hearing voices: coming home

Visionary/Metaphysical Novels by Karen R. ThorneSome titles not yet released.

For a complete list and to order, visit the author’s website

www.krthorne.com

where you can also download free samples, read blog posts,and keep up with all the latest exciting offerings!

Paranormal Alternate Reality SeriesGiving Up the Ghost: The WalkIn

BLUE thread reality – Book One of the Alternate Reality Series

Giving Up the Ghost: The WalkInGREEN thread reality – Book One of the Alternate Reality Series

Hearing Voices: WalkIns WelcomeBLUE thread reality – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series

Hearing Voices: Coming HomeGREEN thread reality – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series

Giving Up the Ghost: The WalkIn The EVPsmp3s – available at www.krthorne.com

Marek: Diary of a WalkIn

Ghost Matter: The Story of OberonA QuantumVisionary Timebending Exploration

MusicGilding a Darksome Heaven (The Orchid)Forsaken Sparrows in the Garden of WinterThe Devil’s Caprice

FantasyDartfoilDralácri (Tears of the Dragon)

Supernatural/Otherworldly BeingsReflections of a Vampire

A VisionaryMetaphysical Metaphor

Paradigm Swift

VISIONARY FICTION – FORGING NEW PATHS BY CHALLENGING BELIEFSAre you game?

"Some people come into our lives, leave footprints on our hearts, and we are never the same."

– Unknown

For SLJ

∞

Note: Any references to Mann’s Chinese Theatre may or may not reflect current name changes (apparently it was renamed “TCL Chinese Theatre in January 2013—rather a silly name, if you ask me). “Mann’s” is the name I grew up hearing, so we’ll go with that.

Hearing Voices: Coming HomeGreen thread – Book Two of the Alternate Reality Series

3rd Edition © 2015

COPYRIGHT © 2006, 2015 Karen R. Thorne (Karen Korwal)

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced by any means or in any form, in whole or in part (beyond that copying permitted by U.S. Copyright Law, Section 107, “fair use” in teaching or research, Section 108, certain library copying, or in published media by reviewers in limited excerpts, without written permission from the publisher.

PUBLISHED BY

Visuallusions LightSource PublishingGolden, CO

Printed in the United States of America

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About the Author

Welcome, Visionaries!I am on a mission: To inspire the human spirit by challenging the mind and heart. My goal is shifting paradigms, moving from what has been to what can be.

Throughout all my stories you will find a world in which a greater, mystical Intelligence is at play (without the confines of religion), where violence is not the answer and Love restores the wholeness of Who we are.

“My lord, I should be sorry if I only entertained them; I wished to make them better.”— George Frederick Handel

All my stories are given to me by my wonderful Inner Muses. These Messengers introduce me to these amazing otherworld people, and then the people tell me their story. You see, for me, all these stories are real—the people, the places, and everything that happens—somewhere, in some plane of existence. (I know this because if I try to change it, they fight me on it!) My job is to transcribe the stories they tell me so I can share them with you.

My Writing is Not for Everyone

I write for Visionaries, people who look beyond to see a better world than this one, not by doing more of the same but by challenging the status quo, often breaking the rules in favor of a new and better way. Those who no longer wait for someone else to tell them what to do, but instead are willing to think for themselves, to listen to the Voice within, and go for it.

21st century trailblazers, quantumstyle!

Are you with me?

Karen R. Thorne is a Visionary novelist living in Denver, CO. A graduate of The N. C. School of the Arts (Cello) and former member of the American Association of Electronic Voice Phenomena (AAEVP), she has been crafting Visionary novels since 1994.

Visit her on the web at

www.krthorne.com

http://www.krthorne.com/

Have you ever wondered, “What would’ve happened if . . . ?”

What if I’d turned left instead of right?

What if I’d married my high school sweetheart instead?

What if I’d chosen theater over medical school?

Quantum physics says all possibilities are being played out . . . somewhere, in some parallel, quantum reality.

