“Tell me more about them. I need more than a mention.” She smiled. “I miss Nora.”
“Change of subject. Got it.”
“Not a change of subject. I’m just always glad to hear about her, that she’s happy. Your sister was never you, Zeke—fate was a little harder on her.” Years ago, in quieter, more personal moments, Zeke had confided the details of what had happened to Nora, how he blamed himself almost as much as he’d blamed the boy who’d raped her.
“True.” He smiled, though it looked like sadness, and Aubrey felt time turn back. “So if that wasn’t a cue to change the subject, tell me why you and Levi never got hitched.”
“I’m not going to get away with ‘it’s complicated.’”
“You can if that’s the bottom line.”
“It’s a two-part bottom line.” Aubrey drew a contemplative breath. “I’m sure Charley told you about the whole Missy Flannigan story. I know you read the book; you sent me a copy to sign.”
“One of many proud Aubrey Ellis moments.”
Aubrey’s face warmed. “Anyway . . . by the time all that came to pass, after Levi nearly died from a gunshot wound and Pete was born—both things were so unexpected and life altering . . . because Levi and I shared so many profound experiences . . .” Aubrey paused; the finer details were difficult to articulate. “A piece of paper didn’t seem to matter so much.”
“If you say so. Your tea’s getting cold.” Zeke cleared his throat and pointed. “Anyway . . . I’ve seen Levi . . .” Aubrey knotted her brow. “On TV.”
“Right.” Sometimes Levi’s public personality slipped her mind. “Ink on Air. The newsmagazine format has done well for him.”
“That’s good, I guess. But I am sorry you two aren’t faring better. Like I said, he definitely struck me as ‘the guy.’”
“Me too.”
“And Pete?” She was grateful as the topic finally advanced. “You haven’t said a word about him. At the last reunion, you brought an entire photo album.”
“I did not,” she defended. “Just what I deemed reasonable for an iPhone.”
“How is he, your son?”
“Actually . . .” Her muscles tightened, tiptoe to jaw. “He’s living with Levi.” Aubrey pasted a steady gaze on Zeke. “And if you say ‘really’ again . . .” She picked up the muffin half. “You’ll wear this.”
Zeke held up a hand, and Aubrey eased into the curve of the booth, trying to corner emotion.
“And you’re good with that?”
“We agreed it’s best for now . . . for Pete.” Aubrey bit down on her lip, certain how Levi would feel about her discussing their son with Zeke. But the need for someone to listen was too great, the plausible options too small. “Zeke, I, um . . . I did want to talk to you about Pete . . . confide something. Would you believe he has a gift something like mine?”
“I would have been more surprised if you said he didn’t.” He folded his arms and leaned into the table. “Is it just like yours?”
“We don’t know. Maybe.” She shook her head. “At first we thought it was more like Charley’s gift. That he might dream of the living connected to the dead. Many of Pete’s encounters occur at night, in his sleep. But they spill over; they’re more intense than Charley’s dreams. And now . . .”
“Now what?”
“I don’t know how to label it.”
“Still can’t google an explanation, huh?”
“One thing we have determined, whatever is happening to Pete, it’s not as much a dream as it is an experience. Are the dead speaking to him? I’m not sure. Is my son terrified by it? Definitely.” She blinked back tears, wanting Zeke to reach across the table, squeeze her hand. He didn’t. “Pete’s visions don’t seem to be about messages, not like mine.” Aubrey thought for a moment. “They’re more about events that are occurring . . . in his head . . . in his dreams . . .”
“Like what?”
“I almost want to say ‘like in reality.’ But I know how abstract that sounds.”
“Not if you’re up to speed on the Ellis family gift. I take it Pete . . . and maybe Levi, are having issues with the concept.” He waited a moment. “Or is that the whole problem—they can’t handle it, period?”
“The last part. I never realized the blessing and benefit of my childhood. Not until Pete. I didn’t just survive my childhood because of the carnival. I flourished in it. I never sat in a classroom or went to sleepovers. I never encountered peer pressure or had to negotiate my gift in the confines of what society deems ‘normal.’” Aubrey air quoted the word as she said it. “That’s left me at a deficit with Pete. I don’t have any applicable advice for those situations.”
