“Sounds good,” I said, putting a fresh filter and grounds in.
It hadn’t taken me long at all to settle into my new routine. I continued to work at Aunt May’s, although I had been promoted to a full-fledged waitress. I also didn’t have quite as many shifts as before since Liz was back part-time. When I wasn’t working, I was either out trying to tame the jungle that Helen had called a “garden,” or I was hanging out with Claire or Lou.
It wasn’t the most exciting life, but I found it deeply satisfying.
“Cool.” She flashed me a quick smile before bustling over to a mother and daughter who had just walked in. The daughter was hanging on to her mother’s hand and singing “ice cream, ice cream,” over and over.
I smiled and turned my attention back to the coffee.
I had forgotten what it was like to not be afraid. To not have to keep looking over my shoulder, worried I had said or done something wrong. To not feel like I had to walk on eggshells. It was so nice to just relax and be myself, without having to worry that it either wasn’t enough or too much.
I had forgotten what it was like to feel peace.
Coffee brewing, I turned back to the dining area to check on my customers. I had two, each sitting alone at different tables. One appeared to be a student, as she was surrounded by a stack of books and was furiously writing in a notebook. The other was an older, balding man who had come in for a late lunch.
I glanced back at the coffee, waiting for it to finish brewing so I could refill the student’s cup yet again. She had only eaten half her sandwich; the plate was still on the table, pushed to the side to make room for her notebook and coffee. I wasn’t sure which was more important.
It was a lovely day. The sun was out, the sky was a rich, dark blue, and the temperature was in the low eighties. I watched people walking past the diner through the big window, clearly enjoying the day.
A man walked past looking lost and confused as he tried to navigate the street with map in hand. He paused, then stopped a woman with a tower of permed, curly hair, to, I assumed, ask for directions.
There was something so familiar about him, but I couldn’t place it. He had dark, longish hair, glasses, and a dark mustache.
He looked nothing like Alan, yet something about him reminded me of him. Of course, that was silly. Alan was dead. And even if by some crazy chance that wasn’t true, there was no way he had managed to not only grow his hair out, but also a mustache just in the past couple of weeks.
But, still. There was something about the way he held his head, the way he gestured at the woman, that reminded me of Alan.
A storm is coming. Beware.
I gave myself a quick shake. That dream was just the result of paranoia. Nothing more. Alan was dead. He died in a car crash. Case closed.
“Miss?”
I glanced over to see the college student holding up her coffee cup and waving at me. I nodded and reached for the nearly full coffee pot.
Through the window, I saw the man thank the woman and start to walk away. After a couple of steps, he turned his face toward me for a brief moment.
I froze.
It was Alan. I was sure of it.
I shoved the coffee pot back in the machine, causing the hot coffee to slosh over onto my hand. I barely registered it as I ran for the front door, trying to catch him before he disappeared. My skin had turned to ice, except for my scar that burned white hot.
“Charlie?” Claire’s voice was puzzled and a little alarmed, but I ignored her, pushing the door open and dashing outside.
The sidewalk was empty.
From behind me, I could see the back of the woman Alan had been talking to, but there was no sign of him.
I started down the block in the same direction I saw him go, searching everywhere. Did he turn off one of the side roads? Go into a neighboring business?
Nothing stood out. The only person remotely close was Maude, trundling toward me, pushing her shopping cart in front of her. I could hear the clacking of the wheels as they ran over the cracks.
“Charlie?” Claire said from behind me. “What’s going on? Why are you out here?”
“I thought I saw someone.” I was still craning my neck, trying to look in all directions at once.
“Who?”
He was gone. Whoever I had seen, or thought I had seen, was gone now.
I looked at Claire. She was watching me with a concerned expression on her face. I sighed.
“Alan.”
Her eyes widened. “Alan? But he’s dead.”
“I know, I just ...” I rubbed my forehead. “I guess I’m just seeing things. There was a guy out here who reminded me of Alan, so I was thinking about Alan and ...” my voice trailed off. “Never mind.”
Claire’s expression change from worried to compassionate. “Hey,” she said softly, reaching out to rub my arm. “It’s okay. You’ve had a really stressful few weeks. Moving here, buying a house, losing Alan. It’s bound to have an effect.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Plus, I’m still recovering from that concussion. The doctor said it could take weeks, if not a few months.”
“Exactly,” Claire said with a smile. “Remember, you’re safe here. Nothing is going to happen to you. Should we go back in?”
I nodded and let Claire lead me back into the restaurant, even though I still felt uneasy.
On the other hand, Claire did have a point. Not to mention that, whoever he was, was gone now. It didn’t make much sense to stand outside like an idiot when I was supposed to be working.
Claire opened the door to Aunt May’s as I took one final glance over my shoulder. The only person there was Maude.
She looked up, saw me looking at her, and smiled. Even from where I was, I could see how yellow and stained her teeth were.
“A storm is coming. Beware,” she hissed.
My stomach turned to ice. “What did you say?” I asked.
“I didn’t say anything,” Claire said.
“Not you,” I said, still staring at Maude.
