Echo Moon (A Ghost Gifts Novel Book 3)

by Laura Spinella

  “Whatever.” She shrugged. “I was just holding it for Caroline.”

  He snickered.

  “What? The other day, Caroline took her dad to the airport, and she just figured . . . well, it could be a problem in some places.”

  “Try that excuse with the TSA at the gate in Logan, London, or Libya, see where you end up.”

  She made a face at him, reaching for her over-the-counter drugs.

  “Wait.” He grabbed the Excedrin, opened it, and popped three, washing them down with a gulp of coffee. “Nothing medicinal will fix what ails me, but it won’t make it any worse.”

  Her expression changed. “You’re not sick, are you?”

  “Sick? No, not physically.” He thought of the scars he couldn’t explain. Everything he couldn’t explain. “Not even in a way a good lobotomy might cure. More like permanently pissed off at life.”

  “Wow again.”

  He sighed, feeling like the germ under Ailish Montague’s microscope.

  “Are you always so cynical? You’re young to have such a chip on your shoulder.”

  “Interesting choice of words. Young would be a relative description.”

  Her hazel gaze speared him.

  “Some . . . people would define me as more of an ‘old soul.’”

  “And a really crabby one.” Ailish tipped her head at the open palm of his hand. “What did you do to yourself?” She pointed to his blistered fingers. “Spend the night chopping wood?”

  Pete stared at the raw spots. “I, uh . . . I accidentally touched something hot.”

  “Like what?”

  “What?” He picked up his cup so the blisters wouldn’t show.

  “Most people wouldn’t say they ‘touched something hot.’ Not unless they were avoiding the root cause. You know, like a battered child sidestepping the reason for a bruise. Marks like that”—she motioned to his hand with her cup—“a person would say they’d touched a hot pot . . . or an iron. Not . . . something.”

  “Just something I prefer not to talk about, okay?”

  She raised her mug at him. “Freebasing cocaine it is!”

  The pissed-off look on his face must have been clear.

  “Sorry. My mention of an eyedropper’s worth of weed seemed to get a rise out of you.”

  “So you’re just pressing my buttons.” Pete lowered his blistered hand beneath the table.

  She cleared her throat and the silence grew awkward. Ailish fussed with a napkin, placing it on her lap, directing her words that way. “I . . . you’re just very dark . . . brooding. I guess I was just trying to counteract it.”

  Promise. Quit while you’re ahead . . . Instead of saying as much, Pete turned the question on her. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because . . .” It shut her up and he was pleased. But something in Ailish’s expression changed, a seriousness that she hadn’t brought to the table. “Sorry about whatever it is in life that you find so disagreeable.”

  The waitress arrived with a jam-packed tray. Pete thought it was enough food to feed one of the third-world countries he often visited. Ailish only admired the dishes placed before her and hungrily dug in. She also ate like she’d been held captive for the past month, kept alive on a rice-and-dirt diet. The sight rocked his queasiness, and Pete turned his head toward the window.

  “Sure you don’t want a slice of bacon, maybe a biscuit?” From the corner of his eye, he saw a plate being inched across the table. “I’ve always had a big appetite. Lucky I got my dad’s fast metabolism. My mum’s too, I guess. Curious about parents, the things we inherit.”

  He absorbed that hit to the head of the nail and looked back at the buffet spread. “Nice their traits are compatible. Can’t say the same about mine.”

  “Oh, they don’t get along, your mum and dad?”

  “No . . . I mean, yes. They get along fine. More like the poster couple for opposites attracting. However, put them in a blender and you . . .”

  “End up with you?”

  He didn’t answer; she shrugged, never breaking rhythm with the food being ferried from her plate to her mouth.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “Your parents aren’t much for standard social cues, maybe a bit Bohemian.”

  “Mmm . . . Mum for sure. She’s never fit into anybody’s pigeonhole. My dad . . . well, if Ian Montague was a college professor, ‘absentminded’ would be the sign on his door. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” Pete pointed to her morning smorgasbord. “I see you’re not a slave to common social behaviors either. Refreshing, in a gluttonous sort of way.”

