27 #2
She ate quickly and returned to her room, not trusting herself among the well-rested, well-adjusted newcomers to The Aurora.
Her desire for Leo was the warden that kept her locked in, for her own good, or his?
Or no one’s, possibly. They were adults.
What were these stupid rules that she’d invented to keep them on the straight and narrow?
What did it matter? When things eventually fell apart, it would hurt, but she was no stranger to pain.
She was, increasingly, a stranger to pleasure in any form.
She was dry and unyielding earth. She didn’t have to submit to his needs, but couldn’t she give in to her own?
These were the thoughts that had shocked her awake last night, not some fantom knock on her door. How easy it would have been
to leave her room, climb the stairs to his suite, slip into his bed. He would not turn her away, nor would he let her down.
For all his patient waiting, she’d make it worth his while.
Another shower and she got to work. She wrapped up the line edits and considered her editor’s thoughtful suggestions on ways
to improve the ending. It was good enough, she reasoned. If she kept poking at it, like a soufflé, it would collapse. Though
she knew good enough wasn’t nearly enough, not for a rabid fandom. If dissatisfied, they’d come for her.
Jules slammed the laptop shut, stretched, killed time leafing through a magazine and practiced winged eyeliner in the bathroom
mirror. She washed her hands and was mindlessly working a dollop of lotion into her damp skin when she stopped and joined
her open palms. She studied the unbroken line from edge to edge. What had Mallory called it?
A simian line.
A spiritual mission.
A destiny.
If that were the case, if she were truly on a mission of some kind, it might help to get some guidance. She looked up the
address of the crystal shop, grabbed her bag, and took off. She no longer had any trouble timing her outings. The house had
a pulse, and it quickened whenever Leo was in it. When he wasn’t around, the air fell flat.
Mallory wasn’t at Cut Crystals. Jules circled the displays and wandered the aisles in search of the surly teen. Finally, she
approached the woman at the register, a brunette her own age who sat nursing a cup of tea.
“Hi,” Jules said. “I was hoping to speak with Mallory.”
“She’s at the square.”
Ha ha! Mallory Square. Jules wasn’t in the mood for jokes.
The woman at the register apologized. “It’s a family joke. Mallory is my sister. It’s her day off. She’s probably getting
a tattoo or something.”
At closer examination, Jules caught the resemblance. The same arched brows, pointed chin, and perceptive blue eyes.
“Right,” Jules said, only because she didn’t know what to say.
“You look familiar,” Mallory’s sister said. “Have we met?”
“I’m an author. You might’ve caught the lecture series.”
“Actually, it’s the other way around. You attended my lecture on the ghost tour. I’m Elvira.”
“You’re Elvira?” Jules repeated.
“Minus the wig and theatrical makeup,” she replied. “I’m Beverly.”
“Nice to meet you again. I’m Jules.”
“Did you enjoy the tour?” she asked. “It looked like you guys were shaken up near the end.”
That was an understatement. Jules blinked and the emotions of that Friday night came roaring back. “Was it meant to go that
deep?” she asked.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Beverly said. “Once I learned that a group of famous horror writers had booked the tour,
I made it my mission to showcase authentic ghost stories, not the deranged clowns y’all like to write about.”
Jules was stirred to defend her fellow writers and friends. “First of all, we’re not all horror writers. Second, not all horror
writers write about deranged clowns or possessed dolls, though some of us do, and that’s fine. It’s a plot device.”
“Real life is horrible,” Beverly countered. “And the spirit world has enough intrigue that you don’t need to make stuff up.”
“You believe everything you said on that tour?” Jules asked.
“Absolutely. Every story is based on our city’s oral history. All anyone wants to hear about is Hemingway sightings, and I get it. That’s what sells tickets, but it doesn’t even scratch the surface. I thought your group could handle it.”
“Apparently not.”
“Why are you looking for Mallory? Did you book a card reading?”
How was Jules to explain to this smart, perceptive woman that she, equally smart and perceptive, was turning to her teenage
sister for spiritual guidance?
“She read my palms the last time we were here, but I was in a rush,” Jules said. “I had some downtime today, so I figured . . .”
She left it at that.
“Hold them out so I can take a look,” Beverly said.
Jules presented her hands. Returning on Mallory’s day off might have been a stroke of luck. Beverly knew her stuff and could
communicate without the punchy teen girl attitude.
“That’s a crisp simian line,” Beverly said with a hint of respect. “You must be quite intuitive and . . . open. Would you
say that’s true?”
“Yes.”
