by Kathi Daley
“Can we have pancakes for breakfast tomorrow?” Alyson asked, changing the subject.
“Don’t you sleep?” I wondered.
“No. You seem to have that covered.”
Even though ghost me looked like teenage me, she acted more like five-year-old me. Not that I was that much of a chatterbox even when I was five. I wondered if she was broken. Maybe I needed to have another talk with Chan. “Look, I need to get some sleep, so I’ll make you a deal. If you fade away to wherever it is you go when you disappear and let me sleep until I wake up on my own in the morning, we can have pancakes for breakfast.”
“Deal.” Alyson rolled over and kissed me on the cheek, then disappeared. At least I thought it was a kiss. Her touch didn’t put pressure on my skin like a real touch would, but my cheek felt warm where her lips had touched it. I closed my eyes and turned onto my side. Despite what Chan had told me, I was pretty sure I’d completely lost my mind. Still, if I was totally honest with myself, if I had to leave her behind when I went home to New York, I might miss her. It was almost like having an annoying little sister. Something I’d always wanted but never had.
Chapter 5
Wednesday, May 23
I woke early the next morning despite the late night. The sky outside my bedroom window was just beginning to lighten. It looked as if it would be warm and sunny even with the clouds that lingered on the horizon. Shadow stood up next to me and yawned, then dipped into a low stretch before hopping off the bed. I still wasn’t quite sure what to make of his presence in the house. Not only had he waited ten long years for my return, but he looked as young and energetic as he had the day I left.
I went over to my closet and pulled a pair of slacks off a hanger. I paused and glanced out the window as the first streaks of red painted the morning sky. I planned to spend much of my day cleaning, so perhaps expensive slacks weren’t my best option. I walked across the room to the old dresser I’d left behind and opened a drawer filled with faded jeans.
I picked up the pair on top and held them in my hands. I hadn’t worn jeans often since I’d left Cutter’s Cove. I rubbed the soft, worn denim over my cheek before slipping them over my long, lean legs. I smiled as I buttoned them over my flat stomach. The jeans felt like a warm hug from an old friend.
I opened yet another drawer and pulled out a light blue T-shirt. Over that I slipped on a white sweatshirt, and then pulled on a pair of Nike’s I found in the back of the closet. By the time I made it down to the kitchen, the sky was brilliant with color. The reds mingled with streaks of orange, giving promise to the brilliance of the day ahead.
I made myself a cup of coffee, then wandered out onto the deck. Shadow followed me as I walked along the old beach trail that was now overgrown with weeds. I stood at the top of the bluff, where the trail that wound down the steep cliff began its descent. I listened to the waves crashing onto the sand below as I sipped my coffee and let the peace and serenity of the moment wrap itself around me. The house faced the sea to the southwest, making it ideal for catching sunsets, but during certain times of the year, when the days grow long, the sun rises just over the little bluff on the northeastern side of the cove. The wispy clouds had taken on reds and pinks, indicating that this outing was going to be an exceptionally lovely one.
Memories played gently through my mind as I turned to watch the sun rise over the bluff behind me. I’d first come to Cutter’s Cove with a broken spirit and a shattered life, but it hadn’t taken long for the easygoing charm of the small town to fill the void left by all that I’d been forced to leave behind. The house had been a godsend. Majestic, yet battered by years of neglect, it had provided Mom and me a project to occupy us. We’d hauled out the garbage and stripped the old, faded wallpaper. We’d torn out the floors and gutted the bathrooms and kitchen. Once the old had been taken away, we began the task of rebuilding. A room at a time. A project at a time. We’d lovingly and carefully added blues, grays, and white, which seemed to bring the feel of the sea into the majestic house. Mom loved to cook, so she’d designed a chef’s kitchen. The old hardwood floors had been refinished and every wall had been carefully painted. We’d worked away our grief, our pain. We’d taken something damaged and dilapidated and made it warm and beautiful. With each wall we painted, we’d found peace, and finally, after months of running, we’d realized we’d found a home.