Maude’s smile widened as she continued to push her cart toward me.
Claire turned back to me. “Hi Maude,” she said, looking at me. She gave me a look that clearly said, “What is wrong with you?”
Maude didn’t reply to either of us. Claire reached out to grab my arm and firmly pulled me into the restaurant. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked in my ear.
“I thought I heard her say something,” I said.
“She says things all the time!” Claire said, exasperated. “She talks to herself constantly, in case you haven’t noticed.”
That was true. Maude was always muttering to herself every time she came in to pick up her meal.
But this was different. Usually when she talked to herself, she didn’t make eye contact. She kept her eyes on the ground or the space next to her.
This time, however, Maude had looked me squarely in the eye.
Clearly, Claire hadn’t heard her, though. “I was sure she was saying something to me,” I said. “I guess I heard wrong.”
Claire’s lips stretched into a smile, but her eyes were serious. “Why don’t you take your break now? It’s quiet. We can handle it.”
I was tempted to say “yes” and run right back out the door. Whether it was to track down Maude or look for that Alan-lookalike again, I couldn’t say. But I knew that wasn’t what Claire meant.
Instead, I nodded and slipped into the kitchen to see what sort of meal they could whip up for me. My logical brain knew Claire was right; I hadn’t seen Alan because he was dead. Nor did Maude really say, “A storm is coming, beware.” My brain was playing tricks on me.
Still, the uneasy feeling remained lodged in the pit of my stomach, no matter how much I tried to tell myself I was being foolish.
***
“You look beautiful,” Annabelle gushed, tears in her eyes. “You are such a beautiful bride.”
Bride?
“You are going to make your husband one lucky man,” she said.
Husband?
“Annabelle, what’s going on?” I asked warily.
Annabelle burst out laughing. “I told you that champagne was going to go to your head. Didn’t I, Marguerite?”
“You did,” Marguerite said, guzzling her own glass before reaching for the bottle sitting on a tray to refill. Her stomach was flat in her pale-pink taffeta dress.
“Uh, Marguerite, aren’t you pregnant?” I asked.
“Don’t you be worrying about me, Charlotte,” Marguerite said, winking at me. “I’d be focused on my own mess, if I were you.”
“Now, Charlotte, we talked about this,” Annabelle fussed. She was wearing the same dress as Marguerite. “You said you weren’t going to do this anymore.”
“I wasn’t going to do what?” I asked, mystified.
Marguerite rolled her eyes. “You always were such a troublemaker.”
“I’m not,” I started to say, but Annabelle hushed me. “Stop arguing. You’ll spoil your makeup. There.” She said with a flourish, holding up a large mirror. “Aren’t you gorgeous?”
Flabbergasted, I stared at myself. I looked like a clown. Bright-blue eyeshadow was painted across my temples, mascara was smudged below my eyes creating thick, black circles, and bright-red lipstick was smeared across my chin. My hair was a mess, hanging in tangled curls below my veil.
“What are you talking about? I look awful,” I said.
Annabelle clapped her hands and squealed. “I knew you’d love it! See, I always told you you’d be a beautiful bride.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I protested. “I look dreadful.”
Annabelle rolled her eyes and elbowed Marguerite. “Now you’re just bragging,” she said.
“Annabelle, I don’t know what ...”
“Oh, we have to go,” Annabelle exclaimed. “You’re supposed to be walking down the aisle right now.”
“You don’t want to be late for that,” Marguerite said drily.
“What? Annabelle, I’m not getting married.” I tried to protest, but Annabelle hauled me up and started leading me out the door.
“Of course you’re getting married. This is just a little cold feet. You’ll be fine after you say, ‘I do.’”
I tried to plant my feet to stop walking, but somehow, I continued moving forward. “No. You don’t understand. I’m not engaged anymore.”
“Trust me. It’s all going to be fine in just a few minutes. He’s waiting for you.”
“Who?”
But Annabelle was gone. In her place was my father, standing next to me, holding my arm. “Ready Charlotte? That’s our cue.” He was wearing the same tux he wore when Marguerite and Annabelle had gotten married.
We were in the back of the packed church. Somewhere, an organ was playing Here Comes the Bride. Everyone stood up and turned to face me.
“Dad, what is going on?” I hissed. “I’m not engaged.”
My father patted my arm measuredly. “Annabelle told me you were feeling a little skittish. Not to worry. I’m here.”
“But, dad,” I tried to protest, but it didn’t matter. We were walking down the aisle as everyone watched, their faces nameless blurs.
I tried to stop, to turn back, but I couldn’t break free of my father’s arm. Up ahead, I could see Annabelle and Marguerite standing with the minister and the groomsmen. I couldn’t see the groom’s face.
Why? What was going on? I tried to squirm away, but no matter what I did, I just kept moving closer and closer to the altar.
Who was I marrying?
“Do you give this woman to be married to this man?” The minister intoned. His voice seemed to echo throughout the church.
“What man?” I asked.
“I do,” my father said.
“What man?” I asked again with more urgency.
