Kindred Spirits

by Beth Ciotta

  Bookman tapped on the glass, then motioned him to roll down the window. When he did, the professor passed him the means to escape. “Want company?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. Be careful.”

  He pushed the key into the ignition and turned the engine. “Professor?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for being there.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  “Me either.” He realized he meant it as he shifted into first and spit gravel out of the driveway. He raced the Jeep west toward Pleasantville, through what used to be the countryside, no longer green but yellow with winter. Shopping developments and road expansions made the area unrecognizable. He didn’t know where he was going and eventually lost his way. He pulled into a gas station with an express mart. His stomach growled, but the thought of eating made him ill. He checked the gas gauge and found the tank to be full. The attendant came over, and he rolled down the window.

  “Which way to the LaRue farm?”

  The young man with spiky hair and nose ring scratched his head. “What’s it called?”

  “It’s a farm, once owned by the LaRues.”

  “Not many farms around here. We got flavored coffee, though. You want gas?”

  He realized he didn’t know the name of her road. Or if the roads had even had names. “How do I get back to Route 40?”

  The familiar ring of his cell phone caused him to dismiss the boy and swing the Jeep into a parking space. He plucked the phone from his inner pocket, noting the fully charged battery indicator. Frowning, he touched the gold wings on his lapel thinking it was as though he’d never left. He flipped open the cell, his voice a strangled croak. “Yeah?”

  “You’re alive.”

  He slumped in the cracked vinyl seat, the sound of his best friend’s voice conjuring hot tears. Only days ago, he’d questioned Marc’s sanity for marrying a woman he barely knew. Now he envied him. “Shouldn’t you be with Daisy, riding camels or something? Don’t waste precious time talking business.”

  “Ms. Bishop said you took a leave of absence. Doctor’s orders.”

  “I put Crowley in charge. He can handle it.” He blinked back his tears, getting a grip.

  “I know he can handle it. This isn’t about him. It’s about you. What’s wrong?”

  I fell in love. “The ghosts crossed over.”

  “What?”

  “This morning, about an hour ago,” he said.

  Marc blew out a breath. “All of them?”

  “All for one and one for all.” He dragged a shaking hand through his hair. At least someone was getting a happy ending.

  “I’ll be damned. That’s great news. I just wish we’d had a chance to say . . . goodbye.”

  He knew his friend was thinking mostly about his grandfather. “Jonas asked me to give you a message. He said to take good care of our Daisy.”

  Marc laughed. “I can’t believe I used to be jealous of a ghost.”

  “Yeah,” Rufus mumbled, scanning the cultivated area. “Love can strike a man stupid.” He noticed something familiar and straightened. “It can also wake him up.”

  “Rufus . . .”

  “I’m resigning, Marc.” He shifted into reverse, then swung the Jeep onto a side street.

  “To do what?” Marc asked, his voice deceptively steady.

  “One’s life should be fueled by passion.” “I don’t know.” He followed his gut, took a hard right, and gunned the Jeep down a tree-lined road. “But I can’t be your assistant anymore. I need to take charge of my own life.”

  He endured the silence, knowing Marc wouldn’t be happy. The man depended on him.

  “It’s about time.”

  Rufus swallowed hard, did his best to keep concentrating on the road. He was trying to find Grace—any piece of Grace that might still exist. He didn’t know what else to do. It was all he could do.

  “It’s about time you paid attention to your own life,” Marc said. “I’m curious to see what you do with all that fire and vinegar. Were you inspired by the ghosts?”

  “You could say that.” Then he saw it. Up ahead, on the left. “I’ll explain it one day over scotch. Right now, I can’t . . . I’ve got to go.”

  Heart in his throat, eyes burning with unshed tears, he powered off the cell and tossed it onto the passenger seat.

  The farm.

  He slowed to a stop. It looked exactly the same.

  Exactly. He didn’t know how it had survived the years. He got out of the Jeep. Chills ran up his arms as he walked along the dirt drive. Dirt, not pavement. The same color as the dust kicked up by Grace’s Jenny after their first flight that hot, hot day. He crouched down and pressed his fingers to the reddish-brown dirt, now hard and packed from the cold. Still, some clung to his fingertips as he pressed them together and resumed his walk.

  The giant red barn leaned a little but still looked solid.

  The house. It needed a fresh coat of white paint and new roof shingles. Bright blue sky reflected off the panes of her bedroom window.

  So welcoming. So familiar.

  His skin tingled. Yes.

  Charged as though poked by an electric prod, he raced to the house, tried the door. Locked. He ran to the back. Locked. With a growl, he kicked it in. “Grace!” He ran through the downstairs. “Grace!”

  Everything was the same. Every room seemingly untouched.

  Could it be? Had he driven through a wormhole, a portal, a . . . whatever? His heart was racing so hard, he could barely breathe.

  He ran up the stairs. To her bedroom. The narrow bed with faded sky-blue sheets, as though they had left it only that morning. Which, technically, they had.

  “Grace!” His voice echoed off the walls, pointless. He sat on the bed. The coils squeaked. He didn’t remember any squeaking when they . . . when they . . . He’d heard only her breath. The beautiful sound of her voice, low in her throat.

