“I don’t like change.” He breezed around the desk, dropped into the chair and propped his feet up.
She leaned across the desk and lapped her fingers over the sides. “Doesn’t the idea of flying again intrigue you?”
A curious feeling immersed him in a warm bath of familiarity. “Why is it that I get the distinct feeling I know you from somewhere?”
“That’d be a tough one since you died way before I was born.” Creases of skepticism ruffled her brow. “Probably like thirty or forty years.”
“You and I have met before, Isabelle.”
“Ooh, I know...you met me in my dream last night.” Her laughter, eerily familiar, hung in the air.
Jack didn’t doubt her sincerity or her accuracy. Still, it did nothing to lessen his conviction that—from out of nowhere—he was now certain he’d known her during his short life.
“Don’t try to turn the tables on me, darlin’.” Jack leaned toward Izzy, his lanky legs sinking through the desk. “You’re the one dreaming about me. Not the other way around.”
The implication was absurd, crazy even. She huffed but it didn’t get rid of the bizarre fixation. Letting a spirit get to her was unprofessional.
He looked her over with a coquettish sort of glint glistening against his almost transparent eyes. The flirtation stole her breath away. She folded her arms across her chest, erecting a barrier between herself and her target—who was turning into a precarious fascination.
Doubting her capability to keep her distance, she shot him a hard stare. She wasn’t sure what it looked like, but if his reaction was any indication—droll and on the verge of laughter—it must have been pretty funny.
Jack’s smile softened his rough-around-the-edges exterior and chased away her misgivings, driving the odd dream toward the back of her mind.
“So you really don’t remember the particulars of your life?” she said, getting back on track. She’d grown tired of letting him steer the conversation in any direction he pleased. He changed the topic as frequently as she changed boyfriends. Both raked her with annoyance.
Jack shook his head. “Not really, but bits and pieces are coming back to me now.” He paused, fate shading his aura with doom. “My parents...they’re dead, aren’t they?”
Sadness poured over Izzy like a dark cloud raining grief. ”I’m afraid so.”
Hurt hardened on his face, suggesting the memory of his parents had just resurfaced. Had he forgotten about them, just like he’d lost other aspects of his life?
Izzy would love to forget some things—like the day her parents died. The memory of Aunt Marilyn showing up at school that day had permanently etched itself into her psyche.
“Are you all right, Isabelle?” Jack drifted to the edge of the desk.
“Yeah, I was thinking about my parents again. They’re sort of a touchy subject.” She fidgeted, trying to expel the bad memories or at least their discomfort, but they lingered.
“What happened to them?” He leaned toward her, stretching an arm out along the top of the desk.
How’d he do that—make solid contact sometimes and fall through at others?
Her family’s ill-fated and tragic history loomed in her thoughts and sidelined the fleeting inquiry. Her parents were not the first to die an untimely death.
Residual grief wrapped around her like a warm, comforting blanket and she opened up to Jack. “Car wreck.”
“That’s tough.” His embracing gesture cut through her and his arms ended up against his chest.
A vaguely recognizable longing pushed her grief aside. Desperation closed her eyes, as if that could inflate the odd, yet comforting sentiment and make it bigger, large enough to wrap her in familiarity. Desire stirred deep within her soul. She longed—no ached—for his touch.
“So, were your parents your first?” His smooth, consoling voice coaxed out the fine points as easily as rain rolling off a roof.
“My mom. She came the night they died.” The memory slammed her heart and siphoned air from her lungs. She sat there tongue-tied while her dormant wits renewed themselves. Finally, she gained enough logic to speak. “You know, it’s funny...when I woke up and saw her sitting on the edge of my bed, there were no tell-tale signs. Nothing about her appearance suggested that she’d suffered massive head injuries earlier that day. She was as vibrant and beautiful as ever. I just couldn’t touch her.”
Izzy remembered that Jack was dead too. Maybe the particulars shouldn’t be explored, out of respect for the departed.
