Ordinarily, Odelia would be irked if a three o’clock client texted a last-minute cancellation at two fifty-five. Today, though, after a string of back-to-back appointments, she welcomes the two-hour break before her next reading.
Given her restless night and busy day, it would have been nice to join Li’l Chap, who’s spending the muggy afternoon napping on the couch.
But she’s facing a self-imposed deadline for the cookbook she’s writing, and she has a few more recipes to perfect before the manuscript will be ready for submission. Unfortunately, she’d saved the dessert chapter for last, and that means baking.
‘I probably don’t even need to put you in the oven,’ she tells her cake batter in progress. ‘I can just pour you into a pan and leave you on the counter and you’ll be ready in an hour.’
She cracks another egg into the bowl, pauses to press her sweaty forehead against the dish towel draped over her shoulder for that purpose, and consults her notes.
The first time she’d made this cake, she’d used five eggs. That was too many. Last time, she’d tried it with three. That wasn’t enough.
Four should do the trick. She adds one more to the bowl. It lands with a fleck of shell. Chasing it around the viscous pool with the spatula, then with her finger, she senses Miriam’s disapproval.
‘I know, I know, I’m supposed to be cracking each egg into a ramekin before adding it to the batter,’ she tells the spirit. ‘I decided to take a shortcut today, OK?’
She pins the white shard beneath her fingertip and works it up the side of the bowl, but it takes her several attempts to remove the slippery little bugger. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Miriam is interfering, but that’s not her style. For the most part, she merely watches Odelia when she’s working in the kitchen or garden, where she’d spent most of her time during her own day.
‘Gammy? Are you here?’ a voice calls from the front of the cottage.
‘Oh, hooray! You’re back!’ Odelia sets aside the spatula and turns to see Calla peek into the room, with a drowsy Li’l Chap in her arms.
‘I’m back, and you’re … baking? Gammy! Are you crazy?’
‘Yes.’ Grinning, Odelia hugs her granddaughter.
‘Wow, Gammy, you’re soggy!’ Calla grabs the dish towel and wipes herself off, then the kitten. ‘Either you just took a shower, or it’s time to get out of the kitchen.’
‘Do I smell like I just took a shower?’
‘Time to get out of the kitchen,’ Calla says with a laugh. ‘Come on, let’s go sit on the porch.’
‘As soon as I get this cake in the oven.’
Calla puts the cat down and fills his water bowl at the sink. She sets it in front of him and he laps it with his tiny pink tongue.
‘Aw, you’re thirsty, huh, Li’l Chap?’
‘Who isn’t?’ Odelia whisks oil into her cake batter. ‘There’s lemonade in the fridge, if you want to pour us a couple of glasses.’
‘Regular lemonade?’
‘Of course.’
‘No bizarre additions? Like … I don’t know … fennel? Isn’t that what you made last week?’
‘That was fennel-ade. This is lemonade.’
‘Fennel-ade.’ She shakes her head, smiling. ‘I’ve missed you, Gammy.’
‘I’ve missed you, too.’ Odelia opens a cabinet and roots among the canned goods. ‘How was New York?’
‘Same as always. Noisy, chaotic, wonderful. How are things in the Dale?’
‘Same as always.’
‘Noisy, chaotic, wonderful?’
‘Among other things, yes.’ She plucks a can from the shelf.
‘Uh-oh. What’s going on?’
‘I’ll fill you in, but first, I want to hear all about your trip.’
Calla is a novelist. Her first book had been a success a few years back. She’s just finished her second, and it’s slated for publication next spring. She’s been in New York at a writers’ conference for the past week.
‘It was business. There’s not much to tell.’
Odelia fastens the can to the electric can opener. Holding down the button that rotates it around the blade, she watches Calla fill two glasses of lemonade and return the pitcher to the refrigerator. She looks the same as always – lean and tanned in shorts and a T-shirt, her effortlessly pretty face makeup-free, her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. But her energy is off, and she appears lost in thought.
