And once in a while, she’ll utter a cryptic comment that makes Bella wonder whether she’s channeling Sam.
Maybe it’s just that Pandora wants to channel Sam, or wants Bella to believe that she is.
Why would Bella’s level-headed, down-to-earth husband communicate with her through a feigned-accented, occasionally petty woman like Pandora? Surely Sam would have chosen Odelia instead, or maybe Andy Brighton, an affable male medium who lives across the way.
Unless he has no choice. Maybe Pandora is in tune with his energy and the others aren’t. Maybe it has something to do with the house. Maybe . . .
So many maybes when it comes to Spiritualism.
Odelia answers the phone with a breezy “Wedding Bellas are ringing.”
“Wow, you must be psychic,” Bella teases. “That, or you have caller ID. You sound cheerful. I take it your reading went well this time?”
“It did.”
That isn’t always the case. According to Odelia, Alana Rotini is a demanding client. She’s been trying desperately to make contact with her late twin brother, who has yet to show up, and she isn’t always gracious to the Spirits who do come through.
“Did you finally put Alana in touch with Alfie?”
“No, but Miriam made her laugh.” Miriam is the resident Spirit whose husband had built Odelia’s house back in 1883. “Oh, and then we had a rollicking chat with Lennon.”
“The Soviet leader? Vladimir Lenin?”
“The Beatle, John Lennon. He pops in now and then with messages for Yoko.”
“You know Yoko?”
“Does anyone really know Yoko?” Odelia says mysteriously, then changes the subject. “How is Chance doing?”
“She’s . . .” Bella watches the cat bat an invisible object around on the table. “She’s great. The anesthesia just left her a little . . .”
“Stoned?”
“That sounds about right.”
Odelia laughs. “Cheech and Chong and Chance.”
Bella grins at that, but it fades when she remembers why she’s calling. “Listen, I’m still at the vet, but I’ll be heading home soon. Can you just keep an eye out for guests next door until I can get there? Oh, and by the way, the forecast for tomorrow seems to have changed all of a sudden.”
“Welcome to western New York. What are they calling for?”
“Forty-five and sleet.”
During the moment of silence as Odelia digests that news, Bella marvels that for all her psychic premonitions and predictions, Odelia is perpetually caught off guard by the weather. Then again, positioned as it is on the eastern end of the volatile Great Lakes . . .
Blue Slayton’s earlier words echo in her head. That’s Lily Dale for you.
“This isn’t good.” The cheeriness has evaporated from Odelia’s voice. Clearly she, too, is aware that if a warm and dry Johneen can be unpleasant on an ordinary day, a sopping, shivering, wedding-day Johneen will be downright beastly.
“We’ll have to move the wedding indoors,” Bella tells her. “We’ll get the furniture out of the dining room and set up the round tables there, and the ceremony can be in the front hall with the guests looking on from folding chairs in the parlor. The bride can come down the stairs instead of down the aisle, and—”
“No!”
“What?”
“We can’t do that. We’ll just . . . rent a tent.”
“It’s going to be freezing out.”
“We’ll rent a heated tent. No stairs, Bella.”
“Why not?”
“Because Spirit has been warning me that the bride is in terrible danger,” Odelia says ominously. “I’ll explain when I see you.”
As she hangs up, Bella shivers, thoroughly chilled though the bright sun is still shining outdoors . . . for now.
Chapter Four
An hour later, Bella hears a thumping sound at the front door of the guesthouse. It can’t be Odelia. She always walks right in. The bridal couple must have arrived—with a battering ram?
But it is Odelia, and she wasn’t knocking. She was kicking the door with a foot clad in a bright yellow rubber rain boot. She’s also wearing an orange sari and a tweed newsboy cap. In her arms are a stack of envelopes and catalogues and a large basket filled with cellophane-wrapped, ribbon-tied . . . something.
“What do you have there?”