And then I’d met Mac and Trevor, and for the first time in a long time, I’d felt whole. I knew I could never repay them for the friendship they’d shown me, or the impact they’d had on my life, but perhaps I should have tried. I should have called or written. I should have shown them how much they meant to me.
“You’re up early,” Mac said, sauntering up beside me as I sipped my coffee.
“I wanted to watch the sun rise.”
Mac took a sip of her own coffee. “It is something special to watch the sea come to life.”
I looked toward the water, which had turned from gray to blue. Seagulls circled overhead, looking for their first meal of the day. “I’d forgotten the feeling of serenity I’d always found here. I can’t believe I allowed myself to stay away so long.”
“It’s easy to let time slip away if you aren’t paying attention.” Mac put her head on my shoulder. “But you’re here now. It’s never too late to regain what you’ve lost along the way.”
I took Mac’s free hand in my mine and gave it a squeeze. “I’m here now.” I closed my eyes and let the feeling float freely through me. “And I intend to make the most of it.”
Mac and I stood for several more minutes watching the sun climb into the sky. “How do pancakes sound for breakfast?” I asked.
“Heavenly.”
Mac and I went back into the house as the reds and purples coloring the sky gave way to wispy white clouds painted on a blue backdrop. The deep blue sea with white seagulls floating on the surface seemed to mirror the colors of the sky. God, I’d missed this.
When we entered the kitchen, Alyson was sitting at the kitchen table. “It’s about time. We’re starving.”
I frowned at ghost me. I was hungry. Could she feel what I did? I was starting to get used to her presence, but the specifics of whatever was going on was more than a little confusing.
“What’s with the frown?” Mac asked as she poured herself a second cup of coffee.
“Nothing. I just …” I let the sentence dangle.
“I don’t think she’ll freak out if you tell her about me,” Alyson said.
She was right. Mac was the only one who’d known all my secrets. She probably wouldn’t freak out if I told her about Alyson. “There’s someone in that chair.” I pointed to Alyson.
Mac glanced at the table. “Someone? You mean a ghost someone? Barkley?”
“As if.” Alyson rolled her eyes. “That old dude has been gone for more than a decade. Ghosts who have moved on don’t come back, you know.”
I ignored Alyson and shook my head. “No. It’s not a ghost. It’s me, only it’s not me.”
Now it was Mac who frowned. “Huh?”
“It’s Alyson,” I said, giving Alyson a soft look as Shadow jumped into her lap. “Chan said she’s the part of me I left behind. The part of me that’s connected to the house.”
“So, you can see an image of yourself?” Mac asked with a confused expression on her face.
I nodded. “Not just see. Hear and speak to as well.”
A look of surprise crossed Mac’s face. “Damn. That must have freaked you out the first time you saw her.”
I laughed. “Yes. More than just a little bit.”
Mac looked at the table again. “What’s Alyson doing?”
“Sitting at the table petting Shadow. She’s sitting in the same chair as Shadow. Apparently, he can see her. It seems he can even feel her touch.”
Mac stood staring at Shadow, her mouth hanging open.
“She wants pancakes,” I continued. “It’s always been her who loved pancakes.”
“Then
I guess we should make the pancakes.” Mac crossed the room and sat down on the chair next to Shadow. She squinted as she looked at the chair where I’d told her Alyson was. “I wish I could see you. I’ve missed you. So much. I’m glad you were here waiting.”
Alyson put a hand on Mac’s leg. A look of shock crossed her face. “She touched me. I felt her touch me,” Mac said. “On the leg.”
“She did touch you on the leg,” I confirmed. “She missed you too.”
Mac gulped. “So, is this split permanent? Will you always exist in two different places in time and space?”
I took flour from the cupboard and milk and eggs from the refrigerator. “Chan says we’ll be made one again once I’m willing to fully accept Alyson back into my life.”
Mac raised a brow. “What does that mean?”
