. They wouldn't approve of her going into an isolated house with a stranger, especially when she didn't bother to tell a soul where she's gone this afternoon.

Not that there's anything the least bit sinister about Lincoln Reynolds, but you never know. She still isn't clear on exactly what happened between him and Katherine in the past. For all she knows, he was abusive to the girl and that's the reason Rupert went to such extremes to keep them apart.

Lincoln looks disappointed. “Are you sure you don't want to stay?”

“I should go. I have some appointments scheduled this afternoon.” She jangles her keys, turning back toward the car door.

“Can I ask you something before you leave?”

“Sure.” Pilar pauses with her hand on the door handle.

“Why are you trying to get in touch with Kathy?”

“Because her mother is seriously ill. Terminally ill. I thought Katherine might want to know.”

He doesn't seem particularly disturbed by that news. There is clearly no love lost between him and Nan, whether or not she was as instrumental to the breakup as her husband was.

“Don't Rupert and Nan know where she is, then?” Lincoln asks.

“It's complicated,” Pilar says, not wanting to go into it. “I thought maybe I could find her through you. Nobody else in Lily Dale seems to know exactly where she is.”

“Do me a favor, Ms. Velazquez. If you find Kathy, tell her where I am. Tell her I wouldn't mind hearing from her.”

Pilar gets into her car and gives him a little wave. “I'll do that.”

She can see Lincoln Reynolds in her rearview mirror, standing absolutely still as he watches her drive away.

J
ULIA RUNS THE
brush through Dulcie's long hair, crimped from the braids she just removed. “Do you want me to put it up in a bun, sweetie?”

“Whatever you want,” Dulcie tells her, sitting absolutely still beside Julia on the bed.

It was her idea to have Julia do her hair again, while Paine works on the shower head in the bathroom. They can hear him clanking away on the pipes down the hall. Julia wonders why he's so determined to install it if he's only going to sell the house anyway, but she hasn't asked him that.

He was pretty quiet on the ride home from Chautauqua just now. Dulcie did most of the talking, asking Julia to come back to their house with them so that she could read her the storybooks they bought yesterday at the Book Nook. Only now that they're home, she claims she doesn't feel like reading.

“Can you stay for dinner, Julia?” Dulcie asks as Julia gently untangles a snarled strand of silky blond hair.

“I don't think so, sweetie.”

“Do you have another date with that guy, Andy?”

Andy. He hasn't entered Julia's mind all afternoon. Now the thought of him fills her with apprehension. Their date last night went smoothly despite her misgivings. But she could feel her grandmother's presence all night; could sense her displeasure that Julia went ahead with dating Andy after all. Why? What is it about him that Grandma doesn't like?

It isn't that Julia's head over heels for him—but maybe she can be, if she lets herself.

If Grandma lets me.

It's hard enough for a young, single medium to have a love life around here without input from a nagging grandmother on the Other Side.

“No, Dulcie, I don't have a date with Andy tonight,” Julia says. He's giving a workshop all day. She planned to go to it until Paine and Dulcie invited her to Chautauqua. She knows Andy doesn't mind that she's not there. He says he's more comfortable in front of an audience full of strangers, that seeing familiar faces is a distraction.

“Good,” Dulcie says. “Then you can stay for dinner.”

“Actually, I can't. I have to be at a message service in a little while, and I have an appointment scheduled after that.” It's for a group reading—a trio of neighbors from Erie, all of them widows. They do this several times each season, and Julia has managed to connect with all of their husbands at one time or another.

“But you're coming tomorrow, right?” Dulcie asks. “When Daddy goes back to Chautauqua?”

“I'll be here,” Julia says. She was a bit taken aback when Paine asked her to baby-sit. She really should be working. But she only has appointments scheduled in the morning, and he isn't leaving until after lunch. Besides, there really isn't anybody else he can ask.

“Maybe I'll have your bracelet finished by then,” Dulcie says. “I worked on it for a little while this morning.”

Julia smiles.

For a few seconds, the room is silent.

Then Julia hears the scream.

The burst of music.

They aren't alone.

Julia stiffens, the brush poised at the bottom of a strand of Dulcie's hair.

She can feel the familiar presence seeping into the room, this time more powerful than ever before.

Who are you?
Julia demands silently, willing herself to receive the energy.
Why are you here?

It comes to her in a rush.

But, as often happens, she doesn't get the whole thing. Only a fragment. The beginning and the ending.

Just enough to realize that the name starts with a
K
sound and ends with an
N.

“
K
ATHERINE. . . .”

Seated beside the bed, Rupert looks up sharply from the
Sunday Times.
Nan's head is turned toward the open window. He suddenly notices a strong fragrance in the room—flowers wafting in on the breeze. Something must be in bloom right outside the window, Rupert thinks vaguely as he rises and touches Nan's hand gently.

“It's okay, Nan,” he says, unable to see from this angle whether his wife's eyes are open, but certain she's not awake. “Shhh.”

“Katherine . . .” Nan's head thrashes right and left.

He was right. She's asleep.

“Shhh,” he says again. “It's only a nightmare. It isn't real. Wake up, darling. Everything is all right.”

Nan's eyes open, drift closed again, open. This time they stay focused widely on Rupert's face.

“It's all right,” he repeats in a soothing voice. “I'm here. I'm with you.”

“Katherine.” This time, it's a sigh.

“What about her, Nan?”