“I grabbed your mail from the box for you.” Odelia hands it to her. “And these are wedding favors,” she adds, holding up a jar of . . .
Something.
“I asked myself what I could make that would best represent the wedding.”
“And that would be . . . ?”
“Lemon-habanero marmalade,” Odelia says, as if she should have guessed.
Still stumped, Bella nods politely.
“It’s marmalade to fit the country shabby chic theme, it’s yellow to match the color scheme, and it’s spicy because . . . well, the wedding night.” She winks and sets the basket on an antique piecrust table. “Then again, with those two . . . they’re not exactly the most unbridled bridal couple I’ve ever met.”
“I just hope they like their accommodations.” Bella has been working for days to transform the Teacup Room into the honeymoon suite for their wedding night.
Officially, she’s supposed to get Grant’s approval before making any home repairs or significant expenses. Deciding a cosmetic makeover didn’t fall into that category, she managed the makeover for a minimal cost, though it took maximum effort and a hefty toll on her back.
She painted and redecorated in crisp shades of white, cream, and gold. Leona Gatto’s collection of delicate china teacups and charming tea party wall prints went into a box on the basement shelf, replaced by a couple of vintage wedding portraits she found there and displayed in gilt-sprayed dime-store frames.
“Fit for a queen,” Odelia proclaimed when it was finished. “Or a bride. Even Johneen. Although, did you get her permission to dress the room in white? We wouldn’t want those lace curtains to upstage her.”
Now she looks up the flight of stairs, shaking her head.
“Uh-oh. What happened to ‘fit for a queen’?” Bella asks. “You don’t think she’s going to like the suite?”
“No, no, it’s wonderful. It’s the stairs that worry me.”
“Odelia—”
“We can’t take any chances.”
“Well, I can’t exactly move their accommodations to the first floor.”
“No, but I’m not worried about what happens after the wedding. We can’t have Johnny descend that stairway in a long, white dress to be married.”
“Because you had a vision of her tripping and falling down the stairs?”
“I didn’t see her tripping and falling down the stairs. Spirit just keeps showing me the bottom of a long white wedding gown and the bride’s feet in heeled satin pumps.”
“And they were dripping wet,” Bella reminds her.
“Yes.”
“Maybe it was just a warning that it was going to rain on her wedding day and that she’d better stay indoors.”
Odelia shakes her head. “That doesn’t feel right. The spider . . .”
“What kind of spider was it? A daddy longlegs? One of those creepy-crawly furry ones?”
“It wasn’t creepy at all. It was . . . just sitting there nicely in a web.”
“Do you think it has something to do with Spidey?”
“You mean Max’s kitten? I doubt it. If Spirit wanted to show me the kitten, then Spirit would show me the kitten.”
“And there was the door . . .”
“Right. A closed door with a key sticking out of the lock.”
“The door comes after the hem. Before the spider.”
“Is that relevant?”
“It might be.”
Odelia has mentioned this recurring vision before. Bella isn’t sure why she’s so convinced it means Johneen is in some kind of danger, and Odelia herself admits that there’s nothing conclusive ab
out what she’s seeing. The images are open for interpretation. For some reason, hers is dire.
And with everything at stake here, dire is potentially catastrophic.
She takes a deep breath. “Look, we can’t drench a bride and groom at an outdoor ceremony. Especially this bride and groom. You know what I mean?”
“Of course I do.”
Of course she does. They both know a lot of things now that they’re wedding planners.
For example, they know that there are countless shades of yellow and white, and that if a bride e-mails photographs of her preferred shades, you can plug them into an online image search engine to find sources for matching ribbon, invitations, and even the wedding cake’s embellished icing.
They know that the nearest liquor store doesn’t keep cases of Dom Pérignon in stock, so it has to be ordered, and paid for, well in advance.
Bella already knew that oyster season is any month that ends in an R, but she didn’t know, though should have guessed, that Johneen’s favorite shellfish aren’t readily available four hundred miles from the ocean.