Damn it. Confession wasn’t good for the soul. Not hers. Not his. Traveling down the road of lousy memories didn’t do anybody any good. Neither did sharing them with Jack.
How did he do that? She made it a point never to discuss her parents with anyone. Especially a spirit who needed to cross over.
He smacked his forehead. “They’re why you do this.” He didn’t come right out and say it, but she knew he meant her parents.
Not entirely. No. Well, maybe at first. Now it was more of a game. She’d developed a competitive touch that heightened with each success. Now she had a reputation to uphold. It was the only thing she could control. If she lost that, it was of her own doing and not some cruel twist of fate.
She hated failing. It upheld the idea that she’d somehow failed her parents. She could’ve urged them to go on. But instead, she’d chosen to hang them in limbo.
Years later she realized her selfishness and now it stuck to her like Cling Wrap, a constant and annoying reminder of her faults.
“Okay. Enough. That’s it.” Izzy bolted for the door.
That’s what she did when things or people got too close. She ran. It was far from noble, but at least she didn’t have to worry about doing heartbreak time.
Get a grip, she scolded herself, charging outside.
The sun had just begun to sink past the shimmering waters of the Pacific horizon. Dusk was her favorite time of day. Normally. But on this particular day, the pink and purple clouds scattered across the evening sky did little to lighten her mood or ease her anxiety.
She lumbered over the broken and worn pavement, stalking back and forth outside the hangar’s main doorway. Recouping her composure was important and she tried to force everything else out of her mind. She had a job to do. One she couldn’t forget or cast aside. No matter what her dreams were telling her.
A spirit had never gotten the best of Izzy Miller and she wasn’t about to let Jack Baker be the first.
She’d show him. By staying outside long enough to get her mojo back, then she’d show him who’s boss.
She would.
Jack felt like crawling into a hole and dying. Well, I guess that’s out of the question. He had no qualms about the humor in his sentiment. If not for absurdity he’d go insane.
The idea that she wouldn’t come back never crossed his mind. He assumed she’d gone outside to collect her thoughts and once she’d done that, she’d return.
Just when he was about to consider other options, the door creaked open and she stepped inside, red-eyed and frazzled. He began to ache for her all over again, and cursed himself for being the cause of her pain.
Sadness poured out in her shaky smile. “Don’t beat yourself up.”
“Why not? I deserve it.” He followed her into the office.
She paused at the desk and swabbed her hands over her face. Her gaze lingered over the boxes of records as if she was studying her options. “I’m going find out what happened to you.”
Suddenly his number one goal didn’t seem that vital anymore. “Why don’t you just call it a day? You look a little tired.”
“There you go again.” She waggled her finger at him. “Trying to distract me.”
“Well, you may not be tired,” he said, “but I sure am, see.”
“You get tired?”
“Well, yes.” Especially when he had to deal with exasperating ghost-busters. He also regretted being the cause of her pain. That was a first.
H
e’d reveal his weakness if he didn’t disappear soon. Jack hadn’t experienced emotion in such a long time and he’d forgotten that he couldn’t handle it. He’d rather lie than admit the truth. If she knew his Achilles' heel, it might give her an edge. And that could send him packing.
He wasn’t ready to go anywhere just yet. Not permanently anyway. Still, he found her company agreeable and was already looking forward to their next encounter.
Regrettably, he faded from sight.
CHAPTER 4
CHEATER. Miffed at his ability to disappear—a trait Izzy longed for—she grunted and barged across the office. She eased down onto the lumpy cot and settled in, quietly scolding herself for letting her target get to her.
Boy, she’d done it this time, allowing a spirit to delve into her deepest, darkest anxieties. Why did she find this man so infuriating—and totally attractive?
Attractive? She ordered the notion from her thoughts. He’s a spirit for Crissakes!
Thoughts of her mother took shape inside her mind. She'd missed her in the days, weeks, and years following her death. Aunt Marilyn, her mother's sister, had taken Izzy in and raised her as if she were her own, despite the suggestion that Marilyn, a single gal, should drop her at the local orphanage.
