Season of Mists (Young Adult Paranormal Romance) (Cupid's First Strike - Teen Love In The 80's)

by Doreen Owens Malek

  “Good. What is responsible for this miraculous transformation?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Things are looking up, I guess.”

  She nodded vaguely. She didn’t know what I was talking about, but then, she rarely did. And it wasn’t her fault, I realized. It was mine. I made it a practice to keep as much from her as I possibly could. Poor Mom. Her husband was gone and her daughter was a silent stranger. I walked over to her and gave her an impulsive hug.

  “I love you, Mom.”

  She glanced at me, startled. “Why, thank you, Cory. I love you, too.”

  I smiled at her and called Stella to follow me upstairs.

  I wanted to be alone.

  I had a lot of thinking to do.

  I spent Sunday in a dreamy state, washing my hair, filing my nails, pressing some blouses for school. I had all my homework done early and actually finished The Great Gatsby (no mean feat).

  The next day at school Linda was full of chatter about Gina’s party. She and Ken were going as Cleopatra and Caesar. I tried to imagine Ken in a toga, sporting a laurel wreath, and couldn’t do it. It would take more than an imaginative costume to transform stodgy Ken into the conqueror of the Gauls.

  I was at work early on Monday night, eager to clear the place out. To my dismay Alice had company, an old man who was drinking coffee with her when I entered. I stopped short, surprised.

  They both looked up. “Cory,” Alice said, “this is Pete Casey. He used to work here part time up until a couple of years ago. Pete, this is Cory Simpson.”

  I nodded. “Hello.”

  Mr. Casey eyed me with interest. “How do you do, young lady?” He stood and crushed his styrofoam cup in his hand. “I’ll just go and get that wiring, Alice. I’ll be right back.”

  “Who was that?” I asked, after he’d left.

  “He used to do janitorial work for us after he retired,” Alice answered. “He gave it up when it got to be too much for him. He still drops in to visit. He’s good with his hands; he’s going to fix that plug for me.”

  “Why was he staring at me?”

  “Was he?” she asked mildly. “Well, I wouldn’t pay too much attention. He’s kind of eccentric. I think his daughter talked him into giving up his job here because he was getting a little senile.” She tapped her temple with a forefinger.

  “What do you mean? He seemed all right to me.”

  “Oh, he’s fine, generally. But he got this idea that somebody was watching him when he was working alone here, cleaning up. Saw things, too. He was just getting a trifle too weird about it, too insistent, so his family hustled him off to Newtown to live with them.” She smiled. “I think he comes around every once in a while to keep his hand in, check the place out.” She rolled her eyes. “I guessed he’d show up soon. Halloween, you know.”

  I was mashing my jacket in my hands. She noticed my expression.

  “Don’t worry,” Alice said. “It’s just an old man’s foolishness.”

  Alice, how little you know, I thought. Aloud I said, “Can you be sure of that?”

  She glanced at me oddly. “Cory, this is an old building. It’s been standing on this spot over two hundred years. Stories always circulate about places like this; people have romantic imaginations. Pete had just lost his wife when he started that talk; he was very lonely and upset. They’d been married a long time.”

  I nodded. Lonely and upset. And there’d been someone nearby to answer that unspoken plea for help. Someone others couldn’t see, only the unhappy old man.

  A blast of cold air announced that Mr. Casey had returned. He went to the back of the office and started repairing the plug.

  Alice picked up her purse. “I’ve got to run. I’m meeting a client in ten minutes. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” I said hastily. “It’s always slow on Monday. I can handle things by myself.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Go on.”

  She waved and vanished through the door. I busied myself with nothing for a few minutes, and then sauntered to the back of the room.

  “How are you doing there, Mr. Casey?” I asked.

  “Almost done.”

  “Alice told me you used to work here.”

  “That’s right.”

  “She said you had some idea the place was haunted.”

