Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(49)

On the street, there’s not a living soul in sight at this hour on a Sunday morning—though there are a few spirits drifting about. Things wouldn’t be much different here at high noon on a weekday, though. Not at this time of year.

Will she ever get used to the postseason ghost-town feel to the place?

Ramona said she likes Lily Dale better this way; she finds the isolation peaceful.

It can be peaceful, Calla supposes as she heads down the street, head bent against the chilly wind off the lake.

But on off-season days when the sun doesn’t shine, which is just about every day except today, there’s something dreary, almost mournful, about the Dale.

Dappled shadows fall pleasantly from overhead branches as they move in the breeze, and the relentless rhythm of Kanye West in her earphones almost makes Calla forget that this isn’t just an ordinary morning walk.

But it takes her only a few minutes to reach the entrance to Leolyn Woods, where the strange, ominous warning sign snaps Calla back to grim reality. She unplugs herself and tucks the iPod back into her pocket.

Wow. It’s so quiet here.

Eerily quiet.

Branches stir overhead, sending down a gentle shower of red and gold leaves, but she’s pretty sure the morning breeze doesn’t qualify as “high winds.”

Okay, you’re good to go.

So . . . go.

Consulting the map, she wonders how far into the woods she has to go to reach the designated spot. Hard to tell. Probably not too far.

Still, Calla hesitates on the path, gazing around at the legendary old-growth forest, home to Inspiration Stump, with its powerful energy vortex.

Why did she have to come alone? What if Darrin is lurking, watching her? What if something happens to her in there? Something freaky, supernatural, like . . . Well, who knows what?

This is silly. Just get it over with.

She begins to tread slowly beneath the colorful high canopy of ancient trees, her sneakers scrunching through the dried foliage.

She checks the map again, adjusts her direction, keeps walking. The ground grows marshy in some spots, and she has to step over the occasional fallen log covered with moss.

If it weren’t for the vague sense of foreboding, Calla would actually be enjoying the walk. Small woodland creatures, seen and unseen, dart playfully or furtively from her path. Her shuffling footsteps mingle pleasantly with the chirping of songbirds and the occasional whisper of wind through the leaves.

She inhales air heavy with the rich, earthy scent of autumn . . . and then it happens.

Her nostrils catch a hint of something else. Something familiar, unmistakable.

Lilies of the valley.

The scent can mean only one thing:Aiyana is here.

Calla waits for the telltale chill in the air, braced for a glimpse of the spirit who, she’s now convinced, led her to this spot.

But the only visible movement is a jet-black squirrel that hops onto a fallen limb, eating from its paws, seemingly oblivious to Calla’s presence . . . or any other.

She checks the map in the book, looks around, gets her bearings.

Yes, this is it.

She’s in the general area indicated by the X on the map.

Nothing here but more trees, more logs, more fallen leaves layered thickly underfoot.

No Aiyana.

The floral perfume hangs blatantly in the air, so potent Calla can smell nothing else . . . yet she still doesn’t sense the ghostly presence that usually accompanies it.

But as she looks around, puzzled, her gaze comes to rest on something so startling, so utterly out of place, that she’s certain she must be mistaken.

She takes a few steps closer, blinks several times, peers again.

She’s not mistaken.

A small dirt patch of forest floor, maybe a couple of feet square, is curiously void of leaves, almost as if someone diligently swept the area clean.

Which is impossible, because there’s not a soul in sight, and even if there had been, the breeze would have scattered and shifted more leaves.

Even more impossible: blooming in the bare spot is a clump of flowers.

Calla recognizes them not just by the distinct scent, but by the delicate clusters of bell-shaped blossoms perched atop straight, slender stems, poking out from pale green tuliplike foliage.

Lilies of the valley.

It wouldn’t be unusual to see them blooming in the wild . . . in the spring.

But at this time of year, they should be dormant; the flowers would have long since shriveled, the foliage disappeared.

Calla stoops and reaches out, the emerald bracelet glinting on her wrist, to pluck one of the stems.

Is it a freak of nature?

Some kind of sign from Aiyana or . . . from Mom?

Calla presses the fragile white blossom to her nose and inhales the perfume, closing her eyes.

“Please, Mom . . . if you can hear me . . . please tell me what I’m supposed to do. Please . . .”

The breeze turns colder.

Calla feels the flesh rising on her arms and knows she’s no longer alone. Her eyes snap open.

Aiyana stands before her, so solid, so real, that Calla fleetingly wonders, though she knows better, whether she’s a spirit after all.

She sweeps a hand to indicate the extraordinary flowers, but she doesn’t turn to look at them. Her black eyes are fastened on Calla’s.

At last she speaks. “She isn’t there.”

A chill slithers down Calla’s spine. “My mother?”