She explained to the bride in one of their countless e-mail exchanges that the nearest fresh seafood market is an hour away, not an easy jaunt to make on the wedding day. Plus, someone would have to shuck them all.
Parker offered to have oysters flown in from New York City and even hire a professional shucker who would, Bella figured, also have to be flown in from New York. “If my Daisy wants oysters, then oysters she shall have,” Parker wrote, at which point his Daisy decided to drop the raw bar idea in favor of a carving station. “Tres chic, and all the rage in Paris,” she claimed.
“So is the Eiffel Tower,” Odelia muttered to Bella, “and the next thing you know, she’ll order us to build one out of baguettes.”
The carving station demanded a cutlery purchase, as Bella could barely find pairs of matching steak knives in the guesthouse drawers, let alone eleven that were similar. She did, however, locate twelve gilt-rimmed white Limoges dinner plates in the china cabinet. They were perfect.
Were.
Moving them in pairs from the dining room to the kitchen, she dropped and broke two. That left her one short, until Odelia managed to find a reasonable knockoff at a tag sale.
Overly passionate felines and psychic visions aside, it’s been smooth sailing ever since.
Right into a perfect storm.
“Well, at least someone is ready for the rain.” Bella glances at Odelia’s rubber boots.
“These? No, there’s a hole in one of the soles and it leaks,” she says with Odelia logic. “I never wear them in the rain.”
“Then why do you keep them?”
“Because they’re the most comfortable shoes I own, and we’re going to be on our feet until late tonight. Plus, they match the wedding theme.”
“Rain?”
“No! They’re shabby, yet chic, and they’re yellow.” Odelia pats her arm. “Don’t worry about the rain. We aren’t going to drench the bride and groom. I’m borrowing a chuppah.”
“A . . . what, now?”
“A chuppah. It’s a canopy used for Jewish wedding ceremonies.”
“This isn’t a—”
“No, but you were right about it being too late to rent a tent. A chuppah will do the trick. They’re really quite lovely.”
“Where did you find one?”
“I have a rabbi friend at a synagogue in Buffalo who’s happy to loan it as long as we go pick it up either late tonight or tomorrow morning. Luther has offered to do that for us.”
Luther Ragland is a longtime friend of Odelia’s. But Bella can’t imagine the virile, retired police officer turned part-time private detective voluntarily choosing chuppah detail in the midst of an active Friday-night social life and a sacred Saturday-morning tennis game.
She quirks a brow at Odelia. “He offered?”
“Well, I asked him.”
“And he said yes?”
“I can be very persuasive.”
Yeah, no kidding.
“Luckily, I caught him before he left the country,” Odelia adds. “He had just picked up his date.”
“He was leaving the country with his date?”
“Just Ontario. He was taking her to Niagara-on-the-Lake for dinner and a show.”
Bella exchanges the exotic globe-trotting scenario her mind had conjured for a more pedestrian outing. The picturesque Canadian town is a mere ninety-minute drive from the Dale. Luther treated her and Max to Sunday brunch there last month, en route to Niagara Falls.
Max had already glimpsed the massive waterfall from the American side, but Luther insisted on crossing the border for the full effect.
Bella’s protests that he didn’t have to go so far out of his way fell on deaf ears. He seemed to really enjoy playing tour guide that day, and he and Max developed a sweet, if unlikely, kinship over the summer.
A brief youthful marriage gave Luther no children of his own. Content with his bachelor lifestyle, he’s quite the ladies’ man. Sometimes, Bella thinks Odelia might like to change that, but as far as she knows, that hasn’t happened.
Bella found him intimidating when they first met, and he isn’t the most easygoing guy in the world even now that they’re friends. But Max brings out the best in him, and Luther is in some ways like the grandfather Max never had.
Sam would be pleased that there’s a male role model in their son’s life. Two, if you count Drew Bailey.
Bella doesn’t. Or at least, shouldn’t.