Marilyn hadn't seen it that way, and Izzy was grateful. Still, a part of Izzy had died with her parents, and it left a void no one, not even a loving aunt, could replenish.
Several minutes passed, perhaps an eternity, while Izzy’s thoughts bobbled around, bouncing between her mother, Aunt Marilyn, and Jack...right up until the dream world swallowed her up.
The scent of gardenias filled the air, waking Izzy. Excited by the fragrance, she fluttered her eyes open to the familiarity of a dimly lit room. Her mother had been here in the last dream and Izzy shifted her gaze around in search of Cynthia Miller.
Her mommy—young and beautiful as ever—appeared in the corner. The glowing apparition floated toward Izzy. With a comforting smile and caring eyes, Cynthia showered her with the sensation of a thousand hugs and kisses.
“Mommy...” The child in Izzy muttered, as the adult in her tried to return her mother’s embrace, but had no luck.
“Sweetheart, let’s sit together and talk a while.” Cynthia Miller’s voice, oddly enough, reassured Izzy just as much as any embrace ever could.
An unseen and unidentifiable force nudged Izzy down onto that dreadful orange couch. Cynthia used the remote on the coffee table to turn off the TV, and sat down. She guided a wayward strand of Izzy’s hair out of her face, and then Cynthia rested her hands in her lap. “I’m so proud of you.”
Izzy shivered and surveyed the room. Rebecca’s ashes. A sigh caught her breath, and for a second she had to fight for air. “Rebecca?” Her baby sister’s name skipped up her throat like it’d been raked over hot coals. She’d died during birth, and the idea of Rebecca had remained as vague as a cool wind on a hot summer’s day.
“Becca’s fine.” Cynthia reached for Izzy and her hand cropped through Izzy’s arm and then her leg. In some odd way, the attempted touch was calming.
“Can I see her?” That idea was beyond belief, beyond comprehension, beyond reason.
Cynthia shot her an placatory glance. “I’m afraid she’s not here.”
Izzy felt an unsettling, sinking despair fill her soul. “Not here?” Horror chased the words out. If she wasn’t here... “Where is she?”
“She’s with Daddy. They’re organizing a jam session with Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix.” Cynthia flashed a wry look and cleared her throat.
Rebecca had inherited Daddy’s love of music. Izzy giggled at the thought of her father jamming with Morrison and Hendrix. A sense of peace washed over her. “Would you give Daddy and Becca a big kiss for me?”
“Every day.”
“I’m glad you guys are happy.”
Cynthia hadn't made any verbal expressions of happiness, but Izzy sensed it all the same. She hoped her memory stayed intact so she could share it with Aunt Marilyn when she awakened.
Curtains swayed in the corner. This time, a rich shade of crimson. They fluttered in an undetectable breeze and beckoned Izzy to pass through.
“In a moment,” Cynthia said. “First, we need to talk.”
“Was it real or a dream last time?”
Cynthia only nodded.
“Was I with my target when he was alive?”
She nodded again.
“But why...how?”
“It’s up to you, Isabelle. Jack is very important to us all.” Cynthia hesitated and chased a rumbling groan up into her mouth, as if trying to say something significant. “You have to save him.”
What? Was she joking? She must be joking. “But how? I don’t even know how he died.”
“You’ll figure that out. It’s in the files.”
“A lot of good it’s going to do me to know how he died.” So what if she located the details? Like that could change the outcome. “When I was back there, I couldn’t remember anything but my name.” Izzy glanced at her mother and let hope fill her voice. “Will that change?”
“I’m not sure.” Cynthia shook her head. “I want to send you back tonight, briefly, so we can see if you’ll recall anything else. I’m hoping that frequency will breed familiarity.” She paused and blew out an exasperated sigh. “If not, we’ll have to go to plan B before the true send.”
“True send?”
“We’ll worry about that later.” Cynthia winked. “Right now, let’s just worry about tonight. We need to know if you’ll remember anything this time.”
