“Not necessarily. But it is different to . . . well, like you said, ‘experience it.’”
“So there you go. A post-this-world souvenir and message. Dog and pony show complete. Anyway . . .” Pete listened for another moment. “I think the rest of his message is for my mother.”
“Really? Can I ask what it is?”
“Zeke says he’d visit more, but she knows how grifters and their souls are—wandering. He said that and . . .” Pete felt heat, redness rise in his face.
“What?”
“That, uh . . . that he still loves her. He also talks about the nature preserve behind our house. Weird. I don’t know what that means.”
“Sorry if this is a dumb question, but what’s it sound like in your head? Do you really hear his voice, my uncle speaking to you?”
“In part. Like the Irish saying about family that he communicated. Zeke was very clear about that, verbal, if you like. The best way I can describe those messages is a movie clip. It just starts running in my head. Imagine yourself in a dark theater. All of a sudden, this piece of movie lights up from the middle. It’s filled with someone else’s life, the script that goes with it. It takes practice to capture the meaning, what it is they want. Sort of like learning another language. Other times, it’s more the single frames of a film, like the ring he showed me, the symbol. It varies.” Pete rolled his eyes. “Give me a minute, would you? I’m getting to it.”
“Getting to what?”
“Zeke’s shoving your family photo album at me. He says, ‘Here’s a visual for you.’”
“Does . . . could I ask, is it just my family photo album? Does he mention anything else?” She shrugged, but there was nothing casual about it. “Anything at all to do with me?”
“Nothing specific. He’s very keyed in on your mother. Why, what is it you’re anticipating?”
Her strawberry mouth gaped. Then she shut it, biting down on her lip. “Nothing.” Ailish looked as if she was at a loss for words, which Pete assumed was an anomaly. “Makes sense, about my mother. I know he worried a lot about her.”
“Sounds like he was a good brother.”
Her confounded expression hung in there.
“Are you sure there wasn’t something else? The spirit world doesn’t entertain Q and As. But if there’s something you wanted to know, stating it aloud will sometimes motivate—”
“No.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t anything. Not anything he could help me with.”
“Okay. Sorry his communication wasn’t more personal.”
“It’s fine.” She smiled. “That was fascinating. Mum will be thrilled, and I have such vague memories of Zeke. I was only seven when he died. It would have been stranger if he had said something more personal.”
Pete nodded, grateful that Ailish and her dead uncle had managed to quell the bungalow and its contents. “Let’s get the photo album and we can get out of . . .” His words trailed off as Zeke Dublin’s voice rose once more. But this message wasn’t for Ailish, her mother, or his. It was directed at Pete.
“Listen, kid.” Pete glanced about as if a fly were buzzing through. No one had referred to him as “kid” in ages. “You’re as smart and stubborn as your old man, gifted as your mother . . . even your grandfather. Don’t let your mind fuck you up. It’s no carnie sleight of hand. You have to pay attention. If you want your life back. If you want a murder solved.”
“Pete?” Ailish said, moving toward the bedroom.
“What the . . .”
“Stop running. Start putting the pieces together. My niece can help, if you let her.”
“She’ll help?”
“I’ll what?” Ailish said, having turned for the hallway.
But Pete wasn’t tuned in to Ailish, and her uncle went on: “One more thing. So we’re clear, if you hurt her, I will haunt the living shit out of you.”
Then the grifter was gone.
“Did Zeke say something else?”
Pete frowned, unsure how he could hurt Ailish Montague. His immediate thought was emotional pain, then he recalled the photos of a beaten Esme. Pete swallowed and took a step back. “Just know Zeke’s watching over you. Like you said, common ghost notes.”
She glanced around the room like people did, anticipating a figure under a sheet. “Oh. Still good to know.”
“Depends on your perspective.” He pointed toward the bedroom.
As they made their way past the boxes and racks of costumes, Pete considered Zeke’s message. What the hell does Zeke Dublin know about any other life of mine? He looked at Ailish, in front of him. And after I turn over this photo album, get her to a gas station, she and I, we’re done.