  He put down his screwdriver and turned to look at me. “Seems to me you’ve got the same idea.”

  My mouth fell open.

  “You’ve seen him, haven’t you?” he asked mildly.

  “Him?’‘ I managed.

  “That boy, that young boy who died here. You’ve seen him.”

  His directness unnerved me. I didn’t answer.

  “Yeah, you’ve seen him,” Mr. Casey confirmed. “You’ve got the look.”

  “What look?” I whispered.

  “The look of somebody who knows there’s more going on than most people think.”

  “Nobody believed you when you told them, did they?”

  He shook his head. “Nope. Said I was getting old, funny in the head. My daughter couldn’t understand why I wasn’t afraid. But I never was. That kid is a good boy, I could feel it. He would no more harm me than my own kid would. He meant only to help.”

  I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes. “What did you see?”

  He shrugged. “Only an outline, a shimmering image that shifted and faded when you looked right at it. It was more the feeling I had, a sense of sympathy and comfort. You know?”

  I knew. “Is that why you come back to visit?”

  “Partly. I kind of feel he knows I’m here.”

  “I think he does, Mr. Casey.”

  “And what have you seen, little lady?” the old man asked me.

  “Quite a bit,” I said evasively. I was afraid to tell him too much.

  But he was willing to let it go. “I’ll just bet you have,” he replied, smiling.

  “Please don’t tell anybody,” I said.

  “Don’t concern yourself about that. I learned my lesson the last time. My lips are sealed.”

  “Thank you.”

  He finished his work and collected his tools. “You’re welcome. Say good-bye to Alice, okay?” He cupped my chin in his weathered hand and looked into my eyes. “You’re a plucky little thing, aren’t you? Most girls your age would be running for the trees.”

  “I know there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  He nodded, and then winked. “Tell your friend hello for me.”

  I grinned at him. “I will.”

  He ambled off toward the door. “Good night, miss,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Good night, Mr. Casey,” I answered.

  But he was already gone.

  * * *

  “I see that you met Pete,” Tom’s voice said behind me.

  I whirled to face him. “He said he saw you.”

  Tom shook his head. “Only shadows, I think. His will wasn’t as strong as yours; he was too old, too weak. But he felt me. He’s come back to visit ever since.”

  “Quite a coincidence, him showing up here tonight,” I ventured slyly.

  Tom looked sheepish. “Well, not exactly. I wanted you to be sure I wasn’t a figment of your imagination, so I influenced him to come here.”

  “The same way you ‘influenced’ me to have that dream?”

  His eyes slid away from mine. “Yes.”

  “How can you do that?”

  He shrugged. “I have a sort of communication with anyone who’s sensed my presence. It’s strongest with you, of course, but I can suggest ideas to anyone who knows I’m here.”

  “Doesn’t that mean you can control people’s thoughts?” I asked, not liking the sound of that at all.

  He shook his head. “Oh, no. All I can do is intimate something, and then the person has to agree. I could never influence anyone to do something he or she thought was wrong, for example. I gave Pete the notion that tonight might be a good
time to drop by, and he agreed.” Tom grinned.

  “I see. And that’s what his little visits are about. Whenever you get the urge to check up on your old buddy Pete, he arrives.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why were you worried, when we first met, that I might not come back here? Couldn’t you just influence me to return?”

  His smile became roguish. “Some people are more easily influenced than others. You’re not very suggestible. You don’t take . . . direction very easily. If you made up your mind not to come back here, there would be nothing I could do about it.”

  I eyed him warily. “Are you trying to say that I’m stubborn?”

  He laughed. “I wouldn’t put it quite that way. Let’s just say that you’re resolute. It’s the same trait that made me real for you, so I’m not complaining.”

  I made a face at him.

  He held out his arms. “What are you doing all the way over there? Come here.”

  I went to him, and we sat together. “Tell me what your life was like,” I urged him. “I always seem to do all the talking.”

  “What would you like to know?”

