Awakening (Lily Dale #1)(25)

She’ll just go on doing exactly what she’s doing, right here in Lily Dale.

If only I knew what it is that I’m doing here in Lily Dale. Yeah, that would help.

“Hey, Calla? Do you want me to hop on a plane and come see you this weekend? I feel like you need me. And that way, I wouldn’t have to be around to meet Annie.”

“I doubt your parents would let you come.”

“I’d make them let me if you needed me.”

Calla smiles. Lisa is pretty good at getting her way. She has her parents wrapped around her pinky—that’s what Kevin always used to say, anyway.

Kevin. Her smile promptly evaporates.

“Listen, Calla, I’m serious. Let me know. Because I’ll get on the next plane if you need—”

“Thanks, I’ll let you know,” Calla cuts in hurriedly as the door to the back room begins to open. “Lis’, I have to go.”

“Okay, but remember—”

“I’ll call you soon, okay? ’Bye.”

She hangs up just before Odelia emerges with the woman who was here last night. The one from Columbus, Ohio. Only this time, she’s alone. She looks like she’s been crying again.

“Well, good morning, starshine.” Odelia reaches out to give Calla’s arm a little pat as she passes her at the table. She again has on that pair of too-snug lemon-yellow capris and a lime-green shirt emblazoned with a glittery silver turtle. It all clashes with her red-orange hair, which also clashes with her hot pink lipstick and turquoise earrings. “I’m just going to show Mrs. Riggs out, and I’ll be right back.”

Calla nods, then does a double take. She could have sworn only her grandmother and Mrs. Riggs were there, but now she sees that there’s someone else. A girl—the same one who was standing in the flower bed last night.

Only now, Calla can see her more clearly—though it’s only a glimpse in passing before the three of them disappear into the hall. She’s about Calla’s age, pretty, with long blond hair and baggy clothing. She doesn’t glance in Calla’s direction, and she trails silently behind Odelia and Mrs. Riggs as they leave the room.

Calla shivers, then remembers that just a few minutes ago, she was thinking it was warm and muggy in here. She hears the front door open and close. Moments later, Odelia is back in the kitchen. “I didn’t peg you for a late sleeper, but I’m glad you are.”

“I had no idea what time it was when I got up. The clock is blinking again.”

“Oh . . . I still have to set it for you, don’t I?”

“I can do it this time. But thanks for doing it last night.”

“Last night?” Odelia frowns. “I didn’t set it for you last night.”

“You didn’t? But . . .”

But she woke up in the middle of the night, and the clock was set. She distinctly remembers that it said 3:17.

“I thought you must have come in and set it sometime in the middle of the night,” she says slowly, even as she realizes uneasily that it is warm and muggy in here after all. Or . . . again.

“Oh, I don’t do much of anything in the night. I sleep like a rock. Anyway, like I said, I don’t believe in opening closed doors on other people. I wouldn’t do that even if I thought you were sleeping.”

“Thanks,” she murmurs. “I just . . . wondered. About the clock. It isn’t set now, and—”

“Listen, you’re not on a schedule here, so relax. You’re on summer break—that’s what it’s for. Stay up late. Sleep in. I don’t get up till noon myself most days, if I can help it.”

“Noon?” Calla echoes, wondering if it’s possible that she imagined it all. Was the whole thing a dream, not just the clock, but the remembered—or manufactured—conversation about dredging the lake?

“Noon,” Odelia confirms. “And I like to take a nice long afternoon nap in my recliner if I don’t have anything scheduled.” She pours herself a cup of coffee and looks expectantly at Calla. “Want some joe?”

“Oh . . . uh, no thanks.” That would be the day Mom or Dad would ever offer her coffee. “So . . . you do readings every day? Walk-ins?”

“Sure. During the season, anyway. I’m pretty booked.”

“People just show up at the door, like just now? What do they want, specifically?”

Odelia mimes pulling a zipper across her sealed lips and shakes her head.

“You can’t talk about your clients?”

“I try not to. What happens in Vegas”—she tilts her head toward the sun-splashed back room—“stays in Vegas.”

“So that’s . . . what? Your office?” Calla asks her, pointing at “Vegas.”

“More or less. It’s where I see people when they come to me.”

It’s hardly a candlelit Victorian parlor, which would seem more fitting. As far as Calla can recall, there’s no crystal ball in there, no round table with a fringed cloth, no heavy draperies, not even incense.

“Sometimes,” Odelia continues, “I go to my clients, though. And sometimes I do my thing out at the stump, or the auditorium.”

“Did you say ‘the stump’?”

Odelia grins. “Inspiration Stump. It’s out in Leolyn Woods.”