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“Probably for the best anyway.” He gave me a grin that made me wonder what he wasn’t saying. “So tell me, what’s been so different about today?”
“I’ve never seen a full jazz trio before, for one thing. It threw me off. The rules must be changing.”
“What are the rules?”
“I see people from the past.” The bells in the clock tower on the town square loudly chimed the hour, but I kept my voice low. “They’re like a film projection, no substance, and when I try to touch them, they disappear. I’ve sure as heck never seen three at once accompanied by a piano.” Or a horse-drawn carriage.
“At least they sounded good. That bass was smooth.” He inclined his head toward the building, where the music spilled from the open windows. “Still is.”
“You don’t seem to be impressed. No one’s ever been able to see or hear what I do. What’s your story?” I asked, although it was clear. He was as screwed up as I was.
“Let’s just say my mom thought I had a lot of imaginary friends.”
I tilted my chin up to get a better look at him. “So it’s been happening since you were little?”
Michael nodded. “You?”
“Four years.” The bells stopped after ten chimes, and the air felt eerily quiet. Time for a subject change. Distract and divert. “I really am sorry I hit you.”
“You’re forgiven.” He winked. “I think I can handle a tiny little thing like you.”
I bit my tongue. So we would work on the male chauvinism.
“If you help me, how does it work? Do we have … sessions or something? What are you going to do to me?” Oops. Scary, scary light in his eyes. I cleared my throat. I would need to watch my phrasing. “I mean, for me.”
The light didn’t fade as he answered. “I’d like to start by hearing your story.”
“Simple enough.” As if reliving every terrifying moment was easy. As if I wanted to make myself vulnerable to a total stranger. I rubbed the knot of tension forming at the base of my neck.
“Emerson.” I loved the way he said my name. Or maybe I just liked watching his lips move. “I know this is hard for you, but I want you to be honest with me. You can trust me.”
He obviously had not heard the rule that you never trust anyone who says “you can trust me.”
“We’ll see how things go. When do we start?” I asked.
“How does tomorrow sound?”
Too soon.
The next morning I dressed in my favorite jeans and a black fitted T-shirt, slipping on my black Converse sneakers for comfort and courage. They always made me feel ballsy. Twisting my hair into an updo, I pulled out some of the pieces the sun had made blonder than the others. I took a little more care with my makeup than usual, playing up my clear complexion. All for breakfast with Michael.
Hmm.
I walked through downtown slowly, enjoying the peace. The humidity hadn’t kicked in yet, and after yesterday’s rain I could almost smell the crisp air of the approaching autumn. I was a sucker for falling leaves, hayrides, scarecrows, and especially Halloween. When your everyday life was as spooky as mine, Halloween really was all about ridiculous amounts of candy and the Great Pumpkin—as long as I stayed home to answer the door. None of my visions had ever rung the doorbell, so I was generally pretty safe with Charlie Brown on the television and a contraband stash of Twizzlers in my hands.
Michael and I were meeting at Murphy’s Law, the combo coffeehouse/café/bookstore owned by Lily’s grandmother. Not only is the woman a saint, but she makes killer Cuban espresso and apple empanadas that taste so good they’d make a nun cuss. There was only one downside to the location.
When I’d suggested Murphy’s Law the night before, I’d been too flustered to consider that Lily could be present during the meeting. I was saved from having to develop a plausible story to tell her when I ran into her on the sidewalk, heading away from the building. She had her camera bag slung over her shoulder.
“Lily! How did the shoot go?”
She faced me but continued walking backward. “Pretty well. Except for the bats the boss failed to mention. That and the film crew. At least I was only hit on by one production assistant this time.”
“Wow, just one guy? You must be losing it.” Lily’s boss sometimes worked in conjunction with documentary filmmakers. She claimed most of them displayed more entitlement issues than the whole of the English monarchy. And most of them thought they were entitled to her.
“Losing it? We can only hope.” She reached into her camera bag, fumbling around before pulling out a huge blueberry muffin wrapped in a napkin and taking a bite.
“Are you in a hurry?” I asked, trying to be nonchalant. I tilted my head toward her camera bag. “Another shoot?”