After all she’d gone through, Jules had to accept there was something different about her, a certain two-way frequency that
left her “open.”
“Want to see what the cards say?” Beverly reached for a fresh pack of tarot cards on the shelf behind her.
Jules nodded. Why not? If it kept the conversation going.
“This is our popular Frida Kahlo pack with quotes and art. It costs thirty dollars. If you purchase it, the reading is free.”
Jules paid in cash, thirty for the pack of cards and an extra ten as a bonus, incentive, or tip.
“Let’s have a seat.”
Beverly pointed to a café-style table in a corner of the shop.
Once settled, she unsealed the pack and shuffled the fresh cards.
All the while, her gaze was trained on Jules’s face.
In her tank top and faded jeans, she didn’t look like the stereotypical medium or fortune teller.
Minus the Elvira wig, she looked like any of the local women who might work at the bar or the bookstore or the front desk of the restaurants and hotels they’d frequented.
Yet she moved with confidence and spoke with authority.
Jules had no doubt she was in capable hands.
“What can you tell me about The Aurora?” Jules asked.
Beverly stopped shuffling. “What about it?”
“It’s haunted.”
“Didn’t I mention it on the tour? The young bride who died and all that.”
“Yes, well, we stayed there,” Jules said. “My friends had odd experiences.”
“And you?” Beverly asked. “There’s no point discussing what your friends experienced.”
Jules straightened in her chair, which was cuter than it was comfortable. “I’ve seen things.”
Beverly kept shuffling the cards. “Go on.”
“On our first evening I caught a glimpse of a shadow, as ridiculous as that sounds.”
“Out of the corner of your eye?” Beverly asked.
“Yes.” Maybe it wasn’t so ridiculous, after all.
Beverly arranged the cards in a neat stack and rested her elbows on the table, causing it to wobble between them. “Do you
remember what I said on the tour? About there being various types of spirits or spiritual encounters? You wouldn’t be the
first person to describe a shadowy mass, something undefinable noticed in a flash.”
“I’m pretty sure I was the only one who saw it,” Jules said. “We were at a garden party, and everyone just kept on partying.
I had to lie down. The experience wiped me out.”
“I’m not surprised,” Beverly said. “We talked about you being more open or receptive than the average person.”
She might as well be in her therapist’s office, on the verge of a breakthrough which had never occurred with talk therapy.
“Because of this?” she asked, holding up her palms.
Beverly nodded. “And also, some natural predisposition or gift. Who knows?”
Jules dropped her hands onto her lap and stared at them with rising trepidation. She hadn’t asked for this. Was it manageable?
Would it only get worse with age? Or was it only activated in certain geographic locations?
“What else?” Beverly asked. “I sense you’re holding back.”
“That night I didn’t sleep well. I had a feeling of being watched.”
“I see. Anything else?”
“There were other encounters.”
“Where?”
“In the garden,” Jules said. “Always in the garden, and always at night.”
“That’s not unusual,” Beverly said. “What you’re describing is a residual haunt. Energy attached to a specific area, like
Hemingway at the bar on Duval.” She left the table and returned with a mini bottle of water for Jules. “What did I say on
our tour about the Civil War battlefields?”
“I don’t recall.” Jules hadn’t realized there would be a pop quiz.
“Visitors report seeing apparitions or hearing sounds. Some believe that the energy of the fallen soldiers is attached to
the soil.”
“That’s understandable considering they died there. But my mother died at Presbyterian Hospital in Brooklyn.”
“Your mother?”
Jules fought the urge to dart out of the shop. She hadn’t planned on bringing up Ruby. As always, she intended to nibble around the edges of the truth, never getting to the meat of it.
“Hey, listen,” Beverly said gently. “This shop has been in my family for three generations. There’s nothing we haven’t heard.
I’m not a priest or a priestess, but our conversation will remain confidential.”
Jules took a breath and let it out. She recounted both encounters, the difference in her mother’s appearance, her chilly disposition
that had escalated by her second visit to open hostility. “I don’t know that she knows who I am, to be honest. There’s no
emotional connection between us. Maybe that’s normal with her being dead and all.”
“Nothing about this is normal,” Beverly said. “You’re in town for a work event, and the spirit of your departed mother appears
in the hotel garden. That’s strange.”
Jules was overwhelmed with relief. Her heart and mind were divided. She didn’t want to reject her mother, but she couldn’t
embrace her, either. “Thanks for saying that.”
“Well, it’s true,” Beverly said. “During these encounters, how do you feel?”
“Terrified.”