‘Did you meet with your editor and agent, Cal’? Did they like the finished manuscript?’
‘They loved it.’
‘Congratulations! Do they want you to do another book?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s marvelous!’ Odelia dumps the can’s contents into the mixing bowl and reaches for the spoon.
‘Gammy! What’s that god-awful smell?’
‘Sauerkraut.’
‘Please tell me you didn’t just put that in the cake.’
‘I did. It provides a wonderful texture. Like coconut.’
‘Then why not use coconut?’
‘Sauerkraut provides a nice acidic touch. Baking is scientific. It’s chemistry. Ask Bella. She’ll tell you.’
‘How is Bella?’
‘She’s well. I saw her this morning.’
‘Did she have a nice time at her mother-in-law’s wedding?’
‘I suppose she did. We didn’t really talk about that.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘About Sam. He paid me a visit last night.’
Calla raises an eyebrow. ‘Well, it’s about time. I’ve been hoping to bring him through for her ever since I met her. I still can’t believe Pandora beat us both to it.’
‘Oh, Pandora.’ Odelia waves a dismissive hand. ‘I don’t believe she channeled him.’
‘I think Bella does, but … let’s not get into a whole big thing about that again, Gammy.’
‘Again? When did I—’
‘Every single time Pandora’s name comes up, there’s a whole big thing about something.’
She can’t deny that. The woman has tried her patience from the moment Pandora moved in next door at Valley View, years ago. Odelia had pitied her when she’d lost her home in an ugly divorce and been forced to move to a tiny cottage nearby, but she’s remained the same old insufferable Pandora.
Unfortunately, there’s no avoiding her in a town this size – especially because Pandora is the kind of person who makes it her business to know everyone else’s.
‘It’s not my fault, it’s hers,’ she tells Calla. ‘Do you know what she did the other day? She showed up uninvited to help me weed and prune my garden.’
‘She was just trying to be neighborly.’
‘But I wasn’t weeding and pruning! I just stepped out the door to pick some herbs for the brownies I was making and suddenly, there she was with clippers and a trowel, transplanting things, barking orders and criticisms.’ She mimics Pandora’s haughty accent. ‘“Do take care as you deadhead the bee balm, Odelia, don’t just lop them off willy-nilly – we aren’t King Henry the Eighth, are we?” “Blimey, you’ve let the zinnias go to seed faster than Wallis after the abdication.”’
‘That’s Pandora. She’s never been a fan of Wallis Simpson,’ Calla says with a shrug.
‘That’s beside the point. Do you know what she said about—’
‘Wait, you were putting herbs in your brownies, Gammy? Were they …’
‘Lavender-rosemary with just a hint of chive. Here, try one.’ She opens the tin on the counter and hands Calla a brownie.
She takes a bite, chews, swallows, and immediately downs a huge swig of lemonade.
‘Well? What do you think?’
‘You might want to cut back on the chive or eliminate it altogether.’
‘But then it would just be a lavender-rosemary brownie. There’s nothing special about that. And I have so many chives in the garden this year that I don’t know what to do with them all.’
‘Why don’t you use some in that potato soup recipe, instead of … was it cotton candy?’
‘For a bit of sweetness and color. But maybe I’ll add some chives, too – they’d be so pretty floating in that blue soup, like lily pads on the lake.’
Calla makes a face.
‘Anyway, Gammy, we were talking about Sam. What’s going on?’
Stirring chopped apples and nuts into her cake batter, she recaps the visit for Calla.
‘Kevin Bacon, huh? What’s that about?’
‘Bella doesn’t know. I told her it will probably come to her, but … the more I think about it, the more I wonder if I missed something, or …’ Odelia hesitates, then shakes her head. ‘I’m just so exhausted.’
‘It’s the heat.’
