Simon and Garfunkel.
They were her favorites. She could play all of their music, but Lincoln always requested the same song.
“Kathy’s Song,” it was called.
There hasn’t been a rainy night since when, lying in bed listening to the drops hitting the roof overhead, Lincoln doesn’t hear her sweet voice, singing the soulful lyrics for his ears alone.
I hear the drizzle of the rain . . . falling like a memory . . .
“I wouldn’t be able to stand being more than a few miles away from you, Lincoln,” she once whispered into his ear, resting her head on his shoulder. “I won’t ever leave you.”
No. But he left her.
Right after his eighteenth birthday, his number came up in the birthday lottery. He was shipped to Vietnam. The only thing that kept him going in that hellish jungle was the knowledge that Kathy would marry him when he returned.
After he got the letter saying she was leaving him, he didn’t care whether he lived or died. He took foolish risks and was awarded a silver star medal. When his time was up he remained on active duty.
Finally, the war was wound to a close and he made his way home to Sinclairville, to the farm where his parents still toiled. There, he began to heal. And there, he met Corinne, at a barn dance one clear May evening when the sky was filled with stars.
He never forgot Kathy Biddle.
But he never stopped trying.
GLANCING ONE MORE time at Nan to make sure she’s asleep, Pilar rises from the chair beside the bed, her heart pounding.
As she moves through the room, she vaguely notices a faint, familiar scent wafting in the air. She assumes it’s from something blooming outside the window . . . but the window is closed, and the scent seems to permeate the room from within.
That’s odd, Pilar thinks, standing still and looking around for a source to the floral perfume. There’s nothing she can see—not potpourri, or cut flowers, or cologne.
Stop wasting time. Rupert might be home any minute, she reminds herself. She hurriedly leaves the back bedroom and makes her way toward the front of the house. He didn’t say where he was going, but he did tell her he wouldn’t be long.
There’s a wide window in the front door and the desk is in full view of it. If he comes home now, he’ll spot her and realize what she’s up to before he even steps inside.
He left on foot, which means he’s stayed right here in Lily Dale.
Pilar steps out onto the porch, vaguely noticing that the rain has stopped at last. She glances in either direction down the street to see if he’s coming. He isn’t visible from here, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t nearby. You can’t see very far down the narrow street, and several trees obstruct the view.
She’ll have to move fast. There might not be another opportunity.
Scurrying to the desk, she tugs on the rolltop, half expecting to find it locked.
To her surprise, it isn’t.
She lifts the top and rummages swiftly but carefully through the contents, quickly locating the address book.
Is Katherine married? What’s her last name?
Pilar has no way of knowing.
She quickly flips the pages to the Bs, assuming the Biddles’ daughter might be listed under her maiden name.
She isn’t.
Pilar will have to go through the book page by page until she finds it.
Luckily, there aren’t many entries on each alphabetized page, and many of them are for area professionals: doctors, accountants, insurance agencies. It seems Rupert and Nan limit their friends and acquaintances to those Pilar recognizes as being from Lily Dale. Though they traveled frequently before Nan became ill, they don’t seem to have been visiting far-flung relatives or friends. Nobody’s address is outside the local area . . .
Until Pilar comes to the first one on the J page.
Katherine Jergins.
This is it, she realizes. It has to be. The name is followed by a New York address. The town is Garden City.
That’s on Long Island. Pilar is almost certain of it.
There’s a phone number, too.
I can pick up the phone and call her right now, Pilar tells herself. She’s tempted to do it, but something is stopping her.
She can almost hear Raul’s voice warning her not to be impulsive—not to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong. Yet this time, it’s more intuition than Pilar actually making contact with his energy. Her husband was a cautious person, that’s all. He always told her not to make hasty decisions.
Anyway, now that she has actually found the information, she can call any time. It doesn’t have to be now. Or even today.
Or maybe Rupert has already called her, she thinks hopefully. Maybe she’ll be here any day.
