“Oh.” Chloe thought about this. She felt odd, unsettled but accepting of what this other Chloe said. She thought that it might be because this was a dream, but also because it was real. “That’s a nice thought, but can I trust you? You’ve frightened me a lot, you know. Those dreams are terrible and not very long on specifics. I’m never quite certain what I’m supposed to do.”
“I’m sorry. They’re terrible for me too. I don’t like them, you know. I’d rather we get stock-market tips or be able to guess the sex of unborn babies. But I am what I am, a sort of harbinger of death.”
“Great.” But it was hard to be annoyed with anyone who dressed like Glinda.
“As to what one should do with the information . . .” The shadow Chloe sighed and looked around. “I do know that you’re going to need a friend to help you out with all this—someone who understands what’s happening. If not me, then who?”
Chloe smiled. “Well . . .” Both selves turned toward the bed and looked at their sleeping body cuddled in Rory’s arms.
“Yes, I suppose there’s Rory. If he accepts. I think he will.”
“I can trust him then?” Chloe asked. “Granny was just being mean when she said that stuff?”
“Oh yes. You can trust him to keep you safe.”
“You know this?”
“I know. That you’ll be safe.”
“Good. That’s what I’ve been thinking. More or less.”
Chloe thought about asking something else of her shadow, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. MacGregor was dead. Claude was dead, too—and better the circumstances of his death stay buried, even in thought. Rory hadn’t killed anyone. And if he had, it would only have been to defend his father because Isaac or Claude was doing something to him. Chloe understood and condoned that. She wasn’t close to her own father, but if someone like Isaac had threatened him, she would have done the same thing.
“That’s the best way to view it,” the shadow Chloe agreed. “Why ruin what could be the finest thing that’s ever happened to you because of that nasty old lady?” She turned her back on the bed. “You can go to sleep now if you want. And don’t worry about your granny. We don’t have to talk to her if we don’t want to. I know how to stop her sneaking in now.”
“Thanks. She still scares me a bit.” Chloe added awkwardly: “I’m glad we’ve talked face to face. Words are easier for me than pictures. If you need me to know something, just tell me.”
“I’ll remember that, and do it if I can,” she promised. Her image wavered for an instant and she blurred like the object of an out-of-focus lens. “I have to go now. This kind of communication is still difficult for me. I’m sure I’ll see you soon—though hopefully not too soon.”
“Amen to that. I’ve had enough excitement for a while.”
“Me, too.” The shadow Chloe hesitated a moment. “You might want to plan on a trip to Hawaii soon. I think Rory is going to want to go there on business. Best avoid Maui if you can. Not that anything really bad will happen. Not to you. But you’ll have an easier time if you stay off the island.”
“Okay. No Maui,” Chloe agreed. And then she found herself back in bed, cocooned in moonlight, linen sheets and strong arms. Her double was gone.
Rory stirred. He raised a large hand and smoothed back her hair. Those couldn’t be the hands of a murderer, Chloe told herself. Granny Claire was just trying to ruin her happiness.
“Bad dreams?” Rory asked. His voice was gravelly.
“Not tonight,” Chloe answered, rolling over and smiling at him. Her shadow side was right. If she couldn’t trust herself, who could she trust? “I may not ever have bad dreams again. I’ve made peace with myself.”
Rory looked at her oddly, but said, “I’m glad.”
“Me too,” she said. And because she felt safe to: “I love you.”
He blinked. “I love you, too. I always will.”
“I know.” Chloe sighed happily and snuggled back into his arms. Unable to help herself, she asked, “Rory, are you thinking of going to Hawaii?”
“I have been, yes. I have a new contact there who specializes in native mosses. Why do you ask?” His voice was more awake.
“No reason,” Chloe assured him, twirling a finger in the hair on his chest. She stared at it raptly as she added, “I just thought maybe I would go with you.”
“That would be nice,” he said carefully. “Is that all? It seems a rather small thing to be keeping you awake.”
“We wouldn’t need to go to Maui, would we?” she asked, knowing it was a strange thing to say, but unable to help herself.
“Not if you didn’t want to.”
He laced his fingers in her hair and gently tilted her head back so he could study her face. His hand was large enough to cover her skull. Chloe knew that there wasn’t much to see even if the moon was bright, but she was certain he was finding answers anyway. She tried not to squirm.
“I don’t want to.” She waited for Rory’s answer, not willing to be any plainer.
“Then we won’t,” he promised, releasing his hold and again smoothing her hair. His voice had grown thoughtful.
“Thank you.” She tucked her head back into the crook of his neck, not wanting to talk about Hawaii any more. “We can go back to sleep now, if you want.”
Rory’s hand skimmed down her back and then her thigh. He paused there, kneading her skin.
“I don’t think that’s what I want right now.”
“Oh, good.” Chloe laughed a little and rolled on top of him. He obligingly fell back.
“I think you’ve bewitched me,” he said, hands settling on her waist. He smiled wryly.
“Not yet. I’m still learning how. But give me time.” Chloe leaned down and kissed him.
And they would have plenty of time, she assured herself. They had the rest of their lives. Because they certainly wouldn’t be going to Maui.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Dear Reader,
As ever, there are people to thank since books don’t happen in a vacuum. This time out, in addition to my husband, I owe a lot to my cousin, Richard Magruder. My original idea for this story did come from a piece I saw on CNN and then a story in People magazine back in 1996, but the feel of this particular tale is owed in large part to Richard, who shared some wonderful family photos and stories of a particular (to remain unnamed) cemetery in Louisiana.
Richard, not being a native of Southern climes, also shared with me his thoughts about who should and should not sing the Southern blues. I had always thought blues were the blues, except that in some places they played slide guitar, but that isn’t the case. Chicago blues don’t look quite the same as Louisiana blues. For those that are as uncertain as Chloe about who is and who is not allowed to sing the blues, I suggest you take the quiz at the front of the book. (I hated to break the news to Chloe, but by the standards of the test, neither she nor I really should be trying to sing the blues. However, she’s stubborn and I expect she’ll keep on doing it anyway. I will, too.)
The technology in the book is slightly outdated—a lot has happened in the last ten years. Just squint a bit and you won’t notice the lack of cell phones and so forth.
If you are interested in seeing some fabulous tombs, look for the book A Beautiful Death. It has a fascinating foreword by the horror writer Dean Koontz.
Thank you again for joining me. It’s always a pleasure to spend time with you. If you want to get in touch, I can be reached online at www.melaniejackson.com or by snail mail at: PO Box 574, Sonora, CA 95370-0574.
Best,
Melanie Jackson
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