‘No, I mean, I’d gone to bed late, and then Spirit woke me up. I never did get back to sleep. I’m just not sure I relayed the right message from the right spirit. And of course Pandora was there, nosing into things as usual.’
‘Pandora again? In your bedroom?’
‘At Bella’s.’ She dumps the batter into the greased and floured sheet pan. ‘You should have seen her, eavesdropping in the window like a nosy neighbor on an old sitcom.’
Calla rolls her eyes. ‘Gammy, you really need to get over this. I thought you two had declared a truce.’
‘Yes, but I’m only human. She gets under my skin. I’m not proud of it.’
Calla takes her phone from her pocket, and Odelia sees that there’s a message on the screen. Resisting the urge to ask who it’s from, she concentrates on smoothing the batter with a rubber spatula.
Calla sends a quick response to the message. Maybe an emoji? Odelia can’t quite see it. ‘Maybe Sam will be in touch with you again, Gammy.’
‘I hope so. I meditated on it, but I haven’t been able to get anything more.’
She opens the oven, feeling like she’s leaning into a dragon’s fiery mouth as she slides in the cake pan. She closes the door, sets the timer, and turns to see Calla leaning against the counter with her phone in her hand, as if she’s waiting for the reply to her message.
Odelia flashes back a dozen years or so. Calla, in high school, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for Blue Slayton to call.
How many times had he let her down?
What if whoever she’s texting now does the same? Why can’t it be Jacy? It was supposed to be Jacy. Odelia has always known that. Not because she’s always had a soft spot for Jacy Bly, or because she’s a psychic medium, but because she’s a grandmother.
Calla had come to Lily Dale from Florida after her mom – Odelia’s only child, Stephanie – had passed on. Estranged from her own daughter during Stephanie’s final years on the earthly plane, Odelia had embraced the opportunity to see her grandchild into adulthood. This time, she was determined to get it right.
Some days, she’s convinced that she has. Others, she fears she’s let her own staunchly held opinions interfere with the relationship, just as she did with Stephanie. Calla is equally strong-willed, and arguably a more potent medium than anyone in the Dale, Odelia included; though she isn’t nearly as experienced – in mediumship, nor in life.
She’s made some questionable choices over the years, despite Odelia’s attempts to guide her, and to spare her the same mistakes she herself had made.
Now, seeing Calla so fixated on her phone, Odelia experiences a twinge of apprehension – and yes, perhaps a bit of envy – as she wonders who’s commanding Calla’s full attention on the other end of the text exchange.
She clears her throat loudly. ‘So, Bella mentioned that she and Max saw Sam at the airport in Chicago yesterday morning.’
That gets Calla’s interest. She looks up from her phone, eyes wide. ‘Gammy! Are you serious?’
‘I’m always serious.’
‘No, you aren’t.’
‘Well, I am now. She said they both saw him.’
‘An apparition.’
‘Apparently.’
‘So Bella told you this yesterday, and then he came through to you last night?’
‘No, he came through to me last night, and then I told Bella about it, and she told me about seeing him. One had nothing to do with the other. Not that I believe it’s a coincidence, because there are—’
‘—no coincidences.’ Calla completes the sentence with her. ‘Right. But he’s really trying to connect. Maybe you should have Bella sit down and do a reading with you. See if you can bring him through for her.’
‘She’d never agree to do that.’
‘Are you sure? Did you ever ask her?’
‘I don’t think so, no. She’s determined not to let herself get caught up in spiritualism.’
‘If ever there was a time when she might change her mind, this might be it.’
‘You might be right.’ Odelia picks up the batter-coated mixing bowl and holds it out to her.
‘No, thanks, Gammy, I’m good.’
‘But you always like to lick the bowl.’
‘Not when there’s cabbage in it.’
‘You really need to get over this,’ Odelia says with a grin.
‘I’m only human,’ Calla returns, and her phone lights up again.