Pilar finds a pen and a scrap of paper in the desk and hastily scribbles Katherine’s name and address. She tucks it carefully into the pocket of her khaki slacks and puts the address book back where she found it, closing the desk lid.
Then she returns to Nan’s bedside to watch her sleep. The floral essence still wafts in the back bedroom. Remembering Nan’s love of gardening and her fondness for aromatic flowers, Pilar crosses to the window. Pressing her face against the glass, she peers out, certain she’ll find a garden in full bloom. There’s nothing but a patch of well-watered grass and a maple sapling ringed by red geraniums and impatiens, and yellow marigolds.
Rupert must have planted those, Pilar thinks. Nan never liked marigolds, and she doesn’t care for bright, primary colors when it comes to flowers. She loves soft shades, mostly pinks and purples, and fragrant old-fashioned perennials. Nan doesn’t bother with scent-free, lackluster annuals—like impatiens—that come in black plastic cell packs at the supermarket and Kmart.
As she turns away from the window, sniffing, Pilar notices that the aroma is distinctly familiar. Which flower smells like this? She can’t place the scent—nor the source for it in the room.
Maybe Rupert spilled some kind of cologne in here earlier, she thinks, sitting by Nan’s bed again. Her thoughts drift back to Katherine’s phone number tucked securely into her pocket.
Another fifteen minutes passes before Nan begins to stir.
She mutters something, turning her head fitfully on the pillow.
Pilar frowns, rising and standing over the bed. The scent of flowers seems to be getting stronger still. She reaches out and touches Nan’s thin shoulder. “Are you calling Rupert, Nan? He’ll be right back. I’m here. It’s me, Pilar.”
Nan doesn’t seem to hear her. Her eyes remain closed and she seems to rest more easily for a few moments.
Then her head turns abruptly to one side again and she calls out.
This time, her speech isn’t the least bit muffled. Pilar clearly hears the one word that spills from her lips.
“Katherine.”
She’s calling for her daughter.
“It’s okay, Nan,” Pilar says softly, stroking her friend’s arm. “It’s okay. She’s coming.”
Nan opens her eyes. “Katherine . . . is coming.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement.
“Yes, Nan. Katherine is coming.” Pilar watches her, unable to tell whether she’s lucid. She’s almost staring through Pilar, rather than at her. “She loves you. Don’t worry. She’ll be here. I’ll make sure of it.”
THE RAIN HAS stopped at last, but Julia leaves the hood of her neon orange raincoat over her head to protect her hair from the dripping trees overhead. This isn’t her favorite thing to wear—she doesn’t like the bright color. But her mother—with her usual disregard for Julia’s personal taste—sent it to her on her last birthday, and it’s the only rain jacket she has.
The air is scented with the pungent, earthy after-rain scent, and even the dingiest cottages, freshly washed, glisten in the yellow rays that poke through a hole in the dense clouds overhead.
She has almost reached the house she still finds herself referring to as Iris’s when she spots a figure descending the porch steps.<
br />
Rupert Biddle.
The man turns in her direction.
She waves to him, calling out, “Hello, Rupert.”
He looks almost startled to see her, as though he’d been lost in his thoughts even though he was heading straight for her.
“Julia,” he says, barely slowing his pace as he approaches. “How are you?”
“I’m fine. How’s Nan? I’ve been thinking of her.”
“She has good days and bad days,” Rupert tells her with obvious reluctance, coming to a halt where the gravel walk meets the street.
She can sense that Rupert doesn’t want to stop and chat. He must be hurrying back home to his wife. Wondering idly what he was doing at Paine’s place, she asks Rupert, “Is there anything I can do? Maybe I can run some errands for you, or pick up some groceries?”
“No, thank you. I get around pretty well.”
Julia glances up at the house, and it occurs to her that he might be the person to ask about the energy she and Dulcie have recently sensed inside. After all, he lived here for most of his life.