This story explores that theory.When I originally wrote Giving Up the Ghost: The WalkIn, it

was to have been a standalone novel. Or so I thought—my Muses had other ideas.Once our thenghost investigation group (currently on

indefinite hiatus) finished reading that first truetolife ghost tale, Monica exclaimed, “Oh, dude, you have to write a sequel! All about Jenny going on to become a medium. . . .”

Well, that pretty much clinched it.What I didn’t know was what my Muses had in store.

Parallel realities, stemming from the two divergent endings of the first story: What if Marek lived? What if he died? Where would Jenny’s life go, in light of each—very different—twist of fate?

And so, each thread – the green thread and the blue thread (named for their respective covers) – follows its own thread of reality.

Ah, but there’s a catch.In some cases, they overlap.

Ha! Just gave away a secret . . . if you’re curious, read both threads and see if you can figure it out.

One word of caution, though: Things can get pretty strange in the quantum world.Are you game?

As always, any resemblance to persons living or dead is, of course, purely coincidental.

1Marek. . . .

Tossing, turning, hands flailing, reaching, grasping, muttering words unintelligible, “no—” grappling with something that was not there, the depths of the nighttime darkness scattered with sounds more agonized cry than moan. “Marek!”

Her name being called, a rattling of the door.Screaming now, Marek, Marek!, sitting up, desperate hands

reaching for empty air, tears streaming from dark open eyes as trembling lips form soundless words, the corners of her mouth turning down. Then a muffled thud as she hits the floor.

“Jenny!”Crawling, her body contracting into a tiny crumpled mass, no,

no! – the white cotton blanket tangling around her bare legs as she slithers across the cold hardwood floor, wailing and whimpering, begging for help that cannot come.

“Jen . . .” over and over, gently taking hold of her shoulders, gently pulling her back, “Jenny, wake up.”

Cowering into the corner, away from him, trying to fit into the space beneath the corner chair. “Help me, please!” Begging, her vacant eyes not knowing where she is, not knowing what is happening, only that she is mortally terrified.

“Yes, Jenny. Give me your hand and I’ll help you.”A little choking sound. “You . . . can’t . . . help me.”Eyes soft with love, steadily returning her stare. “No, I can’t

help you. Not if you won’t let me.”Hesitating . . . a long pause. Then, with small hiccuping sobs,

moving a fraction forward. But before he can reach her, her entire body convulses.

2 Hearing Voices: Coming Home

“Noooooo,” as arms scoop her up, her head falling back, mouth open, tears streaming into her hair as he lifts her, carrying her even as she protests, feebly, before her entire body goes limp.

Soft . . . so soft, the light as it dawned just beyond her eyes. Murmurs from somewhere distant; a soothing sound, a kind of humming, rather like a lullaby; feathery wisps of sound and sighs drifting to her hollow ears as she quietly returned.

“Jenny?”Opening her eyes a slit; then more fully.“Hey, you okay?”She struggled to pull herself up. “Unhh . . . where am I?”A smile. “On the couch in the living room. You fell out of bed

dreaming.”Her small brows knitted. “Dreaming?” She ran a hand through

her disheveled hair. “No, Jon, I wasn’t dreaming. I was awake.”Her friend gazed at her. “Tell me about it,” he said, seating

himself on the trunkascoffeetable, elbows on his knees.“Oh god, it was horrible.” Trembling hands ran through her

hair, a sheen of perspiration still on her forehead. “It—” “It . . . what?” Jon said when she didn't go on.Groping, her mind, trying to grasp some shred, some small

detail of what she’d seen . . . so horrific, so tragic, so terribly important. But now . . . now there was nothing. Only a lingering sense of melancholy. “I don’t know,” she said finally, dejected, her tone pensive, questioning. Folding and refolding the hem of her pajama, she stared into space. “For a moment there I could see it all, plain as day, but the moment I started to tell you about it, it all went away.”

“Like a dream.”“But I wasn’t asleep.”“How do you know?”