I broke two eggs into a bowl and began to whip them. “Chan says when I left Cutter’s Cove to return to my life in New York, I left behind the parts of me that didn’t fit. The parts that belong to Alyson but wouldn’t fit into Amanda’s life. At first, I didn’t understand, but I think I’m beginning to.”
“And if you’re able to reconcile those parts, Amanda and Alyson will merge?”
“Theoretically.” I poured the milk into the batter. “The thing is, even if I was able to merge Amanda and Alyson, I think we’ll split again when I leave. Alyson is linked to the house.” I looked at ghost me, who was twirling her hair as she listened in on our conversation. The thought of driving away and leaving her in the house seemed unimaginable. Yet I needed to go home after I found Booker’s killer. Didn’t I?
That was much too confusing a question to consider this early in the day, so after I dropped the first of the pancakes on the griddle, I poured myself another cup of coffee and changed the subject. “I thought we’d go to Booker’s place today. Talk to Monica. Look around.”
“Seems like as good a place as any to start,” Mac agreed.
******
Booker’s seaside estate was perched on a bluff overlooking the ocean. Built of red brick, the house was a large two-story colonial with single-story wings on either side. The large home was surrounded with magnificent gardens, and the stately interior housed antique furniture and priceless art. Booker had worked as a school librarian, but he’d come from money, and the home he’d created stood as a legacy to the exceptional man who’d loved books as much as Amanda.
“We’re here to see Monica,” I said to the woman dressed in black who’d opened the door after my knock.
“She’s expecting you. Please follow me.”
Mac and I followed the maid through the entry, past the grand staircase leading to the second floor, through a large living area with vaulted ceilings and a floor-to-ceiling fireplace, down a hall lined with artwork, and into a room that was even more charming than I remembered.
“Mac; Alyson,” Monica screeched.
I was about to correct Monica, but suddenly the distinction between Amanda and Alyson seemed less important.
“It’s so good to see you both,” Monica said as she hugged us enthusiastically.
“I was so sorry to hear about your uncle,” I said.
“He was an exceptional man,” Mac added.
Monica’s smile faded. “It’s been six months, but I still miss him so much. Every time I walk through the front door I expect to find him waiting for me.” Monica’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t imagine who would have murdered him in his own home.”
“I know the police haven’t had any luck finding the killer, but Mac, Trevor, and I want to help if we can,” I said.
“I spoke to Woody. He said you’d be here to ask me what I knew and to take a look around.” Monica looked at me. “I remember you helped to solve mysteries when you lived here. I hope you can help now. It’s just not right that Uncle Rory is dead and his killer is still walking around free to do as he or she pleases.”
I looked around the large library. It was built on two levels, with the second one open to the first in the center of the room, where a large table and chairs were set. Booker owned thousands of books, collected over a lifetime. It had always amazed me, the depth of knowledge housed in this one room. “I understand he was found in this room.”
Monica nodded and walked across the hardwood floor. She paused at a bookshelf on the first floor. “Woody told me it was here.”
I glanced at the regal fireplace that had been built into one wall. I could picture Booker sitting in one of the red leather chairs, smoking a pipe. He loved this room most of all in his fabulous house and spent a lot of time here.
I caught a glimpse of Alyson out of the corner of my eye. She walked over to one of the two red leather chairs that faced each other, with a small chess table between them. She sat down, and then poof, Booker was sitting across from her.
I gasped.
“Are you okay?” Monica asked, concern evident on her face.
I glanced at Monica. “Yes. I’m fine. I guess I was just overcome with emotion. Could I possibly bother you for a glass of water?”
“Certainly. I’ll bring a pitcher and three glasses. I’ll be right back.”
Mac gave me an odd look. “What really happened?” she asked after Monica left the room.
“It’s Booker. He’s here.”
Mac looked around the room. “Where?”
I pointed to the red chairs. “There. He’s sitting across from Alyson.” I walked over to the pair, who seemed to be looking at each other but had yet to speak or attempt to communicate in any way.