Years ago, when she was a teenager, still haunted by Kristin’s strange reaction to whatever she saw at the foot of the Biddles’ stairs, Julia considered telling Rupert or Nan about the incident. But she never found the opportunity.
Or maybe it was more that she never quite felt comfortable with Rupert, who is a far more intimidating person than his wife. But Nan—well, Nan isn’t a medium. She would be less likely to shed light on the issue than Rupert would.
It’s now or never, Julia tells herself, and finds herself blurting, before he can continue on his way, “Rupert, can I speak to you about something, please?”
He’s clearly taken aback, puzzled. They have never had more than a polite, distant conversation. “Speak to me? About what? Are you all right, Julia?”
“I’m fine, but . . . I’ve been spending some time in Iris’s house these past few days. Far more time than I ever spent there when she was alive. And I’ve felt a rather troubled soul lingering there. So has Dulcie.”
“Dulcie?” Rupert frowns, as though trying to place the name.
“Paine Landry’s little girl. Kristin’s daughter.”
Briefly, she explains about the experience in Dulcie’s bedroom last night, and about the presence she and Dulcie have encountered on various occasions in the house. She tells him that she got the perception that the name begins with a K sound and ends in an N sound, but that she doesn’t feel that it’s attached to Kristin.
“There are lots of words that begin with the letters K-N” Rupert points out, almost impatiently. “Know, and Knee, and Knock . . .”
Knock.
Julia frowns. Dulcie and her knock, knock jokes. But what does that have to do with anything?
“I don’t think that’s it, Rupert. I’m almost certain I was given the letters phonetically. I got a K sound. Not just an N sound, like Know and Knee . . .”
And knock, knock.
Again, Julia considers it. She sighs. In truth, she is certain of only one thing: the spirit has a compelling reason for making repeated visits.
She goes on, “I thought I would talk to you about it because you lived there for so long, Rupert—and because you’re a far more experienced medium than I am. I was wondering if you ever sensed the energy I’m talking about.”
“No, I never felt anything like that.”
She decides not to bring up the Halloween incident. She gets the feeling Rupert finds this a waste of time and is anxious to be on his way.
“I guess that if the spirit wasn’t attached to the house when you were there, maybe the person passed more recently. Do you think it might be Kristin? Because for some reason I’m not fully connecting with her, and the energy doesn’t feel as familiar as I think it should.”
“It could be her,” he says, looking off down the street, seeming distracted. “Or maybe you’re getting something else. As I said, maybe the K-N you heard isn’t even a name. And if it is, it might be a reference to somebody else. Somebody you’ve never met.”
“It might be,” she agrees, frustrated as much by the spirit as by Rupert’s almost dismissive attitude. “But I can’t help feeling like there’s a reason the energy is there, a reason that I’m connecting with it regularly now, and so is Dulcie. Somebody is desperately trying to tell us something.”
“Perhaps,” Rupert agrees, looking anxiously at his wristwatch. “I’d be happy to speak more about this with you, Julia, but I’m afraid it can’t be right now. I have to get home to Nan.”
“I’m sorry,” Julia says quickly. “Of course you do. Please give her my best I’ll bring her some flowers in a day or two. I know how much she must miss her garden, and it was always so beautiful at this time of year.”
“Yes,” Rupert says, “it certainly was.”
She doesn’t miss his pointed glance at the tangled bed of weeds on either side of the front steps.
“Iris wasn’t much of a gardener,” Julia feels obliged to say, almost apologetically.
“No, she wasn’t.”
“I’ll help Paine get the beds into shape.”
“I doubt that will be necessary,” Rupert says, with a faint smile. “He’s agreed to sell the house back to me. He and his daughter will be leaving Lily Dale by the end of the week.”
CONCEALED IN THE shadows of the lilac hedge behind the porch, Edward goes absolutely still, absorbing the shocking detail.