Karen R. Thorne 3

“I just told you I wasn’t.”“Yes, but if you don’t remember, how do you know?”“I just do!” Exasperated, she sat up straight. “Jon, it was like I

was there. Not like in a dream when you’re watching yourself doing something, or maybe even feeling yourself going through the motions but you’re still sort of detached. This was absolutely crystal clear. I’ve never seen anything like it, other than—”

Jon’s eyes became soft. “Marek’s plane crash?”She bit her lip. Lowering her gaze, she nodded.He laid a warm hand atop hers. “So you linked in,” he said in a

gentle voice.“That’s how it seemed.” Throat tight, she fell silent. From the window there came the sound of the everpresent

breeze, Marchchilled and stiff, rising and falling against the panes as it came in off the Golden foothills. A series of great mountainous sighs in the depths of the nighttime stillness, dancing silhouettes of the winternaked aspens Jon had planted last spring against the still folds of the curtains, shadow puppets in the light from the street.

“I think. . .” her voice caught, “I think it had something to do with him. Marek, I mean,” she said. Half to herself, staring now at the frenzied shadowdance. “Though it seems so faraway, distant.”

He waited for her to go on.Straining still harder, but the more she chased it, the swifter it

moved away. “It’s no use,” she said finally, shaking her head. “It’s all gone.” Still he waited, expectant. She gave a small sigh. “Jon, why don’t you go on back to bed. I’m okay now. Really.” And she smiled as if to prove it.

His seablue eyes were dark. “Are you?”“Of course,” she said, shifting, “why wouldn’t I be?” Absently

she fiddled with her pajama top. “What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Jen,” he said slowly, “this isn’t the first time.”Something in his voice gave her pause. “First time for what?”


“Don’t you remember? Two nights ago you were crying and calling out in your sleep. I came in and woke you just as you were about to fall out of bed, just like tonight. And there was that time last week, only you stopped just as I got to your door. And the time before that—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, irritation flaring. “I already told you I wasn’t asleep. And I did not fall out of bed.”

“Okay, so how’d you get in here?”She started to fire off a retort. “Well, I don’t know,” she said

when she couldn't think of anything. Why wouldn’t he believe her? “Listen, all I know is, I was seeing something, witnessing it—”

“Still doesn’t explain how you ended up on the couch.”Altogether leading, his tone. “Well . . . well, maybe it scared

me so much I got up and came in here and just don’t remember doing it. How do I know!”

He gazed at her. Then, getting up, he went into the kitchen, returning with a glass of water. “Here,” he said, holding it out, “drink this and stop being so crabby at me.”

Glaring, she did as she was told.“Now,” he said, taking the empty glass and setting it down, “I

think you ought to go back to bed and try to get some rest. Tomorrow we can talk about it some more if you like.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was ticked off or just tired. “You’re worse than Richard,” she said with a scowl.

“Yes, and if he were here he’d say the same thing,” he said, giving her a nudge. “Friends do that, you know—look out for each other.” He cocked an eyebrow, giving her that look.

Which she ignored. To her utter consternation he escorted her back to the guest

bedroom, helping her to lie down.Reluctantly she allowed Jon to settle her in the bed. Helping

her ease down under the covers, rearranging the pillows, fluffing the comforter. Taking care of her, as he'd done for nearly three

Karen R. Thorne 5

months now, insisting she come and stay with him after . . . well, after that maniac she’d once been married to had. . . .

No. Not going there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.She bit her lip. She would not cry—she wouldn’t. It was her

own private pain, her own private hell. She had to deal with this in her own way, her own time. Jon just didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He’d never tragically lost a fiancé! Sinking down into the pillow, she refused to look at him, her fingers going to the diamond she still wore—her beautiful antique ring, Marek’s ring. Did Jon think she’d so easily forget? After all, just look how he’d felt about her all these years—surely that should tell him something about the enduring power of love.

“So are you all right now?” he said, giving the bed covers a final tweak.

