Believing (Lily Dale #2)(32)

It’s one she watched with Kevin on a rainy night when he was home last winter break. She still remembers everything about that night—the way they cuddled on the couch in their sweats, eating hot brownies she had baked for them; the way they laughed, not at the lame movie, but at themselves for watching it; the way Kevin looked and smelled and tasted, like molten chocolate, when he kissed her.

She pushes the memory away, telling her father, “I’ve, uh, been wanting to see . . . something funny. A good comedy. There are a bunch of them out now.” Total guess, of course.

Maybe a good one because her father says, “I know, and I could use a good laugh, too.”

“Great. So let’s go to the movies. Want to come, Gammy?”

“Can’t right now . . . I’ve got a meeting.”

Right—for the mediums’ league. Which, of course, she doesn’t mention.

“It’s okay, we’ll go to the movies tonight instead,” Dad says. “For right now, I’d love to get outside since there’s no smog for a change.”

“Smog? In Lily Dale?” Odelia smiles.

“Have I told you how bad the smog is where I am?” Dad asks, and shakes his head.

“I thought you liked California, Dad.”

“I do. Except for the smog. Anyway, the leaves are starting to turn here. We have to get outside. I haven’t seen fall foliage in years.”

Calla hasn’t seen it ever.

She glances toward the window above the sink and notices, for the first time, a few golden and reddish leaves among the branches. She’s been so preoccupied, she hasn’t even noticed them until now. Or maybe they weren’t there until now?

Whatever, the bright foliage is a blatant reminder that the season is turning at last. Summer, which brought Mom’s tragic death, is almost behind them now.

Back in Florida—and out in California, come to think of it—seasons don’t come and go with much visible change. There’s always sun and green foliage, blooming flowers, and blue skies. No obvious seasonal closure. Not like here.

So. Maybe the changing landscape will help bring some kind of closure to the raw wound.

Yet another reason why it’s good that Calla’s here in Lily Dale . . . and why it’s a good idea for her to stay awhile.

Dad pushes back his chair and picks up his plate, carrying it to the sink.

“Leave it, Jeff. I’ll get the dishes,” Odelia says promptly. “Really. It takes two seconds to wash them.”

“Then I’ll dry and Calla can put away.”

“Oh, we don’t dry or put away,” Odelia says. “That’s a waste of time. Around here, we pretty much just leave them in the dish rack to dry by themselves. Right, Calla?”

“She does,” Calla tells her father. “She says why bother to put stuff away when you’re just going to use it all again later?”

Dad grins and shakes his head.

Less than five minutes later, Calla finds herself walking down sun-splashed Cottage Row with him. Sure enough, the boughs overhead seem to have changed overnight, with lots of yellows and golds tucked among the green leaves, and even a few shades of red.

The sun is bright but not particularly warm today; the air is crisp with a breeze off the lake.

She thinks about Erin. About how she might not have survived another night—a cold night—in the woods.

How did she get there? Was the person who hurt her also responsible for Kaitlyn’s death?

Yes. There isn’t a doubt in Calla’s mind about that, after the way Kaitlyn urgently told her to “Stop him.”

But did she?

I found Erin, she thinks uneasily. I helped her, like Kaitlyn asked.

But did I stop him?

I don’t even know who he is. What if the police don’t find him?

“Huh.”

Startled by Dad’s voice, she looks up to see that they’ve made it halfway down the block, and he’s gazing at a nearby cottage.

More like, at the shingle hanging from a porch post on the cottage.

PATSY METCALF, REGISTERED MEDIUM & SPIRITUAL CON-SULTANT “I feel like I’m in California all over again,” Dad comments with a laugh.

Uh-oh. To distract him, Calla points at the patch of water visible between the houses and trees. “Look, Dad . . . isn’t it pretty?”

“Beautiful.”

“Let’s head down that way. There’s a nice little dock and benches by the water.” And it’s away from all the houses—and signs.

As they head closer to the lake, Calla can see that today, for a change, it actually looks more blue than gray. She can hear the distant hum of a fishing boat.

“Have you been swimming a lot here, Cal?”

“Not at all.”

“Why not? You always love the water.”

“Yeah, but it’s too cold for me here,” she says, not about to tell him the real reason she hasn’t gone in.

“It’s pretty cold in California, too . . . the Pacific, I mean.”

“Have you been in it?” she asks in surprise. Her father never went to the beach back in Florida. Mom, either. That wasn’t their thing.

Calla often went out to Pass-a-Grille Beach with Lisa, though. And later, with Kevin. She shoves aside the memory of him, tanned and bare chested in board shorts, diving into the warm, salty Gulf of Mexico surf with his boogie board.