Sinister Summer

by Colleen Gleason

  He did love her, and he wanted things to work out—just as she did.

  “Jonathan,” she said in a firm voice, wholly aware of Ethan standing there listening without appearing to listen. “I told you—the cell phone service up here isn’t very good.”

  “Are you sure?” he insisted. As if a switch flipped, his voice had changed into that mellow, empathetic tone he normally used. She used to love hearing his low, deep voice on the phone when they first started seeing each other. “I can’t wait to see you. But that’s why I’m calling—to let you know I’ve gotten tied up with an emergency surgery. I had to change my flight and I won’t get in until tomorrow. Eleven a.m.”

  A sudden, ugly feeling lodged in her belly. He wasn’t flying in tonight, but tomorrow morning instead?

  Why?

  So he could spend the night with Valerie the Wonder Slut?

  “All right,” she forced herself to say lightly. She realized her fingers were a little unsteady as she unwrapped a chunk of Gouda. “Are you still on United?”

  “Yes, of course. You know I always fly United out of O’Hare. Flight 439. I’ll text it to you.”

  “I’d better write it down in case the text doesn’t come through.” Diana turned to get paper out of the drawer near Ethan and became flustered when she noticed he had opened the mahogany Tarot card box—which she’d left on the counter.

  And that he stood between her and the drawer.

  She hesitated, then reached past Ethan. It seemed he waited a little too long to step back so her arm brushed across his warm, solid midriff when she pulled open the drawer. And he took the box of Tarot cards with him when he moved.

  Irritated that she’d been forced to touch him—the skin on her arm still prickled—and distracted by the mahogany box in Ethan’s hands, Diana had to ask Jonathan to repeat his flight number and arrival time twice more before she got it written correctly.

  “Okay, then,” she said hurriedly, watching as her guest pulled a chair from the kitchen table then sank into it. The mahogany box in his hand was like a magnet to her attention. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

  “All right darling,” Jonathan replied. “Diana, remember: I love you. I only love you.”

  “Mm, love you, too,” she managed to reply, acutely aware of her guest—and also strangely obligated to respond to Jonathan in kind.

  But of course she still loved him—she was just hurt and shocked by his actions, and it was going to take some time for her to feel comfortable again.

  Diana hung up the phone with some relief and turned back just as Ethan pulled the deck of cards from its black silk swaddling. She couldn’t turn her eyes away.

  “Husband?” he asked casually, seemingly unaware of her attention on the cards.

  “No,” she told him, and further explanation stuck stubbornly in her throat. “What are you doing?”

  Ethan looked up at her, innocence written all over his face. “These are Jean’s cards, aren’t they? I just wanted to see them again. You’re not supposed to use anyone else’s deck, but I guess they belong to you now.” His face sobered and she felt a fresh stab of pain for the loss of her aunt. “You don’t have any use for them, do you?”

  “No.” Diana turned defiantly away, ignoring a jab of nausea in her stomach.

  Why did it bother her so much that he was touching them? “The cats seem to like them,” she said forced herself to say casually.

  “Oh?”

  “They’ve knocked over the box at least three times since I’ve been here. It was on the table in the den—where she used to keep it.”

  “Is that so?” He sounded a little skeptical. “I wonder how they did that. Did they knock over the African violet as well?”

  She ignored the question—for it was one that had remained unasked, and thus unanswered, in her own mind—and focused on washing grapes and strawberries, then cutting thick slices of dark whole grain bread. She wanted to ask Ethan questions about his relationship with Aunt Jean, but her thoughts scattered when she realized he was shuffling the cards.

  He seemed absorbed and thoughtful. Just as he finished shuffling, one slipped out of the deck and flipped to the floor under the table. Diana made an involuntary noise.

  Ethan looked up, still holding the rest of the deck. “Something wrong?”

  “No.” She shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs, trying to still the churning in her belly.

  It wouldn’t be The High Priestess that fell out, she told herself. That would be crazy.

  And why had the thought even crossed her mind?

  “You dropped one,” she said.

  “Right.” Still looking at her, he reached down blindly to pick it up.