“And Levi, he’s not about to run away and join a carnival for Pete’s sake.”
“No. Definitely not. Pete’s gift—whatever it is, it intensifies by the year. This past one has been particularly rough. When he wakes up . . . it’s like he’s stepped from a war zone or some other catastrophic event. Sometimes . . .” She stared at Zeke. It was comforting to see thoughtfulness, not shock or disbelief. It spurred her on. “Sometimes there are even marks, bruises on him. And as Pete’s gift evolves, Levi is determined to use common sense, intelligence, and his own life experiences to guide him.” She huffed again, considering their last loud argument on the subject.
“That’s a reasonable theory,” Zeke said. “Until you try to fit Pete’s gift inside the parameters of rational life experiences.”
“Right?” Finally, an agreeable ear; she didn’t realize how desperate she’d been for one. “The situation has pushed Levi and me to the breaking point. It’s pushed my relationship with Pete to the same place. He’s angry with me, Zeke. My son blames me for saddling him with something less than a normal life. And he’s not wrong.” Her voice pinched. In a thinking habit, Aubrey ran her fingers over the traffic jam of earrings that lined her ear. “As a family . . . as a couple, we drift further apart every day.”
“Maybe you need to give it more time.” And Zeke did reach out, his fingers squeezing hers, both their hands icy cold. “Aubrey, think how long it took for you to grasp your gift, learn what it was all about. Charley too. Imagine how many years she dreamed of living people before connecting them to your ghostly encounters.”
“That’s true.”
“Of course, there is one other consideration . . .” He withdrew his hand. “What about your father? Your son’s namesake. Do you think their gifts connect?”
“No. I don’t.” She shook her head hard. “And thank God for that. But it’s interesting you should bring up my father’s gift.” Aubrey dried a stray tear. “I wanted to talk to you about him too.”
“Did you?” Zeke eased back. “Why’s that? I never met him.”
“Maybe not, but you never missed a trick, Zeke. I want to know if you knew anything about him that I didn’t.” He was quiet, too quiet; Aubrey tilted her head at him. “You do know something. Did you know he had a box of ghost gifts—like mine, but not like mine?”
He continued a silent stall, and Aubrey swore she felt the chill in the room grow colder. “Yes.”
“Yes?”
“Not one of my prouder secrets, but yes. I know about the letter box.”
“How? Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Her voice rose, and she glanced around the deserted space. In a hushed voice, she asked, “Do you know what’s in it, the box? Do you know about the predictions?”
“Aubrey, slow down.”
“No, I won’t slow down. I want to know exactly what you know. Everything.”
“All right. I can’t see any reason to keep quiet now.” His full lips defaulted to a tight line. “Years ago, when you were a teenager—I was maybe twenty—I overheard a conversation. Your grandmother and Carmine. I was grabbin’ a cold drink outside the Winnie. They were talking about a leather box, pieces of paper, future predictions. They were talking about your father.” He shrugged. “Hell, anywhere . . . anybody else, and you’d think it was nothing but c
arnie talk—the setup for a new act.”
“But not with the Heinz-Bodette troupe. Not with me.”
“More like not with the Ellis family on the whole. I listened when I should have minded my own business. I heard them discuss your father’s penciled-in predictions.” Aubrey’s jaw slacked at the bullet of information. “I heard Charlotte and Carmine say that many of those predictions had come to pass.”
“And you never thought to tell me?”
“No. I thought way more about not telling you. Didn’t seem like the kind of thing I should be running my mouth on—especially since I was eavesdropping on the boss’s conversation. Like you wouldn’t have gone straight to Charlotte and asked?”
“Zeke, the other day . . .” Aubrey offered a diffident tip of her head. “The explosion at the Prudential Tower, I had a forewarning about it. While I was waiting for you, a specter showed up. Historically, he was, uh . . . well, the point is he told me about the explosion before it happened.”
“Before? Like a prognostication? Like your father?”
“So it would seem.”
“And that’s never happened before?”