  “Tell me about your family, your school, your job. You know, everything.”

  “Everything, hmm? That’s a tall order. Let me see.” He went on to describe his parents, his house, his friends. He gave a good picture of the Yardley of some fifty years ago, but he left out one area which was very important to me.

  “What were the girls like then?” I asked.

  “The girls?” he mused, pretending ignorance.

  “Don’t give me that, you know what I mean.”

  “Well, they dressed differently.” He touched my jeans. “None of this. They all wore skirts.”

  “How did they wear their hair?”

  “Up.”

  “Up? That’s it? What does ‘up’ mean?”

  He gathered my hair into both of his hands, twisting it into a knot on top of my head. “Like this, I think.” Then he remained with his hands on my head, looking at me.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  He closed his eyes. “I can’t bear to leave you, Cory. I’ve wanted to pass on for so long, but now I only want to be with you. I’ve more care to stay than will to go.”

  “I’m the reason that you can go. You know that. When the time comes, you’ll have no choice.”

  He let my hair slip through his fingers. “It’s so unfair. You were meant for me. Why can’t we be together always?”

  He was starting to sound like me. “You said that we would be.”

  He seized my shoulders. “I mean here, now. Why can’t we get married, have children, grow old together? This is not enough. It’s mean to give us a sample of what we can never have.”

  I put my arms around him and held him. “There’s a reason for it. There must be.”

  He was silent.

  “Was there a special girl for you back then? Did you have a girlfriend?”

  He stirred from his reverie. “There was one.”

  “Did you love her?” I asked, tormented with jealousy.

  He pulled back to look at me. “Not the way I love you. But I liked her a lot. She was a couple of years younger than I was, very pretty.”

  I knew it. “How did she feel about you?”

  He grinned. “She had a tremendous crush on me.”

  “I’ll bet. What was her name?”

  “Maggie Sanborn.”

  “Do you know what became of her?”

  He shook his head slowly. “I always waited for her to come here, but she never did. I could have reached her, but she stayed away.”

  “Tom, she didn’t know.”

  “She’s still alive . . . somewhere,” he added softly.

  I sat up, alert. “Are you sure?”

  “I’d feel it if she weren’t.”

  The phone rang, startling me. I got up to answer it.

  “Cory, this is Alice. Listen, would you do me a favor? I left a mortgage application for one of my clients on my desk. Would you pick it up and drop it off for me on your way home? I know you pass by the house; you could just leave it in the mailbox. It will save me a trip before I see the client in the morning.”

  “Sure, Alice.”

  “Be sure to lock up carefully; it’s closing time. Good night.”

  “Good night.” I hung up dispiritedly, looking at my watch. It was indeed closing time.

  I flirted briefly with the idea of staying after hours, but then dismissed it. I’d already tempted fate by coming back to the agency the night I’d found the photograph. Another encounter with the police and my mother would be researching reform schools.

  “I have to go,” I told Tom.

  “I’ll be here when you come back,” he answered.

  I wasn’t working until Wednesday, but I planned to invent an excuse to return the next night. With luck, I might manage some time alone.

  Tom helped me into my jacket. His fingers touched the links of the chain around my neck.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “A gift from my grandmother. A Druid harvest symbol.”

  He pulled it out of my blouse and examined it. “Unusual,” he commented, fingering the medallion.

  “That’s why I like it.”

  He smiled. “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

  I lingered, loath to go. Tom pushed me toward the door.

  “I don’t want you to get into trouble,” he said.

  “Good night, Tom.” I picked up the envelope from Alice’s desk.

  “Good night, my love.” His voice was soft, caressing.

  I locked the door behind me with a feeling of deep resentment.

  Tom was right. It wasn’t fair.

  * * *

  At Alice’s house I bypassed the mailbox and went up the walk to ring the bell. She answered the door, surprised to see me.

  “Thanks, Cory. I told you that you didn’t have to bring it in.”