“Amanda,” Alyson beamed. “Look who’s here.”
I looked at Booker. “Can you see me? Can you see us?”
“Yes, but why are there two of you? Are you dead too?”
I was surprised to hear Booker’s reply; in the past, I’d been able to see ghosts but not converse with them. “No, I’m not dead. This is Alyson. She’s the part of me I left behind in Oregon. It’s kind of hard to explain. I can’t believe I can speak to you.” I felt emotion catch in my throat. “How are you?”
Booker looked down at himself. “Dead, so overall, not that great. Are you here to help me move on?”
I nodded. “I think I am. I’m so sorry about what happened.”
Booker appeared to frown. “I’m a little fuzzy on that, to be honest. I was at a party. Then, the next thing I remember was waking up to find myself looking down on my own lifeless body. I seem to be stuck here in the library. Every now and then I catch a glance of Monica when she comes in for one reason or another, but I can’t touch her or speak to her. In fact, before you showed up here today, I’ve felt as if I exist in some alternate dimension.”
“You don’t know what happened? How you died?”
Booker shook his head. “I can’t remember.”
“Mac and Trevor and I are going to try to find the answers you need. I think we’re supposed to be here. I think that’s why you can see and speak to me.”
“Hey, don’t forget about me,” Alyson complained.
“Of course,” I said. “Alyson wants to help as well.”
“Monica is coming back,” Mac warned me.
I made a motion, indicating that I needed to stop speaking. I returned my attention to Mac and Monica while Alyson continued to chat with Booker. Apparently, I was the only one who could see or hear either of them, but it was distracting to have them chatting while I tried to ignore them to focus on the living people in the room.
“Let’s have a seat at the table and discuss things,” Monica suggested. She’d brought both a pitcher of water and one of lemonade and three glasses. “I know it can be hard to take everything in. It took me a long time before I could talk about Booker without breaking down.”
Mac and I followed Monica to the table and took seats. It felt wrong to be in this room Booker loved so much without him, but with his ghost just outside my peripheral vision, it was almost right.
“I understand Booker donated this house and the grounds to the historical socie
ty,” I said to ease into the conversation we needed to have. “I was curious why he might have done that.”
“Uncle Rory loved this house and everything in it. He wanted it to be here for a long time. He never married or had children, and his parents, as well as his brother—my father—were dead long before he passed, so the only family he had left were my brother Jessie and me. I know Uncle Rory considered leaving the house to us, but Jessie doesn’t appreciate the house the way I do, and I think Uncle Rory was afraid he’d pressure me into selling it. Not that I would have, but I understand why that might have been a concern for him. In the end, I guess he decided it was best to donate the house to the historical society. That way it could never be sold to some random person who might decide to tear it down. He knew I loved the place and would want to live here, so he named me custodian and caretaker.”
“I understand you give tours.”
“Yes.” Monica nodded. “There’s a service to take care of the cleaning and the maintenance of the grounds, so the work is easy and leaves me quite a bit of free time. I’m working on a book about Uncle Rory’s extraordinary life. He managed to pack in quite a lot during his time on this earth.”
I glanced toward the fireplace, where Booker and Alyson were still chatting. He’d been an amazing man and I missed him deeply.
“I know you weren’t in town when your uncle died, but I’d be interested in knowing what you’ve been told,” I started off.
“I’d be happy to tell you. If it will help.” Monica shifted in her chair. I could sense she wasn’t comfortable with this subject. “After Uncle Rory’s body was found, someone from the police station called to tell me he was dead. I caught the next flight home. At first, I thought maybe he’d had a heart attack or some other age-related event. He was getting on in years, so his death wasn’t exactly unexpected. Then I spoke to Woody, and he told me exactly what had happened. I guess I must have been in shock because the next little bit was sort of a blur. Eventually, I felt able to speak to him about the specifics. I’m glad you’re here to help.”
