Chapter Thirty-Five

Walker

My parents are with me on and off through the night as I confess the crimes I’ve accused and convicted myself of having committed. Mama brushes the hair off my sweaty forehead and lays a cold, wet towel there while Pops holds my hand and tells me that it’s all right. That I’m all right. He’s not angry at all. But he’s worried about me, they both are. They watch over me. They love me—have always loved me. Will never stop loving me. Because their love transcends time and space and life itself. Not even death can subvert the depth, breadth, and power of what they feel for my sisters, for me, for the sons-in-law and grandchildren they have never held in their arms.

When I finally find the strength to pull myself from the gauzy, gossamer film of my dreams, I am lighter. My chest rises and falls easily, my lungs filling with the sweet air of sunshine and softness and warmth. My eyes flutter open to all of these things. The sunlight is streaming through the window, splashing across the billowy comforter that covers me. Above me, I see lace. Lots and lots of lace. It’s literally dripping from the canopy of the four-poster bed I’m lying in. I’m surrounded by an Everest of lace throw pillows.

I try to hoist myself up, creating a small, soft avalanche in the process. One particularly buxom pillow with needlepoint flowers on it falls over the side of the high bed, causing some kind of ruckus on the floor below. I hang over the side to find a fluffy gray tail protruding from underneath a small pile of pillows. I’m about to start digging it out when the heap erupts on its own, the owner of the tail shaking them off with a mighty stretch and a yowl.

“Dude! Take it easy!” I say in a voice that’s hoarse with sleep. And crying. Lots and lots of crying, if memory serves. “You’re not the only one having a crap day.”

He takes the comment as an invitation to join me—somehow defying gravity and managing to catapult his oversized kitty rump up and onto the eyelet comforter that I appear to be enshrouded in at the moment. I recognize him to be Winston Churchill, one of Miss Lucy’s prized pussies. Which means I must be at the Pink Lady Slipper Inn.

As if on cue, there is a quiet rap on the door.

“Walker? May I come in?” comes the muffled voice.

“Uhh…yes?”

Miss Lucy van der Hoovenwald pops her silver-haired head inside, bringing with it the mouthwatering smell of bacon and eggs. And, could it be? Yes…coffee.

“Honey, I brought you some breakfast in bed. May I come in?”

“Please,” I manage to croak.

She bustles in, setting the food down on a small table while she helps me to sit up in bed. Then she places the tray over my lap—complete with freshly squeezed orange juice and toast.

“Oh, wow, Miss Lucy. Thank you…I’m absolutely starving.”

The older woman smiles, perching on the edge of a wingback chair next to the bed, watching with interest as I attack the food.

“What time is it?” I ask between bites of toast.

“It’s three o’clock Sunday afternoon.”

The toast stops halfway to its destination. “Seriously?”

“Walker, do you remember any of last night?”

I put the food back down on the tray and think hard, trying to make my way through the fuzzy snippets of memories—at least I think they’re memories—they could be part of the dreams. At this point, I’m having a very casual relationship with reality.

“I remember Father Romance and Phyllis Pfeffernusse helping me at the church, but I have absolutely no memory of how I got here.”

“They brought you here after they found you in the church basement.”

Suddenly fragments of images form a kaleidoscope in my mind. Opening the door. The folding chairs stacked. Phyllis. My parents. Father Romance. I was hot. I was cold. I was crying. And crying. And crying.

“Oh my God,” I murmur, putting my fork down so I can put my hands over my face. “I had a breakdown.”

“I don’t think it was that exactly, dear,” she responds, not offering an alternative explanation.

“But why didn’t they just bring me home? Or to the pub, at least?”

She gives me a wry smile.

“Because the town is crawling with reporters after those pictures and video hit the news last night.”

Pictures? Video?

“I don’t understand…”

“Well, I gather from this morning’s paper that your young man was spotted canoodling with that Hollywood girl, Cassandra something or other.”

I lean forward so fast that I nearly knock the OJ over, jostling the Prime Minister in the process. He hisses his discontent.

“Winston Churchill! Is that any way to treat a guest?” Miss Lucy chides the cat. He just grumbles and rests his huge head down on his fluffy paws.

“Oh my God,” I murmur, “I saw them! At his house. She was wearing his shirt…”

“Oh, dear, well, I don’t know the whole story, but I gather that nasty Tavis man—the one who showed up at the pub and started this whole mess? He was following Mason and got some rather…incriminating shots of them together.”

“Did… Was my name mentioned in the paper?”

The smile she offers me is sweet and comforting and sympathetic. And it tells me everything I need to know.