Sinking in her emotion, she didn’t answer.He stood waiting. Then with a resigned gesture, he headed for

the door.“Jon?” she said suddenly, sitting up a little.He paused.Her face softened. “I’m sorry I woke you. Good night.”“Good night,” he said without turning, as he shut the door.

Good and night, however, were not how Jenny would have described what followed.

Hours of tossing and turning, too tired to stay awake, too awake to fall asleep. And tonight the place seemed particularly full of noises (what exactly they were, she didn’t want to know).

All too soon the bright and shining morning assaulted her senses, an elephant stampeding over her eyeballs. She lay for a few minutes, covers over her head, wishing she could switch off the sun like the bedside lamp. Finally she stumbled out of bed, then managed to run into the door frame twice as well as trip over


the leg of a chair as she headed in the general direction of the kitchen, lured by the enticing aroma of freshbrewed coffee. Surely her feet were on backwards, for all the grace she suddenly possessed, and everything was blurry, the way it must’ve looked to those oldtime cameramen filming starlets through Vaselinesmeared lenses.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she heard Jon’s cheerful voice say. The kitchen was all warm and breakfastysmelling. “Hungry?” A sizzle punctuated the question.

Groping empty air, Jenny’s fingers contacted the edge of the kitchen table; she sank into a chair. “Um . . . no.” Leaning her head into her hands, she squeezed her eyes shut. “Just some coffee, please, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah,” he said with a hint of a grin in his tone, “now that’s more like it.” Cabinets echoed; then the sound of liquid being poured, and a nudge as he handed the mug to her.

“More like what?” she said, forcing her jellyeyes open. Ugh, that awful navystriped bathrobe again.

“More like the Jenny I know,” he said, ohsocheerful, setting the bowl of turbinado sugar in front of her along with the small pitcher of cream. “At least now you’re saying please.”

“Since when do I not say please,” she said, sipping at her coffee. Promptly she made a face, belatedly reaching for the turbinado.

“Since last night. You were seriously biting my head off, you know.” He turned back to the breakfastmaking, dropping two slices of bread into the toaster whilst giving the skillet a final flip, masterfully sliding the perfectly cooked Denver omelet onto a plate.

“Was I?” Absently stirring the coffee, still trying to pry her eyes open, she pressed her forehead into her palm. “Sorry, Jon, I guess I was really tired.”

“Oh,” he set the plate on the table, “so now you were really tired.” Pausing to refill his mug, he replaced the carafe and sat

Karen R. Thorne 7

down. “Last night you insisted you were wide awake,” he said, taking a slurp.

The amused tone didn’t escape her. “You’ll have to forgive me,” she said with a small irritated frown, “aside from all the tossing and turning, I don’t remember much of last night.”

Jon settled back in his seat. “Well, then let me refresh your memory. You were moaning, really loud,” he extended his legs across the adjacent chair, “and I came to see what was wrong. When I opened the door, you were flailing all over the place, crying and calling out,” with one long arm he took up the pepper grinder, “and then before I could reach you fell off onto the floor. I suppose you don’t remember fighting me like heck, saying No, no! and trying to get away?” A few twists of the grinder and he set it down, carving off a slice of omelet that vanished into his mouth.

Jenny leveled her gaze. “I did?”He nodded. “I couldn’t make out what you were saying,”

taking up his mug, he inhaled a sip, “except ‘no, no, no’ and—” An odd shadow crossed his face. “Anyway, it was mostly gibberish, crying and sobbing as if the whole world had come to an end.” Another bite of breakfast disappeared.

By now Jenny’s eyes were wide. “Jon, you’re kidding me. I don’t remember any of that. The only thing I remember was having a dickens of a time falling asleep. I just kept lying there, turning every which way, trying to get comfortable. It was like . . . like my own body felt wrong, like when your shirt goes on all backwards and twisted and you can’t seem to get it turned around.”

“Well, whatever it was,” he said, getting up to retrieve the poppedup toast, “you were grumpier than a hibernating black bear.” He tossed the hot toast onto his plate and reached for the butter.