“Be seated,” the minister said.
My father squeezed my arm and turned away. I saw my mother sitting in the front row, wearing a navy mother-of-the-bride dress. She had tears in her eyes.
“Give me your bouquet,” Annabelle whispered in my ear. I looked down at the bunch of dead and rotting flowers in my hand, crawling with insects and bugs. I recoiled, but Annabelle simply reached over and took it from me, like it was a perfectly normal wedding bouquet. “Go on, take your fiancé’s hand.”
“I don’t have a fiancé,” I hissed, but then, the groom began turning toward me, holding out his hand.
I froze.
It was Alan.
“It’s time,” he said, trying to grab my hand. His face was grey, and dried skin was flecking off.
I jerked away. “You’re dead!”
He grinned, his tight skin stretching across his facial bones, making him look even more like a corpse. “Are you sure about that?”
“Of course I am,” I snapped. “You died in a car accident.”
“How do you know?”
“What do you mean, how do I know? They found your car!”
He shrugged. “So what? Maybe it was stolen.”
“It wasn’t stolen. You told Annabelle where you were going.”
“Doesn’t mean I went there.”
“But you were in the car,” I said impatiently. “They recovered your body.”
He leaned in close to me. His breath was fetid, wreaking of death and decay. “Are you sure about that?”
I woke up with a gasp. For a moment, I was sure I was back in New York, in Alan’s apartment with him lying next to me. But after a few panicked breaths, I remembered where I was.
I was a thousand miles away in my own home. Alan was dead. I was safe.
Or ... was he?
I wanted to sit up, but first, I had to untangle myself from the sheets. They were drenched with sweat, but eventually, I freed myself and got out of bed.
There was a grey tinge to the darkness that promised dawn on the horizon. I went to the window and peeled back the curtain. It was brighter outside, the dark already lifting. A couple of robins were hopping in the lawn, searching for that early worm, while rabbits nibbled at the edges near the woods. For the time being, Midnight was sleeping inside, and the animals were clearly taking advantage.
As if he knew I was thinking about him, the cat raised his head from where he slept, curled up in the chair next to the window, and meowed at me.
“Yes, you’ll get breakfast in a sec,” I said as I continued to search the backyard. Nothing seemed out of place. No strange shadows or anything out of the ordinary. Everything seemed peaceful and normal.
Nothing like what happened after my last disturbing dream.
I dropped the curtain and turned to head to the kitchen, Midnight at my heels. Despite how calm and quiet everything was, I still felt out of sorts and agitated. Maybe some tea would help.
Once in the kitchen, I got the kettle boiling and fed Midnight before preparing some fresh lavender. I had been delighted to find several lavender bushes in the garden. They were overgrown and wild, but nevertheless, a great start to my tea business.
While the tea brewed, I went back to the window. The sun was just beginning to emerge from the edge of the horizon, a bright orange-red ball licking the edges of the yard. The smell of lavender filled the kitchen, and I inhaled deep breaths of the comforting scent.
It didn’t help. My mind continued spinning around and around, getting more and more agitated no matter how often I repeated to myself that Alan must be dead.
His car was found with him inside. There was no question.
So how could I explain my dreams? Or what happened at Aunt May’s?
Stress. My
brain healing. Nothing more than that.
Still. I couldn’t stop fretting and worrying.
He couldn’t still be alive. It wasn’t possible.
Yet I could still feel his dark presence, lurking around, wanting me back, just waiting for me to drop my guard.
He was dead. He had to be.
Chapter 22
“You want me to come over?” Claire asked.
I could hear the hesitation and uncertainty in her voice.
“Is there maybe a better place to meet?” I asked.
Claire paused. “Good point.”
Claire was working later in the day, which was why I hoped to see her in the morning. I didn’t want to have the conversation I needed to have with her at Aunt May’s. There was no privacy there. Doug worked nights, so he was likely sleeping and wouldn’t want to be disturbed. Besides, I had yet to meet him, and would hate for his first impression of me to come from overhearing this particular talk.
Claire was still quiet on the other end of the phone. “Are you okay coming over?” I finally asked.
It took her another moment to answer. “Y-e-e-s-s,” she said, drawing the word out.
It didn’t sound very encouraging. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said, sounding more firm. “I am. We live so close; it would be silly not to be able to pop over to each other’s houses.”
“Okay, I’ll see you when you get here. Just come on in.” I wanted to reassure her that the door to that room was shut, but I wasn’t sure how she’d react.
We had never talked about what had happened. After the tour, we sat in the garden, splitting a bottle of champagne that Lou brought, and talked about light, fun things. I had assumed everything was fine, and Claire would have no issues coming back.
Apparently, I was wrong.
I busied myself making more tea, while wishing I had time to put together something more substantial. Years ago, back when I was still in school, I had taken some cooking and baking classes. I had forgotten how much I loved being in a kitchen, surrounded by the comforting, rich scents of food, and that feeling of satisfaction that comes from creating something that nourished people.
The Summoning: A gripping psychological thriller (Secrets of Redemption Book 4) Page 18