“Need to . . . see her . . .”

“She's not here, darling.”

Nan's eyes are already fluttering closed again.

Rupert strokes the turban above her forehead, where her blond hair once was. She had the most beautiful hair. It was like sunlight. Even after it mixed with gray and she took to having it dyed at the beauty parlor. Somehow, the stylist managed to recapture her natural color.

Nan was so proud of her hair. Of her looks. The first time Rupert saw her, out on the stoop in front of the building on Stratford Avenue, he was captivated by her air of sophistication. Everything about her was classy. Only later did he find out that she made her own clothes—some of them from scraps—hand-stitching the seams in the bedroom she shared with three younger sisters and a colicky infant brother.

Rupert wonders whatever became of the rest of them—Nan's siblings, and her mother. Nothing much, he'd be willing to bet. Nan never regretted the choice her mother had forced her to make. She and Rupert have had a good life together.

And it's not over yet.

He's got to call his broker first thing on Monday morning and see about cashing out some of his investments. Maybe Paine Landry will budge if he offers a cash bonus. . . .

Nan's hands make a restless motion on top of the extra blanket Rupert threw over her a while ago.

Rupert stares at the repetitive movement. It looks as if she were holding a shovel. Digging.

“Are you in your garden, darling?” he whispers softly, stroking her head. “Is that where you are?”

The reply is a single word, faintly whispered.

“Katherine.”

M
IRANDA IS ONE
of the last to leave the auditorium.

The workshop on past-life regression was utterly fascinating. Given her background in parapsychology, she has seen such presentations before. But never has she seen a speaker so captivating as Andrew Doyle.

Kent would have loved this,
she thinks, as she finally rises from her seat and heads toward the exit, where a few people still linger, speaking with Mr. Doyle. But something Kent ate for breakfast didn't agree with him, and he decided to go back to the hotel and sleep for a while.

Hopefully he's feeling better. But just in case he isn't Miranda decides to stop and buy a can of ginger ale to take back to him.

She's a few steps from the cluster of people by the door when suddenly the crowd breaks up and several people depart at once, leaving Andrew Doyle standing alone.

Miranda smiles at him. “That was incredible,” she says, on her way out.

“I'm glad it moved you,” he replies easily.

She notices—not for the first time since she first glimpsed him on stage—that he's handsome. Not traditionally so, with his russet hair and almost elfin, upturned nose, but there's a definite appeal. And judging by the way his Irish green eyes are twinkling at Miranda, the appreciation is mutual.

If Kent were here, he'd tell me to run away from this guy as fast as I can,
she notes. But Kent worries too much. And his protective big-brother act is getting awfully tiresome. He never approves of anyone Miranda finds attractive.

“I've seen other presenters explore the topic,” Miranda tells Andrew Doyle, who seems to want to hear more from her, judging by the way he's not hurrying away. “But not the way you have. Obviously, you're passionate about your work.”

“I'm passionate about a lot of things,” is his provocative response. He holds out his hand. “You already know who I am. How about making things even?”

“I'm Miranda Cleary.”

“What brings you to Lily Dale?”

She finds herself telling him the whole story—about Kent and the New England Ghost Society and the book they're planning to write. She goes into detail about their successful investigation the night before, and about the lilac tree and the house on Summer Street whose owner won't give them permission to access the grounds.

He listens intently to all of it. Which sets him apart from Michael right away, because Michael was never interested in her work. But then, this man is in the field of parapsychology, too.

He's too good to be true,
Miranda finds herself thinking.

His emerald gaze fixed on her, Andrew asks, “Does anyone call you Mandy?”

“No.”

“That's hard to believe.” He leans closer to her, unmistakably flirting.

Her heart skips a beat. “Why . . . why is that?” she asks him. It's been a long time since a man has talked to her in this way.

“Because you happen to look like a Mandy,” he says, reaching into his pocket and putting on his sunglasses. Now she can't see his eyes. “And it happens to rhyme with Andy . . . which is what you can call me.”

“Then I guess you can feel free to call me Mandy.”

“In that case . . . how about joining me for a bite to eat, Mandy?”

Miranda shoves aside an irritating echo of Kent's voice saying, “The trouble with you, Miranda, is that you can't spot trouble when it's looking you in the face.”

She looks at Andy Doyle and smiles. “I'd love to join you for a bite to eat.”

A
S THE LADY'S
presence fades from the room, Dulcie reaches for Julia, finding and clasping her arm.

“What is it, Dulcie?” Julia asks, her voice shaking. “What's the matter?”

“It's . . . her. You know she was here too, don't you? You got all quiet when she came, and you stopped brushing my hair. That's why, isn't it?”

For a moment Julia doesn't say anything. When she does, Dulcie notices that her voice sounds strange. But not surprised.

“You can feel her, Dulcie?”

“Yes. And I can see her. Can you?”

“You can
see
her?”

“You can't?”

“No.” Julia puts both her hands on Dulcie's shoulders and turns her around so that they're facing each other. Dulcie can feel Julia looking at her. “What did you see, Dulcie? Describe her.”

“But . . . Julia . . . if you can't see her, how do you know she's here?”

“I feel her. And . . . I hear her.”

“Her voice?”

“I hear her voice. And music.”

“I heard it too! Music. And a scream.”

Dulcie hears Julia letting out a long breath.

Then she asks, “She's been here before, Dulcie?”