Rebecca may have gotten the music gene from their father, but Izzy’s sixth sense was a maternal inheritance. Her mother was hiding something, and Izzy didn’t like being kept in the dark. Still, a part of her had reverted to a child, one that didn’t have the guts to challenge Mommy.
“Are you ready?”
Ready? Now? “You’re not going put me back in the middle of the road again...where I can be killed, are you?”
“No.” Cynthia’s reassuring smile comforted Izzy. “You’re going into a popular and very trendy nightclub where you were recently employed as a singer.”
“What?” Izzy almost choked.
“Oh, sweetie, you have a beautiful voice.”
“Yeah, when I was ten.”
“We’ve decided this is the best bet for you to fit in.” Her tone strengthened, sounding final.
“We?”
Cynthia ignored Izzy’s unrelenting doubt. “We have to get you ready.” She eyed Izzy’s clothing and shook her head. “That get-up will never do.”
“What?” Izzy glanced down at her own attire—jeans and a fitted blue tee. “What’s wrong with the way I’m dressed?”
“Nothing...if you’re going to a bar brawl. Nineteen-forties women don’t dress like that. Not the ladies anyway.”
Cynthia waved a hand at her, as if writing something on the air. Shimmering lights of silver, blue, and gold engulfed Izzy for a brief time, spinning around and down over her. When they disappeared, she was draped in an elegant gown of red silk and black lace.
Izzy leapt to her feet. Wow. Cool dress.
“Are you ready?” her mother asked with a gentle insistence.
“And what am I supposed to sing?” Izzy challenged her. “You think my audience will appreciate some Anita Baker or Britney?” She gagged and shuddered at the thought of performing the latter’s music. But Anita or Aretha. She could get with that.
“Don’t worry. You’ll know all the words to the proper songs when the time comes.”
An invisible force nudged Izzy toward the curtain.
“Well, I sure hope you’re right,” she said, nearly tripping.
“You have to go.” Cynthia’s voice filled with intensity. “You need to be there first.”
“First?” Izzy felt like a parrot.
“There’s no time,” her mother urged. “You need to go.”
Those unseen forces gave Izzy a swift shove, and
she stumbled through the curtains.
Bright lights blazed over her face. The smell of stale ale and cigarettes choked the space around her. She squinted, uncertain of anything but the stage she stood on. A blinding glare silhouetted the smoke-filled room and hid the identities of what she was slowly coming to recognize as an audience.
Music, the tune of a vaguely familiar song, filtered through the air. Lyrics came to her seconds before they poured from her mouth. Nervous at first, she worried the fountain of words would stop as fast as it had begun. When she realized it wouldn’t, a confidence joined the song and bolstered her voice.
When the song ended, Izzy panicked. What did she do now? Where did she go? She started walking, and even though her mind was unable to plot the course, her body knew where to exit the stage and how to get to the bar.
Confusion muddled her thoughts as she glided down the steps and followed a path alongside the audience.
Where the hell am I and what am I doing here? She leaned against the bar and attempted to gain her bearings.
“Miss Miller, what’s your poison?” The bartender’s voice drifted into her thoughts, demanding attention.
My poison? She glanced up, greeted by the barkeep’s charming smile. Well, a drink might help. Couldn’t hurt. “You got any Ouzo?”
“No.” The bartender’s quick and calm reply suggested he knew what she was talking about.
Too bad Izzy didn’t. She had no idea what Ouzo was or where she got the notion to ask for the liquor with the curious name.
“Give me a shot of ta-kill-ya.” There it was again. Oh man... She was starting to get freaked out.
Freaked out?
Stop it!
“Tequila?” The bartender asked for clarification.
Izzy tried to hide her frustration. “Yeah.”
The bartender turned away and she tried to recall his name. She studied him as he prepared her drink, thinking she should know him. He knew her.
Chattering voices from nearby conversations made her wonder if she knew anyone else. She canvassed the dimly-lit club. Finely dressed diners sipped on champagne and munched on caviar in candlelit booths. Izzy felt out of place and they seemed retro.
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