Believing (Lily Dale #2)(48)

For the time being, though, there’s nothing to do but to roll up her sleeves and tackle the math worksheets with Willow. It’ll almost be a relief to think about the kind of problems that can actually be solved—and in specific steps, no less. So different from the other kinds of problems she’s dealing with lately.

Her father’s comment about college last weekend really made her think about next year—about whether she’ll be able to get into the schools that topped the list she and her parents had always discussed.

Is that even what she wants, though?

Now that Mom isn’t here to motivate her and Dad is a continent away, Calla isn’t sure. She does know what Mom would have wanted for her. She’d have been so proud if Calla went to an Ivy League school.

Do I want that? Can I possibly get in?

And can we even afford it if I did?

It doesn’t seem likely that she’ll be accepted into a top school with a failing math grade, so she’d really better get her butt in gear now. It might already be too late.

As she climbs the steps to Willow’s front porch, her train of thought continues to bounce around: Ivy League,Cornell . . .

Kevin. Why did he decide to get in touch out of the blue?

Blue. So he’s still interested in her? Is he going to ask her to homecoming? What about Jacy?

Jacy. He was so sweet, bringing her a lunch.

The door opens and her train of thought slams into a brick wall.

An unfamiliar woman is looking out at her. Oops.

“Oh, I’m sorry . . . wrong house.” Calla backs away from the door, wondering how she managed to make that mistake. Well, that’s what she gets for daydreaming about guys: Kevin, Blue, Jacy.

Wait a minute.

This is the right house, she realizes, seeing the street number on the porch pillar.

“Are you looking for Willow?” the stranger asks. “I’m Althea.” At Calla’s blank look, she clarifies, “Her mother.”

What? How is that possible?

The woman in the doorway is the polar opposite of Willow York. Physically, anyway. Her gray hair is short and frizzy, and her face, propped on several chins, is plain. She’s morbidly obese, her tremendous arms, legs, and torso crammed into a snug-fitting navy velour sweat suit.

“I . . . um . . . it’s nice to, uh, meet you,” Calla stammers. She would have expected Willow’s mother to be as drop-dead gorgeous as she is—and remembers her earlier assumption that she’d be a doctor or lawyer or banker, like the parents of her schoolmates back in Florida, instead of a medium.

Yeah, just as she originally expected Willow to be snobby and standoffish. Remembering that first day in the cafeteria, when she was surprised to see Willow rescue Donald Reamer and his dropped lunch tray, she feels a stab of guilt.

Come on, Calla. If being in Lily Dale has taught her anything, it’s that she should never, ever, EVER subscribe to preconceived notions. Her own or anyone else’s.

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” Althea York is saying. She has kind eyes, Calla notices. And a welcoming smile.

She’s sick, though, Calla thinks, and immediately wonders where that odd idea came from. It was a fleeting inspiration, just like the strange flash she had last weekend about her father and Ramona. But this makes less sense than that, even. Why would she get it into her head that a total stranger is sick?

“Come on in. Willow ran to the store for me, but she should be back soon.”

“Thank you.”

She steps into the front hall and Willow’s mother closes the door behind her.

“You can wait for her in the study,” she says, and leads the way. Every step she takes is an obvious effort, and she’s breathless by the time they reach the kitchen.

Maybe she really is sick. Did Willow mention something about it? Calla doesn’t think so, but . . .

“Are you thirsty?” Althea asks. “Can I get you something to—” She breaks off abruptly, her body stiffening and head jerking.

Oh no! Is she having some kind of seizure? What do I do?

“You lost your mother.”

It takes Calla a moment to grasp Althea’s words and realize there’s nothing physically wrong with her. “Oh . . . yes. In July.”

Calla is caught off guard, though she probably shouldn’t be surprised at this point that yet another stranger knows about Mom’s death. Funny how it’s almost harder to get used to a small town filled with gossips than a small town filled with spiritualists.

“So, Willow told you?” she asks Althea.

“No, I feel her here.”

“What? You feel who here?”

“Your mother. She’s with you.”





FIFTEEN

“My mother is here?” Calla’s knees go liquid and she reaches blindly for something to grab on to, her head spinning.

“Here, sit down.” Althea York gently guides her into a chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, you didn’t . . . I mean . . .” She closes her eyes and tries to focus. There must be a chill, a sense that there’s a presence, the scent of lilies of the valley in the room, something she missed . . . and is still missing. Because . . .

“I don’t feel her,” she tells Willow’s mother. “Why don’t I feel her?” The question comes out sounding like a pitiful wail, but she can’t help it.