When it came to Zeke’s niece, Pete was sure of three things: One, he harbored no desire to prolong their association. Second, that made the chances of harming her in any way nearly impossible. Third, Ailish Montague knew too much without really knowing a damn thing about him. He didn’t need her BS in psychology to sort out his life.
Pete took a quick peek at his phone. Excellent. A message from Flagler. No doubt an assignment on the other side of the world awaited him. Only a little further back in his brain did Zeke Dublin’s warning echo: “Stop running. Start putting the pieces together.” It sounded more like something his father would say. Maybe the exact advice his mother had shoved in his face before this wild ride. Pete pushed a heavier box out to the side and tried to clear his head. The girl stood near the rolltop desk and was saying something.
“You didn’t mention this many photo albums. Is it—”
He lunged, grabbing the vintage, leather-bound photo album. “Don’t touch that one!”
Any peace treaty they’d reached evaporated. She lurched back, knocking the photo album from the desk, Pete catching it like a glass vial. One that might contain an arsenic-laced potion.
She collided with the wall. “Jesus—what the hell is wrong with you!”
And they were back to that. “Nothing.” He shook, internally and externally. Or at least Pete thought he did, from her wild-eyed look.
Moments like this, they were why Pete ran. Why he wasn’t spurred on to an exploration for firm answers. He really didn’t want to know the reason he’d woken up on a beach that clearly connected to his past life. And he certainly didn’t desire further clarification about photos of a beaten Esme—how or why she’d ended up in such a state. Past life regression, even pedestrian tinkering with his other life, would be nothing but a great way to detonate a bomb.
It also seemed like a solid reason for Ailish Montague to steer clear of him. He sure as hell didn’t want another puzzle piece, or to factor in a redheaded actress he didn’t know before yesterday. Then her earlier words about the postcard rang louder than church bells: “I spent two weeks on this beach last summer.”
Pete realized why her comment resonated. They were nearly the same words that had mysteriously appeared on the postcard, his mother’s ghost gift. He ignored it. “I’m sorry,” he said, gathering his composure. “I didn’t mean to snap.” With the leather-bound album gripped tight in one hand, Pete pointed to the floral-patterned album on the desk. “That one. That’s the photo album you were looking for.”
Ailish never took her eyes off him. A wise girl wouldn’t. But instead of grabbing up the photo album and fleeing, she touched his arm. Her fingers felt like silk over spikes, the hairs on his arm standing just that way. Pete’s eyes drew wide, the way other people’s did when he spoke of their dead loved ones. Her touch was intrinsic, surreal.
She’d touched him before.
“Whatever it is . . .”
Pete stepped away. For more reasons than he could process, he didn’t want her to come closer. He didn’t want to know anything else about her.
“Whatever it is,” she repeated, “you should let someone help.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’re right. I don’t claim to understand the first thing about what’s in your head, but nob
ody should live like this.”
“Live like what?”
“So completely terrified of the unknown.”
“Pete?” Grace’s voice called out as Ailish’s phone rang.
“It’s Caroline.” She answered the call.
With the leather photo album in hand, Pete left the bedroom. Grace stood in the middle of the living room, arms folded, two fingers tapping rhythmically against her upper arm. It was old sign language for “I’m really pissed off.”
“I left you a message.” He peered around her, looking out the front window. “How did you get here?”
“Uber is handy. Why did you come out here last night?”
“Couldn’t sleep. I was afraid if I stayed there . . .” Pete squeezed his hand into a shaky fist and stared at Grace’s pretty, unmarred features. Postwar PTSD had always concerned him, and now he had hard-core evidence of how deep his defects went. “I went for a drive, ended up here.” He didn’t mention the truck or where he’d woken up that morning. “I told you about Ailish getting stuck here.” As he spoke, Ailish came out of the bedroom, talking on her phone. Her hand tugged heavily on the plait of red hair and her smile looked forced.