Paine is going to sell the house back to Rupert? And he’s going to do it this week?
That doesn’t give you much time, Edward tells himself, looking up through narrowed eyes at the house where he should have grown up. Not much time at all.
So intent is he on formulating his accelerated plans that he doesn’t notice the small tape recorder propped in the branches above his head, still whirring softly, having recorded every word he just overheard between Rupert Biddle and Julia Garrity.
Chapter Ten
ON TUESDAY MORNING, after checking his voice mail back home and finding no messages from his agent, as usual, Paine takes his first shower in nearly a week. It feels so good, standing beneath the spray of the newly installed shower head, that he lingers there for well over fifteen minutes.
His thoughts wander back to yesterday afternoon, when he sat in on Stan’s acting workshop at Chautauqua. It was invigorating, just being in a musical theater environment again after all these years. In California, his career has taken a far different path than he ever anticipated. Back when he was a theater student, learning and honing his craft, he never imagined himself doing commercials and industrials, or being a lowly stand-in on a movie set.
No, he’d always thought he was Broadway bound.
Then he met Kristin. She wanted nothing to do with Broadway. Hollywood was where she was headed.
Whither thou goest, I shall go. . .
He always planned that they would have that Bible passage read at their wedding.
Paine sighs, tilting his head back into the hot spray to rinse the lather of shampoo from his hair.
He planned a lot of things that never came true.
When he finally turns off the water and emerges into the steamy bathroom to towel off, he looks around for a switch that might turn on some kind of fan. There isn’t one.
No wonder the yellow floral wallpaper is peeling at the seams, he thinks, glancing at it as he quickly slips into a pair of boxer shorts. Too much humidity.
His first instinct is that he needs to see about having a fan installed—and that it’s a job he won’t attempt to do himself. The shower head took him until well after midnight last night, and he’s certain he kept Dulcie awake with all the noise.
But she’s still asleep, he notes now, hearing nothing but silence in the old house as he leaves the bathroom and makes his way past her room to the top of the stairs.
There, it hits him that he won’t have to worry about installing a fan, or doing anything else to fix the place up and capture a buy
er’s interest.
After all, he’s selling it to Rupert Biddle, and he’s selling it just as it is.
He hasn’t yet broken the news to Dulcie.
He sent her upstairs to work on her bead bracelet while he and Rupert talked. When he told her she could play a tape on her Walkman, it was so that she wouldn’t be able to eavesdrop on the conversation. But it wasn’t because he wanted to keep the news of the sale from her.
He had no intention of giving in to Rupert’s demands when they started talking.
No, he simply figured they were headed for a very vocal disagreement, and he didn’t want Dulcie to overhear.
But what Rupert said changed everything.
How can Paine possibly refuse to return the place to an old man who only wants to bring his wife home to die?
On paper, Paine isn’t a widower.
In his heart, he is.
He can’t help but relate to Rupert Biddle’s sorrow. And he won’t stand in his way.
Somehow, the tragic reality of Nan Biddle’s impending death has diminished Paine’s own need to stay in this house, and to find out exactly what happened to Kristin.
Rupert is right.
The sooner he gets Dulcie back home and severs his ties to Lily Dale, the sooner they’ll both be able to heal. Staying in this house will only prolong their pain.
Yes, Kristin lived here. And yes, she died here.
But she isn’t here now, Paine reminds himself firmly, trailing his fingertips on the polished wooden banister as he arrives at the foot of the stairs.
PILAR POURS STEAMING coffee into a blue ceramic mug and pauses, standing there beside the counter, to take a sip.
And then another.
Then, knowing she can put it off no longer, she carries the mug into the front room and sets it on the desk that holds the telephone. Beside it is the packet containing her airline tickets for tomorrow morning’s flight to New York City.
Too nervous to lower herself into a chair, she stands as she lifts the receiver, holding it to her ear.
There’s the dial tone.
In the Blink of an Eye Page 21