Odelia puts the mixing bowl into the sink with the other dirty dishes and picks up her glass of lemonade. ‘Let’s go sit on the porch.’
‘Mmm, I’ll meet you out there in a minute, Gammy.’ She types something, sends it with a whoosh, and stands poised, watching the screen.
‘Business?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Is that business?’ Odelia asks her.
‘What? This? No, it’s … a friend.’
‘Jacy?’ She can’t help herself.
‘Not Jacy.’ Calla frowns. ‘You know we’re broken up, right? And you know he’s been dating a doctor who works with him at the hospital?’
Oh, she knows.
Jacy, who’d come to the Dale as a foster child, had been adopted as a teenager by Odelia’s friends Walter and Peter, fellow mediums who own the Soul-stice Bistro here in town. He and Calla had endured as a couple for almost a decade – through their college years, her career launch, his med school and residency.
Then, almost a year ago, her old flame Blue Slayton came back into the picture. Calla had assured Odelia that he’d had nothing to do with her breakup with Jacy, but Odelia isn’t so sure she believes her.
In any case, her rekindled relationship with Blue hadn’t lasted, either. This time, unlike back in high school, Calla had been the one to call it quits, but she refuses to discuss the details. Odelia only knows that they broke up in June, and Blue left the Dale immediately after – hopefully for good.
As far as she’s concerned, it’s not too late for her granddaughter to find her way back to Jacy.
‘Walter mentioned something about his having gone on a date with a doctor,’ she tells Calla. ‘But—’
‘Just a date? Come on, Gammy.’
‘Maybe it’s been more than one date,’ she concedes, ‘but it isn’t serious.’
‘Walter said that?’
Well, no, he hadn’t. But unlike many other parents in the Dale, when it comes to their son, Walter and Peter don’t overshare – or share much at all. Odelia has to pry Jacy updates from them, and she knows better than to ask them if he’s mentioned Calla since the breakup.
Come to think of it, though, she has done just that – and Walter and Peter said no, he hasn’t.
‘Come on, not even once?’ Odelia had pressed. ‘In passing?’
‘It hasn’t come up.’
You’d think they might bring it up to him. They’re fond of Calla, and she often helps out waiting tables at their bistro.
They should be rooting for Calla and Jacy to end up together as much as Odelia is.
Men.
‘Gammy, if Jacy is happy with this woman, then I’m happy for him,’ Calla tells her. ‘I wish you could feel the same way.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ She mops her sweaty forehead and tosses the dish towel into the sink. ‘Let’s finish this conversation outside.’
Calla shakes her head and waves her phone. ‘I have to make a quick call. But you go cool off and I’ll be right out.’
Too wilted to linger another moment, Odelia leaves her in the kitchen and steps out onto the porch with her lemonade.
If anything, it’s even steamier outside, and preternaturally still. At this hour on a summer afternoon, visitors should be strolling the streets or relaxing on park benches between workshops and readings. Today, it’s deserted, as if everyone is sheltering behind closed windows and doors.
Everyone on the earthly plane, anyway. In the park across the way, the little girl in corkscrew curls is swinging in midair where the hickory tree had once stood. A filmy man in a top hat is lounging on a bench with a newspaper whose enormous headline bears the word Titanic. A couple of teenaged boys in knickers and newsboy caps are playing catch.
Settled on the glider, Odelia checks her own phone. There are no messages from anyone, including Luther. He’d told her she probably won’t hear from him until tomorrow morning, as he’s working a private security gig over at Chautauqua Institution.
It’s a few miles from Lily Dale, and the two communities have a lot in common. Both are gated summer colonies founded in the nineteenth century. Both sit on the grassy shores of picturesque country lakes and are notable for their charming Victorian architecture. Both have a smattering of year-round residents but come alive in June, with a vocation-focused seasonal calendar that draw tourists from all over the globe. Lily Dale’s is spiritualism; Chautauqua is devoted to the arts. The institution has its own world-class symphony orchestra, ballet, opera and theater company.