“Okay. Yes. I know you warned me not to borrow Lucy’s car, but I was in a hurry. No. Don’t do that.” She looked between Pete and Grace. “Please don’t send a car, Caroline. That’s ridiculous. I’ll deal. If I can’t get it fixed, I’ll take the train back into the city.” She hesitated for a moment. “Uh, well, goodbye then.”
Pete thought the red of her hair seeped into her complexion.
“Passive-aggressive at its finest.” Ailish smiled small. “I’ll, um . . . I’ll take a ride to a gas station, if you don’t mind.”
Before Pete could reply, Grace did. “Of course, we’d be glad to get you wherever you need to go.”
They stood in a triangle, Pete sensing a different uneasiness. Something about territory.
“I see you found your photo album,” Grace said to Ailish.
“Pete found it, actually . . . last night.”
“So you were both here all night.” Grace never stopped smiling, leaning left just enough to glance in the direction of the bedrooms. “How cozy. Or was it spooky out here in the dark, by yourselves?”
Ailish pointed at the front window. “Actually, I slept in my car. Pete didn’t even know I was here until he . . .” He shot her a look that somehow was enough. She reversed her finger from pointing to the door to thumbing over her shoulder. “He slept in the bedroom. Or that’s where he wandered out from when I came back inside earlier. Right?”
“I dozed off. Didn’t even realize Ailish was here until morning.”
“And you were okay with that?” Grace asked. “Sleeping here? That’s seriously hard to believe, Pete.” She looked between him, the room full of stuff, and Ailish. “Considering.”
Pete sucked in a breath, guiltily aware that Ailish knew something Grace did not. He discounted the feeling, reminded now of the hovering Grace he’d left years ago. “I . . . it was fine.”
“So,” Ailish said, cutting in. “Are the two of you heading back home? Massachusetts, right?”
“Well, I’m not sure if . . .” Pete took a turn around the room, which suddenly lacked any sense of a past life. In fact, since Grace arrived, the crazed vibe of the room had fallen flat as a sidewalk.
“We do have a ferry reservation.” Grace stood taller, brushing her hand over a crisp-looking outfit. “I’ve already checked out of the motel. Pete just needs to let that pushy New York lawyer know what he wants to do with this stuff. Are you both ready to go?” Grace talked as she moved toward the exit. “I’ve looked up the nearest gas station that does mechanic work. Five-star rating. I’m sure they’ll be able to help you out.”
“Oh, okay,” she said. “That was nice of you . . . I guess.”
Pete also moved to the exit, but his gaze stayed with the room, bumping over abandoned belongings—the saddle and carousel horse—bumping over Ailish Montague. He was strangely annoyed by the desertion of past life connections. In spite of his resistance, Pete was searching for them. At the door, gut instinct won out over deep-seated fears, and he announced, “We can go. But I’m telling the lawyer to back off. We’re keeping the house.” He looked at Ailish, who, like it or not, he associated with puzzle pieces and an uncle’s cryptic warning. “For now, anyway.”
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Compared to the past day and a half, the trip back to Surrey was uneventful. Pete kept conversation with Grace to small talk, first on the ferry, then in the car. He was subdued for many reasons, not the least of which was a new and heightened sense of anxiety that included Grace’s safety. He counted on the public setting of the ferry, glad for the traffic on 95, which kept him focused on the highway. While Grace darted from subject to subject, Pete continued to roll events around his head. The bungalow and its contents, the old photos—the troubling ones and the tranquil image of Esme. Then there was the truck and the Bayport postcard, which it seemed—like it or not—connected to Ailish Montague.
Ailish Montague . . .
Pete turned onto Homestead Road and gripped tight to the Audi’s steering wheel until the blisters forced him to ease up. Curbside, about a block back, was a good spot to mentally leave the NYU-educated, redheaded actress. Of course, he’d thought the same thing when boarding the ferry at Orient Point. Ailish had nothing to do with his past life. The Montague girl had claimed her prized family photo album. A quest and an object that had put her in Pete’s path. She’d gone back to the city by car or train. She was irrelevant. He’d never see her again. He’d make sure of it.