  When he straightened, she could no more have kept herself from asking than from taking another breath. But she tried to make her question sound casual. “What is it?”

  Ethan glanced at the card, then up at her. “Death,” he told her solemnly. “It’s the Death card.”

  Diana felt the tension drain from her body. She almost smiled. “I see. Would you like some Dijon mustard with your bread and cheese?”

  He looked at her, cocking his head to one side as if unsure what to make of her. “Lots of people would be freaked out if the Death card turned up,” he said, still watching her.

  Diana shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me—I don’t believe in that stuff.”

  “Thanks,” he said as she placed the food in front of him: fresh bread, a green salad, fruit, and a few slices of cheese. “This looks much better than the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I would have made.” He set down the card he’d been holding, resting it face-up.

  The High Priestess.

  Diana fumbled her plate as she put it down, clattering it onto the table.

  Ethan looked at her, pinning her with sharp eyes.

  “I thought you said it was the Death card.” She sank onto a chair. Don’t be ridiculous.

  “I was just joking.” His gaze was still focused on her. “Diana, why don’t you tell me what’s going on here.”

  “That—card,” her voice came out angry, “only that card, keeps showing up. Randomly. Two—no, this is the third time now—three times in a row. It’s too weird!”

  He sat down in a chair across from her, linking his powerful hands loosely together and studying her carefully. Nevertheless, he didn’t seem to be looking at her as if she needed to be admitted somewhere with padded walls.

  “That is definitely weird. And interesting. Tell me more about what happened.”

  She reluctantly told him about how she’d picked up the spilled deck three times, and how two of the times, one of the cats had been sitting there with their paw on The High Priestess. “It’s as if they wanted me to see it. I know that sounds strange, but—”

  Ethan shrugged. “I’ve heard much stranger things come out of your aunt’s mouth—and Iva Bergstrom’s too—and discussed with great seriousness. So, ah…do you know anything about The High Priestess?”

  Diana shook her head.

  “I’ll get Jean’s book. Sit there, I know where she keeps it. I’ll be right back.” He started to go, then to her shock, he stopped to brush her cheek with a forefinger. She was too confused to jerk away from the unexpected gesture. “There’s nothing to be upset about, Diana. You just need to figure out what the message is.”

  And with that cryptic statement, he snagged a piece of cheese and left the room. Message?

  Don’t be absurd.

  No longer hungry, Diana stared at the card. It looked the same, but this time she noticed more details: the woman—the priestess—seemed to be pushing a scroll under her cloak, as if to hide it. She sat in front of a backdrop of pomegranates and palm trees.

  Ethan returned with an old, tattered book—one that was in similar condition to the one at the bookshop—and he had already marked a page with a forefinger.

  With a brief smile, he took his seat, opened the book, and began to read: “‘The High Priestess, Number
Two. She is meant to represent the Guardian of the Unconsciousness. Her throne rests between our conscious mind and the innermost thoughts and knowledge of our unconscious mind.’”

  Ethan looked up at Diana. “Well, that’s a pretty clear message, if you ask me. She’s telling you to look beyond the obvious—to allow your intuition and inner voice to guide you. Let your imagination and dreams abound, open your mind to the unknown, seek that which is concealed.”

  The nausea that had been lingering in the pit of her stomach lessened. “I don’t believe in this kind of stuff,” she repeated, shaking her head. “It’s a bunch of bunk. You don’t believe it, do you? That a deck of cards can tell the future?”

  “No, no, I don’t believe that…” He leaned forward, his eyes serious and his face sober. “But I know that there are people in this world who have abilities beyond our understanding…and I know that our unconscious minds have capabilities of which we’ve hardly scratched the surface. Your aunt was one of those people. And, to be blunt, she believed you are too—and that you’ve been stifling it. Repressing it.”

  “What a load of crap.” Diana stood and folded her arms across her chest as if to hold in her fiercely pounding heart. “You’re talking nonsense. I know Aunt Jean thought she had some crazy powers, and she liked to tell people’s fortunes using Tarot cards, but you’re talking about her as if you took her seriously. That’s ridiculous!”

