Believing (Lily Dale #2)(28)

“I always take it down to be repainted at the end of the summer season,” was Odelia’s explanation when Calla asked her about it.

But something in her eyes told Calla that wasn’t the whole truth.

She doesn’t want Dad to know, Calla realized. She knows that if he figures out what she does for a living, he won’t let me stay, and I guess she wants me to.

Calla and her grandmother seem to have silently agreed that there will be no discussion of her grandmother’s—or Lily Dale’s—unique spiritualist connection while Dad is here.

Sure, he’s bound to figure it out when he drives through the gate, with its sign announcing that Lily Dale is the world’s largest spiritualism center.

Then again, Dad can be kind of absentminded. And it’s dark out. And Calla herself didn’t see the gate sign when she first arrived.

Besides, the official season is over, which means there’s no one manning the gatehouse and anyone can come and go. Now that the busy daily schedule is over, many cottages are boarded up, and the summer throngs have vanished, Lily Dale looks almost like any other resort community past its prime. A resort that just happens to be the birthplace of modern spiritualism.

Maybe that’s how Dad will see it. Period.

All she can do is hope.

“Do you think he decided to stop off at the hotel in Fredonia first and check in?” Odelia asks.

“No. He said he was coming straight here.” Calla answered the phone when he called from the Buffalo airport an hour ago, saying he had landed and was on his way to Lily Dale.

Unable to sit and wait patiently on the couch for his arrival, she gets up again and paces across the room, wondering whether they’ve found Erin—or her body—yet.

“You know, time always drags when you want it to race along,” Odelia comments, flipping through a magazine. “And it rushes to the finish line when you want it to drag.”

“Who said that?”

Odelia looks up sharply. “I did. Why? Have you been hearing other . . . voices?”

Calla can’t help but grin. “No, I meant who said it as a quote. Like, from someone famous.”

Odelia laughs—and looks a bit relieved, Calla notices as she goes back to her pacing and keeping a restless eye on the window, trying not to think about Erin.

“This Friday-night waiting game is getting to be a habit for you, isn’t it?” her grandmother asks.

“Hmm?”

“Last week at this time, you were in the same boat, waiting for your friends to show up from Florida. Remember?”

Her friends. Lisa—and Kevin.

Again, Calla’s thoughts flit to the e-mail he sent. It’s been in the back of her mind all day, even with everything else she’s had to think about.

She impulsively tried calling Lisa a little while ago, but got only her voice mail and decided not to leave a message.

How can she even begin to explain about Erin?

And even when it comes to Kevin—well, maybe she shouldn’t mention the e-mail to Lisa at all. Maybe it means only that Kevin’s still sympathetic about her loss and just wanted to check in. Maybe he thinks enough time has passed since their breakup that they can just be casual friends.

Yeah, right.

Sun-streaked; tanned; wearing flip-flops, puka shells, and board shorts, he was a welcome, familiar sight. But seeing him even just for a few minutes reminded Calla that she’s not quite over him yet.

Come on . . . Not quite?

Okay, not by a long shot.

Not even after spending more time with Jacy, and all the attention from Blue Slayton, and the fact that he might be asking her to the homecoming— That thought is interrupted by the distant sound of a car approaching.

“That’s my dad!” she announces to Odelia, who nods, courtesy of her own “intuition.”

By the time her grandmother gets to her feet, Calla has reached the front door and is about to open it. She looks back at the last minute, worried. “Gammy,” she says, “you’re not going to say anything to my dad about . . . anything. Are you?”

“Are you kidding?” Odelia settles her shawl around her shoulders demurely and pulls her glasses down from her forehead to rest on the tip of her nose. She looks almost like a regular grandmother. Kind of. If you ignore her red hair and pink clogs.

Calla smiles faintly. “I didn’t think you’d tell him,” she says, “but I wanted to make sure. I mean, I don’t want you to lie. Just . . .”

“Omit.”

“Right.”

“Got it.”

Calla opens the door, and her breath promptly catches in her throat. There he is, climbing out of a compact rental car parked at the curb.

“Dad!” She races outside, bounds down the steps, and hurtles herself into his arms like a little girl.

Her father holds her in a fierce bear hug and it feels so good, so incredibly good, that she almost cries.

Okay, maybe she is crying a little. Embarrassed, she ducks her head when he releases her and wipes her eyes before looking up at him.

“How was your trip?” she asks, noticing that there are a few light strands in his black hair just above his ears and for a split second she thinks they must be blond, bleached from the California sun. Then she realizes they’re gray. Gray hair. Dad’s face looks different, too. He’s not wearing his glasses—maybe that’s why. He wore them a lot after Mom died. All those tears kept interfering with his contact lenses. But he’s got them on again today, so maybe that’s a sign that he’s not crying as much.