  “That’s all right. I wanted to ask you a question. Do you remember anybody in town by the name of Sanborn?”

  She thought about it. “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “This would be an old lady.”

  She shook her head slowly. “It doesn’t ring any bells. You might ask Agnes, though. I’m just a transplant. She’s been here all her life.”

  A cartoon light bulb went on above my head. I knew somebody else who’d been here all her life. My mother.

  I dashed down the flagstone path to the street. “You’ve been a big help, Alice,” I called over my shoulder. “Thanks a million.”

  Alice stared at me in bewilderment as I ran home.

  I found my mother folding laundry in the basement. Stella clattered down the steps behind me as I descended to the cellar.

  “Hi,” I began inventively, not wanting to arouse suspicions.

  “You’re back,” she replied. “Help me to carry this stuff upstairs.”

  I dutifully picked up two piles of clothes from the top of the dryer and we all marched up the wooden staircase. Stella glanced back regretfully. She loved the cellar; it was full of wonderful smells.

  “Mom, does the name Sanborn mean anything to you? Did you ever know a lady by that name?”

  She perched the laundry basket on the arm of the sofa. Her face registered the fact that she was drawing a blank.

  I tried not to be too disappointed. It was a shot in the dark anyway. Tom’s Maggie had probably been married for half a century, and women then didn’t keep their maiden names the way they did now, unless they were Clare Boothe Luce or somebody like that. Even if my mother knew her, she would most probably know her by another name. I might be hitting the town registry after all, to look up some marriage licenses.

  “It seems to me there was somebody ...” Mom said vaguely. I perked up.

  “Yes?” I prodded.

  She frowned. “Give me a minute.”

  I thought about names as I waited. I planned on keeping Simpson fo
r the rest of my life. Cordelia Simpson Casement, now there was a lovely name, I thought wistfully.

  My mother snapped her fingers. “My third grade teacher,” she said triumphantly. “Miss Sanborn. How could I have forgotten her?”

  Now I tried not to be too encouraged. It might not be the same person.

  “How old was she when she had you in class?” I asked breathlessly.

  Mom shot me an exasperated glance. “I was eight at the time, Cory. All adults were old to me.”

  “Well, think about it, can’t you? It’s important.”

  She considered. “We all thought she was an old maid, so I guess she must have been past marriage age, whatever that is, anyway. In her thirties or forties, I guess; it’s hard to say.” Mom grinned. “Your grandmother, God rest her soul, used to hint dramatically about some tragic love in Miss Sanborn’s past. Somebody who died young, as I recall. None of us believed it. She was very grim and forbidding. It was hard to imagine her in love.”

  Not hard for me. Not hard at all.

  “And that was thirty some years ago, right?” I asked calmly, trying to control my inner excitement.

  “Thirty-four, to be exact,” my mother replied dryly.

  Which would make Miss Sanborn in her sixties or seventies. I swallowed with difficulty.

  “She must have retired a long time ago, then.”

  “As near as I can remember, she worked at the old elementary school her whole career. I don’t know what became of her after that.”

  “Do you remember where she lived?”

  “When I knew her she had an apartment on Elm Street, above the pharmacy. But that was a long time ago.” She examined me curiously. “What is all this fascination with Miss Sanborn? She’s an unlikely candidate for your interest. I thought you were more into new wave rock groups these days.”

  “I talked to someone tonight who knew her when she was young. He said she was very pretty.”

  Mom shrugged. “That may very well be. To me she was just old.” She paused thoughtfully. “As a matter of fact, she was probably about my age when she taught me.” She sighed. “There’s a lesson there for all of us.”

  “I’ll buy you a cane for Christmas,” I said.

  “Don’t get smart with me, young lady,” she smiled. “And take those clothes with you when you go up to your room.”

  I did as she asked, allowing Stella to take a pair of socks in her mouth. She liked to think she was helping.