  He lay down and buried his face in the pillow. She never wore perfume, but he smelled something just the same. Passion. Determination. Love. It might have been his imagination, but he didn’t care. To him, it was the same pillowcase she’d rested her head upon only hours before. The way Grace had curled up on Pop Pop’s bed to be close to him, he curled up on hers, clutching her pillow.

  Then he understood. Izzy. She’d made Roy buy the place when Grace left. She’d wanted to keep it as it was, in case her friend came home. In case she’d found the courage to tell Grace the truth. The Tadmuckers owned the farm. He knew it, and, knowing Izzy, she’d persuaded Roy to write it in his will that the place should remain untouched. But then, eighty years had passed . . .

  His heart sank at the logical explanation. He’d preferred the wormhole—

  Then he heard it. The low buzz of a prop engine.

  He bolted upright. His heart hammered.

  Pillow still clutched in his hand, he raced down the stairs and outside.

  His breath left his body in a rush as he spotted a modern plane very much like his own Cessna.

  Clinging to a shred of hope, he started for the barn. Would it be in there? Please, let it be in there.

  This time he walked. Not wanting to be let down so quickly if he found the building empty. He opened the doors. His shadow fell over the interior. He swallowed and blinked back more tears. Everyone went through heartache. What had made him think he could escape it?

  The barn was empty.

  It was sad, really. He’d thought he might have something left of Grace. Something important. Her Jenny. Her heart.

  He remembered his words to her. “I’ll always be with you, Grace. In your heart. And you’ll be in mine. Always.”

  He clutched her pillow. He’d take what he could get.


  He heard another buzz and frowned. It seemed that from now on, every time he heard a damn plane, he was going to be sick. Maybe he should open a flight school, saturate himself with that buzz so he’d no longer hear it, let alone feel it.

  He couldn’t help himself. He looked up anyway—and his heart lodged in his throat at the sight of a psychedelic funnel cloud.

  It sped right toward him, buzzed low over the barn roof, then kept going. He spun around and watched the whirlwind circle back, slowing, gliding along the pasture. Then—poof!—it dissipated. And there, right there in the center of the frozen pasture, sat the Jenny.

  The Jenny.

  He couldn’t move.

  “Newborne,” he whispered, his throat clogged with emotion. The bright yellow plane, sparkling and spotless, screamed with bold black letters: Amazing Grace.

  Brain jarred, limbs stiff, he inched forward like a lumbering Frankenstein.

  Grace hopped out of the rear cockpit, shoved her goggles back on her head, then looked around as though trying to get her bearings. She spotted Rufus.

  He froze in his tracks.

  They stood motionless. Staring. An energized hum zinging between them. Then—zap!—they bolted for one another at the same time. They slammed into each other and held on.

  “I thought you were gone,” she said.

  “I thought you were gone.”

  “I’m right here.”

  “I know . . . oh, God, I know!”

  They clung, then kissed. He touched her, feeling her solid body. The unleashed energy. The zap.

  She pulled back, eyes bright, goggles mashed against her head. He loved those giant goggles. “You didn’t show up,” she said.

  “I tried. I tried very hard. Something happened. Something . . .” He palmed his hair, shook his head. “I’m glad you believe in miracles, Grace. You’re not going to believe what happened to me.”

  “It can’t be as strange as what just happened to me.” She looked back at the Jenny, her eyebrows crinkled. “I was flying over the Atlantic, getting ready to do an outside loop, when out of nowhere”—she twirled a finger—“I was sucked up in a tornado. A freak, multicolored whirlwind. Now I’m here.”

  He stared at her. “This is what Newborne meant by a second chance.”

  “Who’s Newborne?”

  He grabbed her up and spun her around. “You’re not dead!”

  She teetered when he set her down, then rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m not dead. Why would I be dead?” She raised an eyebrow. “You wrecked my car, didn’t you? Hit your head.”

  “Not exactly.” He grinned. “Remember when I asked if you believed in ghosts and angels and stuff like that?”

  “Is this about not leaving by your own two feet?” she asked. “I don’t want to sound like a woman, Ace, but no more secrets. You scared me.”

  “Only the truth, I swear. You can even meet my mother.”

  “Your sister, too. I want to thank her for the wings.”

  He saw his gold wings pinned to her lapel, and the reality of the moment hit him. “You’re not marrying Mick.”

  She screwed up her face. “I never was.”

  But she had, the first time around, all because Ronald Simms had not been worthy of her love. He looked over at the Jenny and remembered Newborne’s last words. “It’ll come to you.” He’d been given a second chance, and the new and improved Rufus Sinclair had proven his worth. Pop Pop really had pulled some strings. He felt so grateful that his eyes started stinging again. “You’re marrying me.”

  “Is that a proposal?”

  “Yes. After all, I did already pin you.”

  She kissed him. “In more ways than one,” she said in that low growl that drove him crazy.

  He took her face in his hands. “Grace, I have so much to tell you.”

  Suddenly a whining roar filled the sky. A 757 descending into AC International.

  Her wide-eyed gaze flew up to the plane, then back to him. “What in God’s name—”

  “Exactly,” he whispered. Then he kissed her until she forgot all about the plane.