Tonight’s speaker is an author-historian from a war-torn country. Having received her share of death threats, she travels with her own bodyguards. Luther is part of the local security detail.
Odelia sips her lemonade and tries to enjoy the silence, watching a couple of squirrels nose around the ground beneath the girl and her swing. They’re probably in spirit, she decides, noting that they seem to be foraging for – and finding – hickory nuts in what has been a barren patch of dirt ever since the tree fell.
In the distance, a screen door creaks and slams. She looks across the park to see that Pandora Feeney has stepped onto the porch of her little pink cottage. She’s wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat, a long-sleeved blouse, overalls tucked into tall rubber boots, and gardening gloves. Her face is mostly hidden by enormous sunglasses, but her nose is bright white – likely slathered in zinc oxide, Odelia suspects: solar protection for that ashen skin of hers.
Pandora grabs a spade and cultivator and descends the steps, pausing to look up at the sky. Is she cursing the sun, or channeling Spirit?
Seeing her turn expectantly toward the far end of the lane, Odelia follows her gaze and sees nothing.
Silly woman.
She swallows some lemonade, scowling, hoping that Pandora won’t notice her sitting here and come over to ‘help’ again. If she does, then this time Odelia will give her a piece of her mind. She’ll say …
What will she say? It has to be strongly worded if it’s going to put Pandora in her place, once and for all.
She closes her eyes. Maybe something like …
Don’t …
The word comes to mind as Spirit touches in, and she frowns.
Yes, don’t is a good start, but—
Hearing tires crunch along gravel, she turns to see a white sedan rounding the corner at the end of the lane, as if summoned by Pandora.
Behind her, the door creaks open. ‘Gammy? Sorry that took so long. I just had to explain something to someone.’
‘It’s fine,’ she murmurs, watching the vehicle slow as it approaches. The late afternoon glare obscures the driver behind the windshield, and the car, a Chevy, is unfamiliar.
Across the park, Pandora, too, is watching it.
A strange clamminess seeps over Odelia. She sets the glass on the porch floor and sinks back, eyes closed, feeling a bit dizzy.
Calla is saying something, but her voice is faint, and her words are garbled.
Don’t—
No, that isn’t Calla. It’s Spirit, trying to get her attention.
Don’t—
‘Gammy! Are you OK?’ Calla touches her arm.
Odelia’s eyes open, and she’s back in the moment. ‘What …’
‘I think you passed out. It’s got to be heat exhaustion.’
Odelia shakes her head and wipes sweat from her brow.
‘Here, drink this.’ Calla pushes the cold glass into her hand.
Odelia sips.
‘More.’
Odelia gulps the icy, sweet-tart liquid until the glass is empty.
‘Better?’ Calla asks.
‘Much. Thank you.’
‘I don’t know why you were baking in weather like this. At your age, you should know better.’
‘At my age?’
‘It’s dangerous.’
‘At my age?’ Odelia repeats with an indignant glare at her granddaughter. ‘It’s not as though I’m a doddering little old lady. I’m hardier than a lot of people half my age.’
‘That may be, but you don’t always know your limits.’
Odelia rolls her eyes and looks away. Pandora is no longer visible in her yard across the park, and the white Chevy has pulled into a guest spot in front of Valley View.
‘You’re just so stubborn,’ Calla is saying. ‘I’ll go refill your glass. You need to stay hydrated.’
‘I’m perfectly hydrated,’ she lies.
‘You look flushed, and I swear you just about collapsed. You can’t … Hey!’
Odelia follows Calla’s gaze. Over at Valley View, a woman has gotten out of the parked car. She’s wearing pink, and her hair is brown with blonde streaks.
‘What is it? Do you know her?’
‘No, but she was on my plane this morning.’
‘From New York?’
‘Yes. The airline held the plane for her and a couple of other passengers. They were on a connecting flight from Chicago.’