Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(66)

No reaction from Donald, but that’s not surprising. A lot of the kids in this school can make that claim. No one thinks anything of it.

“I’ve been seeing someone around you, kind of . . . watching over you. I think it’s your dad.”

Something flashes in Donald’s gaze behind those thick glasses, but he says nothing.

“It’s an older man, and he looks kind of like you. He’s got nice brown eyes, like you.”

Those eyes, Donald’s father’s eyes, are grateful now, fastened right on her.“Thank you,” he tells Calla. “Tell him that I love him. And I’m always with him.”

“He loves you,” she tells Donald,“and he’s always with you.”

She waits for a burst of emotion from Donald at last, but he’s oddly stoic. “Anyone could say that about anyone who’s passed.”

All those years of pain at the hands of cruel classmates— no wonder he’s unwilling to trust. He probably thinks she’s setting him up. And why wouldn’t he?

“Tell him his mother’s going to love the cutting board.”

Calla shakes her head slightly at the spirit, not understanding. “Just tell him,” Donald’s father says. “He’ll know.”

“Your father says your mother’s going to love the cutting board, Donald.”

He stares at her in silence, but the guarded expression has given way, just slightly, to a hint of emotion.

“Tell him he should give it to her for her birthday, like he was planning to before he decided it wasn’t any good.”

Calla echoes the words from father to son, and at last, Donald seems to grasp what’s happening.

“He’s really here?” he asks, and she nods, and his cagey expression evaporates at last.

“I’ve been fooling around in his workshop a little . . . trying to learn how to use some of his stuff,” Donald tells her. “I made this cutting board for my mom—it’s shaped like an angel, and she, you know, collects angel stuff, so . . . but I didn’t think it was very good.”

“It is good. It’s beautiful. He gets his talent from his old man,” Donald’s father says affectionately.

Calla repeats it with a grin, then realizes his father’s energy is fading.

“He’s going,” she tells Donald. “But I’m sure he’ll be back. I’ve seen him around you before.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve been wanting to tell you, but . . . I guess I was afraid to butt in.”

“I’m glad you did,” Donald says. “It really helps to know he’s with me.”

“Yeah.” She clears her throat. “I know what it’s like.”

“What do you mean?”

“Losing a parent. Missing them. Feeling like they’re just . . . gone. But your father isn’t, Donald. He watches over you all the time.”

“I’m sure your father does, too.”

“Oh, he’s in California, so . . . but my mom, she’s the one. She . . . died.”

It’s still not easy to say, even after all this time.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. It’s hard.”

“If my father’s around me,” Donald says, “then I’m sure your mother’s around you, too.”

Calla swallows hard, manages a smile—and no tears.

“Hey, do you play chess?”

“No.”

Donald looks disappointed. “Oh.”

“But I’ve been wanting to learn,” she adds quickly, glancing over at the apple and the seat she abandoned near Willow and Sarita. She wasn’t in the mood to eat, or chat, anyway. “Maybe you can teach me.”

“Sure. Sometime.”

“How about now? You just happen to have a set handy, I see.”

“My dad made it for me.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

She smiles, nods.

“So, you want to play?” he asks.

“I’d love to.”




After dinner with her grandmother, Calla walks the few short blocks over to Willow’s to work on her math.

“That was really sweet of you today, playing chess with Donald,” Willow tells her as she leads the way through the small house to the study.

“Yeah, well . . . I felt like he needed a friend.”

“I know. I feel like that a lot.”

Calla touches Willow’s arm. “I hope you know you can talk to me, if you ever want to. I mean, we’re friends, right?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that I feel like I need a friend. I meant I feel like Donald does. But thank you. And, I’ll remember what you said. About being friends.”

They share an awkward smile.

“Want to get busy? I know you’ve got a lot to do to get ready for your trip to Florida tomorrow.”

“Definitely.”

“Let’s work on the floor, okay? The desk is too cluttered and I don’t feel like clearing a spot.”

Calla glances at the desk, which holds a computer and piles upon piles of paper—junk mail, bills, newspapers. Althea York’s housekeeping skills are similar to Odelia’s, and Ramona’s, for that matter.