  “Meaning what?” She slathered a piece of toast with the requested peach jelly, then used it as a shovel, capturing the goopy egg. Shoving a wedge into her mouth, she caught a dribble of yolk with her finger, sucking it off.

  “Nothing.” Pete took another mouthful of coffee and poked at his plate of naked toast. “For sure this is my father’s antiquated behavior talking, but isn’t it some kind of girl etiquette, eating like a bird in . . .” He shuffled his hand between them. “Boy-girl situations?” He couldn’t recall Grace ordering from anywhere but the salad selections, possibly even at breakfast.

  “Situations like what?” She glanced around the diner. “This isn’t a date. And—”

  “Finally, something we agree on.”

  “I’d say so.” She looked him up and down. “Difficult and disagreeable isn’t my type.”

  Pete swallowed down his immediate reply with a gulp of coffee. “How about just finishing your one-of-everything-on-the-menu meal and we can conclude our very nondate.”

  She sobered and turned her attention to the silver dollar pancakes, dumping a river of syrup on top. Pete reverted to contemplating the blistering sunscape and shifted in his seat. After last night, he didn’t think it possible to run into anything more uncomfortable than his own skin. Minutes passed. There was nothing but the clinking of cutlery, silence that hung like bad weather. And while it’d been some time since Pete was motivated by parental pressure, his mother’s text did surface in his brain. “Be nice . . .” He faced her. “I found your photo album.”

  “Did you?” Her eyes went wide, though it didn’t slow her inhale of food. She impaled a piece of melon, adding a chunk of gravy-covered biscuit. “My mother will be glad for that.” At least she managed to hold a napkin to her full mouth.

  “Uh, yeah.” Pete closed his eyes lightly and shook his head. “Last night, before I . . .” He pursed his lips. “It’s back at the bungalow, in one of the bedrooms.”

  “What else did you find?”

  “What else?” The question didn’t fit—anywhere. “Nothing,” he said quickly. “Just some other photos. Nothing related to you.”

  “Are you certain of that?”

  “Yes.” He looked curiously at her. “Just photos. And they were much older—way before your uncle hooked up with . . .”

  “Your mother?”

  Her trickle of laughter ran like a faucet. It no longer felt reminiscent but had needled its way under his skin. “I was going to say the Heinz-Bodette troupe.”

  “My mistake.”

  She crunched down on what had to be her fourth slice of bacon. He couldn’t stand to watch her consume a fifth, and plucked a crispy slice off the place.

  “Good,” she said. “Maybe low blood sugar isn’t helping your disposition.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Me too.” She paused, sighing deeply at her plate. “Disappointing. So not what I imagined . . .”

  It was barely audible. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Uneasy silence sat again. It seemed like she wanted to say something but returned to her meal, consuming the rest, and Pete thought about offering up his toast. At the very least, her eating habits rivaled a carnie sideshow. He was about to ask if she’d ever considered the hot-dog-eating contest at Coney Island, but the thought of Coney Island stopped him cold.

  “If Paris is France, then Coney Islan
d, between June and September, is the World.”

  “Shut up,” he murmured, though no voice had spoken the thought. It just wouldn’t vacate his head.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry. I had something else on my mind.” He tapped the half-eaten strip of bacon on a plate. Ailish took out her phone and poked at it with one finger, tugging on the messy braid with the other hand. She was pretty—at least when she wasn’t devouring food like a lioness. He shrugged. Maybe even then. Pretty in a redhead way that was hard to define. Too bad it all came to a crashing end when she opened her mouth.

  People . . . women of color, dark hair and skin, dominated Pete’s recent memories. Admittedly, there weren’t many to recall. And she wasn’t without a point. Pete’s disposition, on this side of the world or the other, worked like a charm—an amulet for keeping most women away.

  “So . . . I’ll get you the album when we get back to the bungalow. I can take a look at your car, if you want. Give you a ride to the train station, whatever you need.”

  With her hand still wrapped around the thick plait of hair, her gaze moved to his. It was penetrating, different from the curious glances she’d peppered him with so far. “Okay. Thanks. That’d be . . . helpful.”