  Ethan remained seated, tenting his fingers together, staring at them as if trying to decide what to say. “Your aunt had ESP—actually, to be more specific, she had precognitive capabilities. It’s a fact, Diana. She had a gift.” He looked up at her as if to gauge her reaction. “I know. I worked with her.”

  “What do you mean, you worked with her?” Diana shot back, ignoring the odd, sinking sensation that was tumbling in her middle. Who is this guy?

  “As an offshoot of my profession, I have a specific interest in the supernatural and metaphysical—and I’ve—”

  “Supernatural? You mean you’re a ghost hunter?” Diana couldn’t hold back an incredulous laugh. Then she sobered sharply. “Wait. What do you mean you worked with Aunt Jean?”

  Wait. Could he be the “professor” friend Aunt Jean had mentioned? No wonder Diana had had the impression there was something going on between Aunt Jean and the professor—she just hadn’t realized he was thirty years her junior.

  And then like the dawn, it all became clear to her why this “Doctor” Ethan Murphy should have befriended an old, wealthy woman like Genevieve Fickler.

  And why he should be here now, with her, Diana.

  Fury lanced through her, replacing the shattering reality of their conversation, and she turned on him. “That’s what you were after, then, wasn’t it? Trying to fleece an old, gullible, loaded woman like my aunt by letting her believe she was psychic! Or that you were. What were you doing—talking to Uncle Tracer’s so-called spirit for her?”

  That made more sense. It was the oldest con in the books.

  He blanched as she pulled to her feet and stood nearly nose-to-nose with him. She channeled all of her suppressed emotions into the accusations. “How much did you get from her? How much did you con her into giving you for your work?” Despite her passionate words, she used the same firm, cool persona she engaged when cross-examining a witness—and forgot that he was a dangerous and attractive man.

  Even when his face darkened with an anger that matched her own, Diana did not back down. He rose, too, forcing her to step back from his chair, eyes flashing. “How dare you accuse me—”

  “No,” she shot back, folding her arms across her middle, “how dare you come into this house uninvited—twice!—and how dare you pretend to be a great friend of my aunt’s when I suspect all you really were after is money. What was your plan now that she’s dead? To con her mousy, timid little niece into giving you more? By wooing and flirting and pretending to care?” That, she realized, was the worst of it—her old insecurities bubbling to the surface.

  Ethan’s lips were drawn together so tightly they nearly disappeared and the tic of a muscle wavered slowly, deliberately in his jaw. “You are a grand fool, Ms. Iverson. You certainly don’t deserve the pride and affection your aunt had for you—not to mention the money. Good day.”

  He spun and walked heavily, angrily out of the house.

  Chapter Four

  Ethan’s fury with Diana Iverson was still simmering a day later, Saturday evening, when he drove to a place on the eastern side of town for dinner. He replayed their conversation over and over—wondering what it was that had caused Diana to go so quickly from confused and bewildered to a harpy, firing unfounded accusations at him. He’d never been so insulted in his life.

  Tamping back a renewed sense of irritation, he pushed open the door of The Lakeside Grille and ambled across its worn, warped hardwood floor. The place was more popular with the locals than the tourists, mainly because it was a few miles outside of town and only about a half-step up from a dive…that is, until you tried the food.

  The food, as Ethan often told the owners, was a national treasure. And as far as the residents of Wicks Hollow were concerned, the tourists could eat their fill at Trib’s and the other small cafes that were in the downtown area and leave the Grille to them.

  “What can I get for you tonight, Ethan, honey?” asked the proprietress, Mirabella, as he took a seat at the thickly-shellacked bar.

  “How about a tall B-Cubed? What’s in now—the Wicks Hollow Wheat?”

  She nodded in affirmation as he settled into his seat as she bustled over to two levers that dispensed the stingy choice of draft beers—a B-Cubed (whatever brew was current) or Budweiser. “I like that new shade of red on your hair, Bella,” he called down to her. “You look like Flo from that old TV show Alice.”