He and Grace neared the house and Pete glanced over his shoulder. Like Ailish, he hadn’t left the bungalow empty-handed. In the back seat, amid Grace’s belongings, was the leather-bound photo album. He hadn’t mentioned the album to Grace beyond, “I think my mother would like to flip through it.”
Turning into the driveway, Pete prepared for an awkward exit. Grace, being Grace, saved him from it. “So give me a call if you want to talk any more about the bungalow . . . or this house.” She pointed to the one that Pete still associated with home. “I wouldn’t mind looking into its past.”
“Grace, let it go.” He glanced in the back seat. “I have enough house history to deal with. Besides . . .” He looked at the porch, where his parents sat. “All the weirdness here, I know where, or more to the point who,” he said, returning his mother’s wave, “it connects to.”
She exited the vehicle and gathered her things, opening the door to her car, which was parked on an extended patch of driveway. Grace had insisted on dropping her car off before they left. Something about running errands that were closer to the St John house than hers. He watched her sharp movements, an efficient transfer of belongings that said she’d been gone a week, instead of overnight. “It was interesting, Pete.” She slammed the car door, and any ruse of keeping things casual crumpled. “But I’ve got to get back to my reality. Tell your parents hi and bye for me.”
He pointed to the porch. “Are you sure you don’t want to say . . . ?”
But she was already in her car, adjusting her side-view mirror and sunglasses.
“Thanks for going with me, Grace. Look, I’m sorry if I did anything to . . .” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “We’ll talk again before I leave for . . . wherever.”
“Sure.” She proceeded to back down the driveway.
Pete watched until Grace was out of sight. He leaned on the Audi and tapped his knuckles against it—code for flagrant self-doubt. Proof that his ability to handle relationships, in this life or the last, sucked beyond belief.
Pete gathered his duffel bag and the photo album and headed for the front porch and his parents. “Grace said to say hello . . . and goodbye.”
Levi hummed under his breath. “I take it that part of the trip didn’t go well.”
“You could say that.” Pete looked over his shoulder. “Honestly, it
’s just as well.” He smiled stiffly. “Women. Not what I do best, for a million reasons.”
“Like father, like . . .” Aubrey traded a smile with Levi. “You have to admit, the Levi St John learning curve was seriously steep.”
“Maybe it just took the right woman.” Levi cleared his throat and put aside his book. “So what did you learn about this Long Island house, which I believe was the point of the trip?”
“Maybe not the entire point,” Aubrey said. “Was there more, Pete? Was there anything associated with an abandoned bungalow, other than carnie keepsakes?”
He hesitated. “More than I cared to know.”
Pete spent the next hour detailing his discoveries, the curious ones, like the vast array of paraphernalia left behind and how a crazy-eyed carousel horse and vintage saddle struck him as more than memorabilia. He talked about the old truck he and Grace discovered, his mother fascinated by its connection to Oscar Bodette. “Oscar?” she said. “As in Charley’s second and fourth husband? That Oscar?” Pete assured her it was one and the same.
Levi adjusted his glasses and listened harder as Pete reached the more baffling part of his trip. He told them how he’d gotten into the truck but had no cognitive knowledge of how he’d ended up at a beach, miles away. Their expressions shifted from concerned to astonished when he explained that the beach was the same one pictured in Aubrey’s postcard. The one that, according to her, bore no message before two days ago. He did not speak of the redheaded Ailish Montague.
Then, in his ambivalence, Pete made an attempt to brush it all off. “But you know, now that I’ve had a chance to think about it, put some distance between me and Long Island . . .” He drew a steady breath. “Compared to most life experiences, this was fairly tame. I don’t know that it delivered the ‘aha’ moment you were hoping for, Mom.”
She was silent, thrumming her fingers on the glossy magazine cover. “So you think it’s coincidence.” She shrugged her slim shoulders. “A fluke that somehow there’s a connection between your past and Oscar Bodette.”
Echo Moon Page 19
