Lily Dale: Discovering Part 9

New York City

Tuesday, October 9

3:17 a.m.

The dream begins the same as it always has.

She's walking along a gra.s.sy sh.o.r.e beside lapping blue water. It's not a big lake; she can see the opposite sh.o.r.e not far in the distance, rimmed by rolling hills. The sky is blue and the sun is s.h.i.+ning.

There are lots of tall trees to cast dappled shade around her as she walks.

Nearby, she can see cl.u.s.ters of cottages. Victorian- style, with shutters and fish-scale s.h.i.+ngles; cupolas or mansard roofs; porches with gingerbread trim.

There are flowers everywhere. The air is heavy with their perfume; they bloom in crowded garden beds, spill from window boxes and hanging pots.

They're even here, beneath her feet, growing in a clump on the gra.s.sy sh.o.r.e.

These flowers have short, slender, st.u.r.dy stems fringed with tiny bell- shaped white blossoms.

Lilies of the valley.

She found a photo in a horticulture book months ago, when the dream first began to haunt her.

As she bends to pick one of the fragile blooms, the sun slips behind a cloud. Thunder rumbles in the distance as she raises the flower to inhale its fragrance, and all at once, she can hear voices. Female voices.

She can't see them, and she can't hear most of what they're saying, but what she does hear is disturbing: ". . . because I promised I'd never tell . . ."

". . . for your own good . . . don't know how you can live with yourself . . ."

"The only way we'll learn the truth is to dredge the lake."

She gazes out over the lake to see that the water has turned black, churning ominously beneath a stormy sky.

Now the women are crying, eerie wails that echo until the storm blows in to drown them out.

Who are they?

Where are they?

Why are they arguing? Why are they crying?

And why, Laura wonders, every time she wakes from the dream, chilled to the bone, do I keep having the same strange dream, over and over?

SEVEN.

Lily Dale

Tuesday, October 9

7:50 a.m.

"Morning, Calla!"

Startled to hear a voice as she slips out her grandmother's front door with her backpack, Calla spins around to see her father over on Ramona's porch.

"Dad!"

"That was some storm last night, huh?"

She nods. "When did the power come back on?"

"Around midnight."

"Oh."By that time, she had eaten herself into Coffee Heath Bar Crunchinduced oblivion, too zonked out to even dream.

Seeing movement out of the corner of her eye, she turns and spots a translucent little boy perched in a tree beside Ramona's porch. He's wearing a 1930s-style newsboy hat and knickers, and she's pretty sure she's seen him hanging around before.

"Are you wearing that to school?"

She looks down at her jeans, long sleeved T-s.h.i.+rt, and sneakers. "Um . . . yes?"

"Really."

"It's a public school, Dad,"she reminds him. As opposed to a private school: at Sh.o.r.eside Day back in Florida, she had to wear a preppy uniform every day.

"So everyone dresses down for school? Is that it?"

"Pretty much. Why?"

The little boy in the tree crosses his eyes at her and giggles.

"I just want to make sure that with your mother gone you're not . . . you know . . ."

"Letting my fas.h.i.+on sense go down the tubes?"she asks her father dryly. "That would be tragic."

He snorts.

"What are you doing out here, anyway, Dad?"

"Guess."

She descends a few steps and peers closer at him across her grandmother's unkempt hedges, still glistening from last night's rain.

Dad is sitting on a wicker rocker, clasping a coffee mug in both hands. His hair stands straight up, he's got a face full of razor stubble, and he's wearing a pair of sweatpants and a rumpled T-s.h.i.+rt, looking like he just rolled out of bed five minutes ago.

"I have no idea what you're doing. Why don't you tell me?"

"Nothing."He grins. "I'm doing absolutely nothing but relaxing. Enjoying the beautiful morning."He waves a hand at the sun slanting down through the misty treetops, a rare sight around here. "And I get to see my daughter off to school. What do you think about that?"

"It's . . . uh, great."

"You know, Cal', I don't know what I was thinking. Why have I just spent the last few months alone, on the opposite end of the country from the one person I care about? It doesn't make sense."

Ramona. Is he talking about Ramona?

Is that what he's trying to tell me?

Are he and Ramona in love?

Has he been having a secret affair with her since they met?

"I don't know why I didn't figure out until now that the two of us belong together, after all we've been through lately."

Dad has been tragically widowed, but Ramona . . . her latest boyfriend dumped her for a Buffalo Jill. How does that compare? Clearly, he's lost touch with reality.

"Dad, are you okay?"

"I will be now that I can start every day by saying good morning to my girl in person. . . ."

His girl?

Jealousy streaks through Calla.

Ramona is his girl now?

That's what he always used to call . . .

Oh.

You idiot.

"That's great, Dad,"she says with a relieved grin. "I'm glad you're here, too."

How could she even think he was talking about Ramona, when they barely know each other?

I'm his girl. I'm the one he belongs with after all we've been through.

Of course that's what he meant.

Duh.

How could she have thought otherwise? Just because Dad and Ramona are staying under the same roof now . . .

The screen door squeaks next door and Calla looks up just in time to see Ramona step out onto the porch. Her long, curly brown hair is tousled and she's carrying a coffee mug. And wearing a snug- fitting pair of pink pajamas that look awesome on her.

"Morning, Calla!"she calls, waving. Then she turns and says something to Dad that Calla can't hear, and he laughs.

Hmm. They do look pretty cozy over there.

And Calla can try all she wants to ignore it, but her sixth sense is telling her that Folgers isn't all that's brewing next door.

"I've got to get to school,"she announces, and heads down the walk toward the street.

The little boy is now dangling from his knees on a branch high above her head, gleefully swinging back and forth.

You're going to get hurt doing that, she tells him silently.

He sticks out his tongue.

Whatever. How hurt can he get? He's already dead.

"Hey, Calla, wait for Evangeline. She's right here!"calls her father, who obviously hasn't heard the news bulletin about the two of them not walking to school together in over a week.

Before Calla can fill him in, Evangeline pops out the door, dressed almost identically to Calla and carrying a backpack.

"Calla! Hi!"