She flips quickly through the stack of mail, making sure it’s nothing that can’t be stashed in a drawer for a couple of days while she’s otherwise occupied.
A postcard from a candidate running in the upcoming county elections, a couple of Christmas catalogues—already?—a credit card bill, yet another debt consolidation offer forwarded from her old address, and . . .
What’s this?
Frowning, she stares at a rectangular white envelope with a printed label bearing her name, care of Valley View Guesthouse. There’s no return address, and it bears a Lily Dale postmark.
She’s about to open the envelope when a voice calls through the screen door. “Gammy?”
Bella turns to see a young couple standing on the porch.
The man, lanky and handsome, has a light brown complexion and jet black hair. He’s holding a quilted floral duffel bag and is standing at the top of the steps, a few feet behind the strikingly pretty young woman. Tall and lithe, she’s wearing a houndstooth blazer and snug jeans tucked into boots. Her hair is long and brown with gilded streaks, and her wide-set eyes are the same amber-green shade as Chance’s.
Odelia throws open the door and envelops them both in a fierce hug. Recognizing Odelia’s granddaughter Calla Delaney and her boyfriend, Jacy, Bella tosses aside the unopened envelope with the other mail.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” Calla tells her after Odelia makes introductions.
“Same here. Both of you.”
“Uh-oh. Are you talking trash about me again?” Jacy asks Odelia, and she gives him another affectionate squeeze.
“More the opposite,” Bella says with a grin.
Whenever Odelia mentions her granddaughter’s significant other, it’s in glowing terms. She calls him Jay, and he calls her Dee Dee.
Bella knows that Native American Jacy was born and raised on a reservation until his abusive parents lost custody. He was later adopted by his foster parents, Lily Dale mediums Walter and Peter.
He and Calla dated in high school and on and off in college. After breaking up for a few years, they found their way back to each other and have been together ever since. Their future is bright, with her recent publication of her first book and Jacy about to finish med school.
“You look beautiful, Gammy. I love this.” Calla touches the orange silk fabric of Odelia’s sari.
“Thank you. A friend brought it back for me from Mumbai years ago, when Mumbai was still Bombay and I was still thinking I
might remarry someday. It’s a wedding sari, so naturally, I never used it for that purpose. But I thought it was fitting.”
“The hat goes really well with it,” Jacy comments with a wink, and Odelia pats the newsboy cap.
“Bad hair week. I need to have it cut and colored, and I just haven’t had the time. How did you two know where to find me, anyway?”
“A little boy on a scooter told us,” Calla says.
“Along with a lot of other things we didn’t even ask about.”
Grinning at Jacy’s addendum, Odelia tells them it must have been Jiffy Arden.
“Is he the boy whose mother is renting Evangeline’s house?” Calla asks.
“That’s him.”
Jiffy had knocked on the door at Valley View after school to see if Max wanted to come outside to play, but Bella had told him no.
“But Mom! Why not?”
“Because I’m too busy to come out and keep an eye on you.”
“Jiffy’s mom isn’t keeping an eye on him.”
No surprise there. Misty Starr, a young medium whose husband is overseas with the military, takes a laid-back approach to parenting. The neighbors tend to watch over her little boy, who has a way of emerging unscathed from harrowing scrapes and escapades. But Bella isn’t any more comfortable letting Max roam unsupervised on the Dale’s deserted off-season streets than she was with the summer’s transient crowds.
Bella invited Jiffy to come in and help Max keep an eye on Chance and the kittens, offering him the same dollar an hour she’s paying Max. To her son’s disappointment, Jiffy opted to ride away on his scooter instead.
“My mom told me to go blow the stink off,” he informed them, then added hastily, “That doesn’t mean I stink, by the way. It’s just a saying that means get outside and play in the fresh air. My mom says it all the time.”
“By the way, my mom never tells me to blow the stink off,” Max complained, incorporating Jiffy’s signature line. He’s been saying it all summer: by the way this and by the way that.
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