I groan, closing my eyes. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“That’s all right, dear. Don’t you worry about a thing. No one knows you’re here except for your family and Father Romance. They’ve been calling since first thing this morning.”

I manage a chuckle.

“I’m surprised they haven’t knocked the door off the hinges.”

“Oh, believe you me! Every one of your sisters has tried to get in to see you, but I’m not having it! Doc Douglas says you’re not to have any visitors. You need peace and quiet and rest.”

“Wait… Doc Douglas was here?”

She nods. “Oh, yes, dear. You were so…agitated last night. Phyllis called him to come make sure you didn’t need to go to the hospital. He gave you a little something to help you sleep. That’s probably why you’re just waking up now.”

I must look as stunned as I feel because she leans forward and puts a soft, warm hand on my arm.

“Walker, what happened to you last night has been brewing inside you for a long time. Long before Mason. But you can outrun the tide for only so long. Eventually, the wave is going to catch you. And you either drown…or you swim.”

“I saw my parents,” I tell her in a whisper.

“I know.”

“How? How do you know? Did…did you see them, too?”

“No, love. But you were talking to them as if they were standing here with you. And to be honest with you…I can’t really say for sure that they weren’t. This inn has had plenty of visitors of the ‘other worldly’ sort for years and years. Did you know that Elvis once stopped by?”

I shake my head dumbly. Elvis?

“Oh my, yes! He came by with Jane Austen. Now there was an unexpected couple! But that’s neither here nor there…”

Is it possible I’m still dreaming?

“Walker, I believe that there are angels around us every moment of every day. Some of them are the people we’ve loved and lost. Others are just…oh, I don’t know…career angels, I suppose you could say.”

Because this certainly feels like a dream.

“They hear you, they see you, and they communicate with you—through signs, and messages. Dreams, visions…”

And it sounds like one, too.

“So, yes, I think your parents were here, delivering something to you. Something that only you can understand. A message perhaps? A blessing?”

“Forgiveness.”

I don’t even realize I’ve croaked the word out until I hear it.

She sighs and nods. “Yes, dear. Sometimes we need a little of that, too.”

Before we can go any further down this bizarre road, she stands, takes the tray from my lap, and sets it on the nightstand next to me.

“Now you, my dear, look as if you’re about to fall asleep sitting up.”

She lifts the covers and helps me to scoot down the bed until I’m horizontal once more. She pulls them up over my shoulders and fluffs the pillows under my head. Winston Churchill gets up and nudges at my arm. I lift it and he slips underneath, curling up in the crook between my side and my shoulder.

“Miss Lucy?”

She leans over me and brushes the hair off my face. “Yes, Walker?”

“It hurts.”

“I know. Real love—true love—often does.”

Miss Lucy kisses me on the forehead, then pulls the shades to darken the room. At least, I think she does. I’m asleep again before she even leaves the room.

…

On the third day, I’ve had enough of cats and pillows and flowered wallpaper. And, while Miss Lucy is a sweet, generous soul, I’m ready to go back to reality. A new reality, that is. I’ve decided it’s time to move into the pub apartment permanently. With Bailey headed off to study in England in the fall, there’s no sense in living in the big house all alone. I’ll let Henny and Jameson decide what to do with it.

Dr. DiDonato has been in touch to congratulate me on my acceptance to the program at the U. She’d like to meet me on campus next week to talk about a special summer session. She doesn’t mention the grant, and I get that. Maybe if this last round of scandal hadn’t happened… But, for now, I’ll take what I can get.

And I do. I’ll keep most of my bar shifts, but it’s time to step back a little and accept some of the help that’s been offered by so many people so many times.

As for Mason… He’s been calling and texting. And, while I know I’m going to have to face him sooner rather than later, it’s not going to be today.

I’ve just packed up the last of my things when I hear a ruckus from downstairs. Doors flying open, footsteps on wood floorboards…and then on the stairs. They’re approaching faster, and it’s like watching a great white coming straight at you on radar. I hold my breath, bracing for the attack.

Three…two…one…

“Auntie Walker!” Maggie shrieks with delight, hurling herself over the threshold, hitting my legs with enough momentum that I have to brace myself on one of the bedposts.

“Maggie McMuffin! You came to pick me up?”

“Yes!” she yells. Then, noticing the lacy canopy and all the pillows, she looks up at me with huge green eyes. “Auntie Walker! You a princess!”

Hardly. Sorry Prince Charming, no time to fool around with you and your glass slippers. I’ve got dragons to slay and a happily-ever-after to find.