Connecting (Lily Dale #3)(7)

The only answer is a flash of lightning, followed by a deafening boom of thunder and the rattle of rain on the roof as the storm moves in.

Leolyn Woods?

It’ll have to wait.





THREE

Wednesday, September 19

6:52 p.m.

“Win some, you lose some . . . Guess I won’t be making that again.”

“Hmm?” Calla looks up to see her grandmother watching her pushing the remainder of her dinner around on her plate.

“Either you didn’t like the pasta, or you aren’t hungry.”

It’s a little of both, actually.

For a moment, the only sound is the steady dripping from the gutter outside. The storm took a while to pass.

Calla clears her throat, not wanting to hurt Odelia’s feelings. “It’s just . . . when you asked me if I thought snicker-noodles sounded good, I thought you meant cookies.”

“No, those are snickerdoodles,” her grandmother says with exaggerated patience, “and even I wouldn’t feed you cookies for dinner.”

No, but she would concoct a dish consisting of boiled spaghetti coated in some kind of peanut butter sauce and tossed with cut-up chunks of Snickers bars.

“Don’t worry . . . I didn’t like it either.” Odelia stands and picks up her own plate, which even she didn’t scrape clean for a change. “I was thinking it would taste kind of like those sesame noodles I had once at a Chinese restaurant.”

“It might have—maybe without the candy bars.”

“I know, but you seem so down today, I figured a little chocolate with your meal couldn’t hurt.”

Calla smiles faintly, carrying her own plate to the garbage can and dumping in the contents. “Usually I love your made-up recipes, Gammy.”

“Well, every chef has an off night. Just like every psychic. And usually, I have a pretty good idea about these things, but tonight, I have no clue. . . . Are you sure you’re okay?” Odelia asks again. She must have asked a dozen times as they ate—or pretended to eat, anyway.

“I’m fine,” Calla answers again. “Just tired.”

“I was hoping that was all it is. Like I said—off night. Psychicwise, and chefwise. I’m glad nothing’s eating away at you.”

“Nope.” Wow, Odelia really is having an off night, psychicwise. “I’ve just been trying to figure out . . . the thing is, I really miss Lisa. I talked to her this afternoon. Do you think my dad will let me go visit her in a few weeks?”

“You have that airfare voucher Lisa gave you. I don’t see why not.”

“He’s overprotective. That’s why not.”

“He is, but he let you come here, sight unseen, to live with me. Anyway, didn’t he already say you could go visit Lisa?”

“Sort of. He said maybe.”

Odelia shrugs, running water over the dishes in the sink. “When he calls tonight, ask him if you can book your flights.”

“Can you ask him?”

“Nope. That’s up to you.”

“I’m afraid he’ll say he changed his mind.”

“He might. He might not. Why don’t you call him right now and see?”

Calla looks at the stove clock, then remembers that it doesn’t work. It broke years ago, and Odelia, who isn’t big on keeping track of time anyway, didn’t bother to fix it.

“It’s probably about four o’clock, his time,” she guesses. “I think he finishes teaching his last class of the day right around now.”

Odelia hands her the phone. “Here, go ahead.”

Calla dials the number as she walks with the phone into the next room, leaving Odelia washing the dishes and singing off-key.

In the living room, Gert comes to rub against her legs, purring. Calla balances the phone between her shoulder and ear and picks up the cat as the phone rings once, twice . . .

“Hello?”

“Dad? It’s me!”

“Hey there! How’s my girl?”

“Great!” She tries to sound as cheerful as he does, and wonders if he’s faking it, too.

Hearing his voice makes her miss him. A lot.

She closes her eyes, picturing him wearing jeans and his ratty old Grateful Dead concert T-shirt Mom always hated.

In her mind’s eye, he’s standing in a small, unfamiliar kitchenette. Behind him, open shelving is lined with cups and plates in Mexican-style pottery, and a sunny window frames some kind of bright red blooming shrubbery. There’s a fruit bowl on the counter, and as he holds the phone to his head with one hand, Dad is playing catch with a green apple in the other.

Listening to his familiar voice in her ear, it’s so easy to picture him, she can almost believe she’s right there with him. But when she opens her eyes, she’s in Lily Dale, and Dad is a few thousand miles away, in a place she’s never even seen.

“What’s new?” he asks. “How was your weekend? How was school today?”

“Good. We had a senior assembly about college applications. I’m supposed to meet with my guidance counselor next week to talk about where I want to go.”

“You and I are going to have to figure that out.”

“I know.”

Before Mom died, Calla had definite ideas about next year. Rather, her mother did. She was a strong believer in education, as, of course, is Dad. Mom, who had an Ivy League MBA, had high hopes for Calla, and they were going to visit college campuses over the summer.