  “Why thank you, honey,” she patted the bouffant hairdo that sparkled like a ruby even in the dim light. The amount of hairspray she used to hold each swirl and curl in place was approximately as thick as the shellac on her bar. “Reggie likes it too—even better than that Dusty Gold color I was wearing a few months back.”

  She placed a tall glass of beer in front of him. “You eatin’ here tonight, too, honey? Reggie made a good soup today—chicken barley—and we got a special with broiled whitefish and rice. There’s always a hamburg or a basket of fresh-caught smelt, nice and crispy—and I got some potato salad and co’slaw if you want that too.”

  He sipped his beer and it went down very nicely. Bax was getting pretty good at his craft brewing. “How about a Reuben, with some coleslaw on the side,” he suggested. “And a cup of that soup.”

  There was a holler from the back room and Bella rolled her eyes, making her penciled brows jump. “That Reggie. I wonder what he needs now. I’ll be right back with your soup.”

  Despite the peremptory yell, Mirabella took her time making her way back into the kitchen. Her lime green dress splashed with daisies and thick white lapels hugged Rubenesque curves and the generous bottom that Reggie Bloom had fallen in love with twenty years ago…or so she’d boasted to Ethan many times.

  Twenty years. That was a long time to be working and living with one person. Two decades of commitment, ups and downs, and so on.

  His amusement faded. Any lingering desire for a long-term relationship had been destroyed at about the same time he signed his name to the divorce papers.

  It was pretty much not gonna happen again—trusting a woman more than just casually dating—now that he’d been well and thoroughly screwed by his ex-wife Jenny. Not to mention Lexie, one of his female students who’d wanted to get in his pants badly enough to lie about it. Oh, and Colin—a friend and colleague who, as it turned out, had been boinking Jenny for more than a year before Ethan found out.

  Nope. He was done with all of that.

  The whole clusterfrack had been hell—and along with his guy friends, Genevieve Fickler was the one who’d listened to Ethan blather about it over more than a few six-packs. An unlikel
y pair they’d made, the two of them—along with Cady—sitting on the porch, talking for hours. Sometimes coherently, sometimes, he thought with a wry smile, not so coherently. But always heart-to-heart. Jean Fickler had been one smart, compassionate, classy lady—and he’d been half-serious when he told her he’d give up his moratorium on women for her if she would have had him.

  Using one long forefinger, Ethan systematically wiped the condensation off his glass, his lips flattening. He’d come to the conclusion that, at the core, ninety-nine percent of women were either conniving, sneaky witches like Jenny and Lexie, or cold, haughty ones like Diana Iverson—and he figured he was safest staying far away from any of them. Except for a no-strings attached night once in a while. And even then, he’d had a moratorium on that for well over two years now.

  He just hadn’t been interested. In anyone.

  A burst of raucous laughter caught his attention as a group of five women came through the door. They ranged in age from sixty to eighty, and he knew every one of them—as did most of the town regulars—for they were known as the Tuesday Ladies. And, en masse, they were a fearsome thing to behold…though slightly less so, now that they were missing one of their members.

  Sad once more, he slid off his stool, beer in hand, intending to pay his regards before his meal came and was interrupted by the inevitable demands to join them.

  “Ethan! There you are. Where have you been?” Juanita Alecita plumped heavily into her seat—a daring move for a woman whose generous size threatened the stability of the chair—as her perfectly manicured nails fluttered with indignation. For once, she didn’t have her little dog with her. “We expected you back weeks ago.”

  “You missed the funeral,” growled Maxine Took, who was turning eighty next week but still possessed eagle eyes and super-bionic hearing. “Have a seat, young man.” She pointed a dark, arthritic finger to an empty chair next to her. “And tell us how you’re doin’. You must be missin’ Jean.”

  “I’d have been at the funeral if I’d known about it,” Ethan said soberly, doing as directed and taking a seat. He cast a helpless look over at Mirabella, who was already bringing his soup and table settings to him. Obviously, he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. “I was in Peru, and didn’t hear about anything till I got back here just this past Wednesday night.”