  Noises seeped into Pete’s head, water spilling over an edge. The infinity pool of his mind. But the sounds were distant, he couldn’t tell if they were music or words—maybe both. A subtle tremor rose upward, as if the diner sat on a fault line. But a glance at Ailish told Pete he was the only person aware of the vibrating sensation. He placed his palms flat on the table, a steadying gesture. When Pete closed his eyes, her voice severed the undulating lure.

  “Can I ask you something?” He didn’t say anything, and she went on. “Is it true?”

  He opened his eyes. “Is what true?”

  “That your mother speaks to the dead. That you can do the same.”

  It startled him. They’d gone hours between yesterday afternoon and today. They’d managed a damn good sparring match in a public place. Yet she hadn’t hinted at his gift. But of course, she would know.

  “You sort of looked like you were slipping into some sort of trance.”

  His low gaze was now one with the empty coffee cup, his grip around it choking. “Add blunt to your list of alluring qualities.”

  “It’s just a question. Your gift. I didn’t know it was a secret.”

  “It’s not a secret.” I just prefer not being stared at like a Vegas lounge act. “I, um. It’s not something people know about me unless I do the telling. Which I don’t very often. I guess your mother mentioned it.”

  “Mmm, Mum talks a blue streak on a quiet day.”

  “Big surprise.” He rolled his eyes. “My gift, it’s not a topic I enjoy talking about.”

  She sighed. “That’s a hell of a list of grievances you’ve got going. I see why you spend most of your time in countries where you don’t speak the language.”

  “So when did Mum tell you, before you headed out to the bungalow?”

  “I’m not sure she ever did. It’s more like your birthday—something I’ve just always known.” She ignored any objection from him and moved right along. “So why don’t you like to talk about it, your psychic gift?”

  “Why? Because . . .” He blinked at her. “You know, I’ve never met anyone more obtuse than me.”

  “It seems to me if a person had such an amazing gift, they’d—”

  “Want a reality TV show?”

  She waited for more.

  “Hardly worth it, in my experience. Look, let me give you the Psychic 101 crib notes: One of two things occurs when a gift like mine, or my mother’s, becomes the focal point. People label you a freak, which is super fun finger-pointing when you’re twelve or thirteen—even twenty. Trust me. Or you become this godlike being to people’s worst suffering. And in my experience, no matter how much healing you’re able to offer by way of communication, it’s never enough. I can’t bring back the dead.”

  “Can’t you?”

  The bizarre question caught him off guard, and Pete looked away. When he looked back, to his dismay, Ailish was still there. He didn’t know if she was trying to be funny or looking for facts. Laughter rose, and he wasn’t entirely sure it came from her.

  “Of course you can’t do that,” she said. “Anyway . . . surely there must be something in the middle? Something positive.”

  He was amazed she didn’t demand a demonstration. She seemed like a party trick kind of girl. But because she didn’t do this, he answered. “On occasion, there have been moments when the benefit of my gift has outweighed the burden.” Pete thought of the young girl in the Afghan village, others he plucked from precarious circumstances thanks to whispers from the dead. “Extremes are what keep my gift from being a great talking point. So if you don’t mind . . .”

  She held up her hands. “Forget I mentioned it. I didn’t realize it was such a sore spot.”

  “It is.” He looked around the diner. “Could we just get the check, get going? I’ll buy.”

  “If you insist.”

  She didn’t even make a faux reach for the backpack. Of course, she had a cell phone. If she had a dime, or a credit card, she could have called a tow service last night, an Uber ride at the very least. Pete reached for his wallet, never taking his eyes off her. Bothersome as she was, common as Uber drivers were, he didn’t like the idea of a stranger having come to her aid. Not in such a remote location. Pete busied himself with his wallet, unsure why chivalrous behavior had cropped up. Whatever. He’d make sure she got somewhere safe, report that much to his mother. He looked hard over his shoulder; the waitress appeared to be nowhere. Then he looked at Ailish. She wasn’t the easiest person to read either. But he did see that curiosity hadn’t fallen from her face. “What?”