“No. Nothing remotely close to this. I offer closure, messages from loved ones.” Aubrey held out her arm, pushing up her sweater sleeve. “On rare occasions, there have been encounters with the darker side of death.” She pondered what suddenly felt like a lesser evil. “I don’t foretell the future, Zeke. Not until yesterday . . . and now this morning.”
“This morning?”
“Right before you arrived. It happened again. Smaller scale, just as foreboding. A brief encounter with the proprietor’s dead wife.” She pointed in the direction of the main dining room, where the staff had gone since Zeke arrived. “I thought she just wanted to scare the crap out of him. But then . . .” Aubrey leaned, resting her head on her fingertips, her temple pounding. “She told me when her living husband, Dashiell Durand, would die—the date . . . and how.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I were.”
“That’s amazing. And scarily similar to your father’s predictions.”
Aubrey pressed her fingertips harder into her forehead and squeezed her eyes closed.
“Those predictions. They’re what drove your father mad, aren’t they?”
She nodded, tears seeping out from beneath her lids. Aubrey felt a tug on her hand. She kept her eyes closed as Zeke’s voice sank into her soul.
“Listen to me, Aubrey. I know I’ve been gone a long time. I know I’m not part of your life anymore. That it seems like I’ve turned up out of the blue. But I need you to know something. Just like always, sweetheart . . . I’m only here because I love you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Surrey, Massachusetts
Five Years Earlier
Aubrey came around the corner wearing a form-fitting dress. In the arched alcove of the dining room, she struck a pose. An array of papers were fanned out in front of Levi, who was seated at the table. He didn’t look up. Since she’d left the room over an hour ago, he’d gone from contemplative to brooding. In seven years of cohabitation, this kind of moodiness had never been a good sign. “Still no decision?” she asked.
“Nope.” With his fist kneading his temple, he shook his head. Aubrey weighed further advice. To anyone else, the contract under his nose would be a dream job on paper. But Levi was never a fan of fanciful ideas, and his next thought reflected as much. “Aubrey, I know newspapers. I know how to go after a story, be the editor in chief of the Surrey City Press. I’ve even risen to the challenge of running newsroom personnel.”
“No question about it. Not to mention a minor miracle.”
He didn’t respond to the sarcasm and continued to stare at the contract. “What I don’t know is how to do any part of that job in front of a camera. Better still, why I would want to?” He sighed and adjusted his glasses. Glancing up, Levi did a double take. “Wow . . . exclamation point—make that two.”
“You’d never put one exclamation point on a sentence. Two, and you’d reassign yourself to writing obituaries.” Yet the persuasiveness of her little red dress was gratifying. With a beaded clutch in hand, Aubrey took a full turn in the living room. “So you like it?”
Levi leaned back in the chair. “‘Like’ would be a disturbingly weak adjective.”
“Good.” Aubrey brushed a hand over the front of the fiery dress with its Bardot-style band top, complemented by a keyhole front. The frock was an edgy choice, and she’d debated for the better part of an hour in the boutique’s fitting room. “It’s not every day the Heinz-Bodette troupe has a reunion—why not, right?”
“Makes me think I ought to work harder at date night around here. Instead of a movie next Friday, I should take you to Paris.” Aubrey smiled and Levi stood, checking his watch. “But being as it is Friday, and you have some time before your entourage arrives . . . maybe I could examine up close for a zipper?” Levi approached and looped his arms around her waist. “I’d love to know how you get into—or better yet, out of—that dress.”
“Are you kidding?” Since she hadn’t applied lipstick yet, Aubrey kissed him. “Not a chance. You should have come upstairs while I was in the tub. An hour ago, I would have been a sure thing.”
“Damn. The costly price of brooding.” He stepped back, engaging in a roving glance. “And we’re definitely going to Paris next Friday.”
Of course, before next Friday would come Monday, the day Levi would owe MediaMatters an answer about their Ink on Air proposal. Years ago, the print media entity had saved itself from extinction by successfully expanding into on-air markets. Ink on Air was their latest television venture; all they needed was the talent. Levi was CEO Carl Toppan’s immediate choice. Clearly, from the state of reshuffled paperwork, Levi wasn’t as convinced.
