Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(25)

Yes, she knows that the results were almost disastrous when she disobeyed that warning.

But the poor, grieving man deserves to know that someone has at least glimpsed his wife on the Other Side. That Betty hasn’t just disappeared into some black void. Maybe it’ll bring him comfort to know that she’s there, and that she showed Calla a house—presumably, the earthly home she and sweet, feeble Owen shared in their twilight years.

When a male voice answers the phone with an almost curt-sounding “Hello?” Calla assumes she’s reached the wrong number. Figures Odelia wouldn’t be as organized as it seemed there for a minute.

“I’m sorry,” Calla says, “I was trying to reach Mr. Henry . . . ?”

“This is he.”

It is?

He sounds more brusque over the phone than feeble and sweet, as he was in person. “Who’s calling, please?”

“This is Calla Delaney.” Lovely as the lily, she wants to add. Remember?

Apparently he doesn’t, until she prompts, “Odelia Lauder’s granddaughter? From Lily Dale?”

“Oh! Calla. Right. What can I do for you?”

Might as well not mince words. “I’m a psychic, Mr. Henry, like my grandmother. And I know she couldn’t put you in touch with your wife, Betty, but I think I . . . um . . . saw her. Did she have white hair and gold glasses on a chain?”

There’s an audible gasp on the other end of the phone. “That’s her. What did she say?”

“She didn’t actually say anything,” Calla admits uncomfortably. “What did she do?”

“She didn’t, uh, do anything, either.”

Maybe she shouldn’t have called. After all, she doesn’t really have anything specific to share, other than having seen Betty and the house.

But maybe that will be enough. Mr. Henry is in the same boat she is. It might bring him comfort.

“I thought you’d just want to know that she’s alive and well . . . I mean, on the Other Side. And she’s still with you.”

There’s a pause.

Mr. Henry clears his throat. “Calla, my dear, you’ve made this old man very happy. I’d like to know more about my dear Betty. Let’s set up an appointment.”

“Oh, I don’t do readings,” she says hastily.

“I thought you said you were a psychic.”

“I am. . . I mean, I see things, but I don’t . . . you know . . . work. As a medium. I’m just . . .”

Just what? A kid? Confused? Sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong?

No, she definitely shouldn’t have called. Didn’t she learn her lesson the hard way with Elaine Riggs?

“It would mean the world to me if you would just sit down with me for a short time and put me in touch with Betty,” Owen Henry says fervently. “Please. I have a few questions for her. Questions only she can answer.”

“But . . .”

“I’ll give you one thousand dollars if you’ll do this.”

Calla’s voice lodges in her throat.

One thousand dollars?

“I’m sorry. I can’t,” she manages to croak.

Really, she can’t. It wouldn’t be right.

“Please. I’m begging you.”

One thousand dollars.

With that kind of money, she could definitely figure out a way to get herself to Geneseo and back. There must be a bus or something.

“Calla, you’re the only one who can help me,” Mr. Henry is saying, his voice sounding as if it’s going to give way to tears.

“All right.”

She has to help him.

But not for money.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says. “But you can’t pay me.”

“I insist.”

“I, um, insist that you don’t.”

Tempting as it is, that would be wrong.

“I just want to help you,” she tells him, “because I know what it’s like to lose someone.”

“All right, then. I’ll come right over,” he says eagerly.

“No!” she all but screams into the phone.

“No?”

“Not here. And not, um, today. I’m tied up.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tied up again.” She really is, with babysitting and working with Willow on her math.

“Thursday,” he says firmly. “Where shall we meet?”

She hesitates, then tells him she’ll meet him at the diner over in Cassadaga, about a mile down the road from the Dale. She can walk there after school. There’s always a chance that someone from the Dale might walk into the diner, but at that time of day, it’s pretty unlikely.

“You’re a lifesaver, Calla,” Owen Henry says warmly before hanging up, and she decides she might have done the right thing after all.





NINE

Wednesday, September 26

7:56 p.m.

“Okay, that was pretty good.” Willow leans back in her chair and stretches. “Want to take a break before we do the extra-credit stuff?”

“Definitely.” Calla slaps her math textbook closed and tosses her pencil aside. “Thanks for showing me how to solve that last problem to the second derivative. I don’t know if I’m ever going to get the hang of calculus.”