  “Yesterday, I got the impression you didn’t really want to be at the bungalow. This morning, you never really answered me.”

  “About what?”

  “Why you came back—and in the middle of the night. Seems like a strange thing to do. So tell me, Peter St John . . .” Her smile was like a finger poke to his back. “What happened last night that makes you even testier today? Did you fall down a Rabbit Lane hole?”

  CHAPTER

  FOURTEEN

  Cryptic or superfluously babbling—Pete couldn’t pinpoint which behavior best described Ailish’s inquiry about his psychic gift. Either way, her presence felt intrusive, and they drove back to the bungalow in silence.

  Turning onto Rabbit Lane, she finally spoke. “Sorry if what I said . . . asked, pissed you off.”

  “Not at all.” Quiet resumed, and Pete realized that he sounded like his father when clearly irritated by his mother.

  “Because sometimes I do that, talk too much.”

  “I never would have guessed.”

  “Especially when I’m nervous.”

  “Why would I make you nervous?”

  “You don’t.” Her attention stayed with the road in front of them. “I didn’t mean nervous. I just meant uneasy, the house and all. Stuck there all night.”

  “And me.” Pete couldn’t get the photos of a beaten Esme out of his head. While Ailish wouldn’t admit to Pete making her uneasy, he felt anxious enough for both of them. He gripped tighter to the steering wheel, and they turned down the bungalow’s driveway.

  “I should tell you,” she said, cutting into the quiet, “yesterday, when I pulled up, I had the oddest sense of déjà vu. Has that ever happened to you—feeling like you’ve lived something already? Because this was incredibly intense.”

  “Déjà vu, huh?” The car rolled to a stop.

  “Yes. Do you ever experience anything like that?”

  With everything weighing on Pete’s mind, talk of déjà vu struck him as wildly trite. He turned toward her. “You mean a phenomenon most easily explained by a flash of cross-wiring in the brain, mismatched memories? It’s actually most common in individuals between the ages of sixteen and twenty
-five—so I’m guessing you fall right into the mainstream. Small bits of real memories, smells, sights, sounds, are enough to elicit a detailed recollection, that while seemingly true—hence the déjà vu—have no actual substantive basis in fact.”

  She blinked at him. “My God, are you always like that?”

  “What? Sort of a walking encyclopedia of information?”

  “No. Such an ass.”

  His mouth gaped, and she got out of the car. Ailish strode to her vehicle and opened the door, rummaging through the car. He considered abandoning her, backing down the drive, leaving her there. Instead, Pete continued to idle, along with the motor. He rarely pursued arguments. There was enough war in his head. He wasn’t about to get into it with someone he considered a passing acquaintance. Yet he moved on autopilot and exited the Audi. “What I just said is a fact,” he insisted, coming across the driveway. “Look it up. Sorry if your déjà vu was no more than a textbook event of readily explained circumstance.”

  She whipped around from the car, holding a hairbrush. For a moment, Pete thought she might beat him with it. “I’ve got it. No one but you is allowed to experience anything mind-provoking—déjà vu or maybe even dreams. Clearly, compared to your great psychic gift, my experiences are laughable. Again, sorry I annoyed you back at the restaurant. That you feel so compelled to dismiss me.”

  “I’m not doing that.”

  “Aren’t you?” She stabbed the hairbrush at him.

  “Well, in most cases . . .” He flailed a hand toward the garage. “No. Make that all cases of déjà—”

  “Seriously?” she snapped. “You’re going to defend that snotty, hubristic statement? You may see ghosts clearly, Pete St John. But know you are straight-up dense when it comes to social skills.”

  He glared in the direction of the barn, his face warming at his most blatant shortcoming. Back to the point. “I’m sorry if I’m unimpressed with a singularity covered in a Psych 101 class.”

  “Oh, so it’s just Basic Manners 101 you made an F in.” Ailish shook the hairbrush: rapid, angry, thinking beats. “While it’s against my better judgment, let me jump in here, educate you.”