At the dining room table, Aubrey started to sit, suddenly acutely aware of the dress’s constricting nature. Sucking in her breath and easing onto a chair, she said, “Whatever note of clarification you need, I have no doubt you’ll find it.”
He nodded, returning to the paperwork.
Levi had gone as far as to record an on-air test segment, if only to appease his boss. The concept was to revitalize time-honored journalism by spotlighting (literally) the last of Levi’s breed—no-nonsense newspersons with the highest journalistic integrity. It was the on-air part Levi couldn’t get his head around. He’d gone into the test segment with little expectation and even less trepidation. Lackluster interest had backfired, and his calm, commanding nature drove on-air rapport. Aubrey overheard a post-test conversation between Levi and a jubilant Carl: “Incredible, Levi! Just what we’re looking for—brilliant journalistic skills, rock-steady persona. Jesus himself would swear you’re a Hunter Thompson, Edward R. Murrow, and Gregory Peck combo incarnate. Audiences will love you!”
After he hung up the phone, Aubrey had shrugged and said, “I don’t know about Jesus, but if it helps, I’m getting a good Thompson-Murrow vibe of approval.” He made a face and worked his way to where they were right now: Levi brooding over opportunity.
He picked up the contract page detailing specifics like salary. “I don’t need this,” he said. “Okay, I’m not that obtuse. Anybody could use this.” He dropped the page onto the table. “But I like my job. I love our life.” Aubrey hummed in agreement. She was all for whatever choice made him happy.
Pete wandered in from the kitchen, which only seemed to validate Levi’s argument. In his hand was a frozen fruit bar. Their son’s above-average height was currently dwarfed by the authentic World War II airman bomber jacket he wore. “Mom say you could have that?” Levi asked.
“Uh-huh.” The boy leaned into his father, the leather jacket creaking as Levi’s hand clutched around his shoulder. He grazed his fingers through Pete’s coffee-colored hair. “Pa, I set up a new militia front line in the basement.” He had a slight lisp to his speech, which Aubrey found endearing. So much so that she was taken aback when his first-grad
e teacher called to suggest speech therapy. “It’s a right-flank attack. Want to come see? The marines will be there soon, help the French and Brits out. A blue battle for sure.”
“I suppose it’s better than bloody red.” Levi spoke softly over his son’s head, glancing at Aubrey.
“It’s okay,” Pete said. “The Seventy-Third Machine Gun Company will push ’em back. Daly’s got ’em riled, he asked those sons of bitches if they wanted to live forever.”
“What in the world . . .” Aubrey blinked at her son’s lispy decree. “Pete—”
Levi held up a hand. “Pete, I’ll have to talk to Granddad again about appropriate military talk.”
He looked up at his father. “Granddad wasn’t there. He wasn’t even born. Not in the blue wood.”
In recent months, Pete’s out-of-place phrases had become increasingly common, more worrisome. For now, Levi patted his son’s shoulder. “Well, wherever you heard it, we don’t use language like that, okay?” Pete’s expression slipped to defeated, like maybe he’d lost the forward push. “I’ll come downstairs in a few minutes. Just let me see your mother off.” Levi reached to the lazy Susan and grabbed a napkin, handing it to Pete. “But take that popsicle into the kitchen first and finish it over the sink.” Pete followed the order, Levi’s voice trailing behind him. “And wash your hands. Nobody likes sticky militia.”
“Remind me to write that militia remark down,” Aubrey said. As Pete’s dreams grew more active, repeating words and phrases, she’d taken to recording them in a notebook. For a moment, she fixated on the kitchen doorway. She sighed, letting her son’s military talk and how it connected to his gift go, at least for now. She turned back to the other issues at hand. Picking up the thumb drive that contained Levi’s on-air test, she felt Levi’s eyes follow her movement, the tight red wrap of the dress.
“I, um . . . I’m a little surprised by the outfit.”
“Why’s that?” With her fingers and polished nails—another uncharacteristic detail—she tapped the thumb drive on the tabletop.
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