Jenny’s face became contrite. “Jon, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what could’ve come over me. I just wish I could remember


what I was dreaming.” Pressing her fingertips deep, she massaged her temples.

“So now you think you were dreaming?” he said, unable to hide a smile.

She plunked her mug down. “Jon Lansing, what do you mean? Why do you keep talking in riddles?”

“I’m not talking in riddles, you are. You just kept insisting you weren’t dreaming, that really you were awake.” Snagging a slice of toast from the plate, he deftly spread it with butter, then crunched down. Out of the side of his mouth he said, “I told you that a minute ago, remember?”

“Oh, that’s right you did.” Watching him munch into his buttered toast, she motioned; he passed her a slice. “You know, I don’t mean to be contrary,” she tore off a corner, “I just had such a horrible night. Maybe that’s why I really believed I was awake and not asleep. I mean, I know I’m talking in circles, but that man—”

Jon sat up.“Yes . . . yes, now I remember. There was a man,” she laid the

toast down, squinting her eyes, “I can almost see him. But it’s all so vague.” Scrubbing at her hair, she shook her head. “A man, definitely. . . and a sense of sadness. Terrible, terrible sadness.”

Jon ran a thumb around the rim of his mug.“What? What’s that look?”“Nothing,” he said with a shrug. “Finish your coffee. You’re

sure you don’t want some eggs? If you’re not in the mood for Denver omelet, I can make you some scrambled, or overeasy.” Taking his mug to the sink, he noisily ran the hot water.

“Toast is fine. I’m not really very hungry.” She got up to take her own mug to the sink . . . suddenly the room seemed to sway.

“Whoa, easy,” Jon said, catching her elbow as she nearly dropped the heavy ceramic cup. “You sure you’re okay? Your eyes don’t look right.” With one hand he took the mug from her, depositing it in the sink while he firmly held her up with the other.

Karen R. Thorne 9

“I’m fine—just got up a little too fast, that’s all.” Another wave of dizziness; she clung to Jon’s hand. Then she looked up. “Okay, what is it you’re not telling me? And don’t try to put me off—I can see it in your eyes.”

To her surprise he jerked his hand away. “You can’t see it in my eyes,” he said, “you’re feeling it in my hand.” Averting his face, he reached for the sponge and began scrubbing at the dishes in the sink.

Annoyance flared. “Now who’s grumpy,” she said.“I’m not grumpy. I’m just. . . .” He pressed his lips together,

nostrils flaring, then flung the sponge into the sink. “Jen, I’m worried about you. I’ve tried to laugh it off, but I just can’t. Last night you weren’t just dreaming, or seeing whatever it was you were seeing. You were someplace else, somewhere far off. Your body was here but your mind was . . . God only knows. That I could see in your eyes.” Jaw taut, he braced his arms against the counter. “I kept calling your name, but you didn’t respond. I mean, you did, but it didn’t feel like you. It was like . . . oh, never mind!” Snatching up the dish towel he buried his hands in it, wiping them vigorously.

“Jon, it’s okay,” she said, watching him agitatedly fold and refold the towel. “It’s not worth getting all upset about. I’m sure it was nothing.”

Shoving the towel aside, he flung open the dishwasher, reaching in to remove the clean dishes.

This wasn’t like him. Had he had a bad night too?Glasses pinged and pots banged, the loud clinking of china

plates echoing in the sleek modern kitchen. Jenny let out a sigh. “I really wish you’d tell me why all of a sudden you’re so upset.”

One kitchen drawer slammed; another one opened. “What makes you think I’m upset,” he said, tossing silverware into the drawer.

“Well, for one thing you just put the glasses in the spice cabinet and the cooking utensils in with the forks and spoons.”


Jon stopped. The muscles of his jaw twitched as he stared at nothing.

She reached for his shoulder. “Jon—”“Jenny, don’t,” he said, pulling away.Heat suffused her cheeks. “Sorry,” she said, her voice quiet. “I

didn’t mean anything, I just—”“Look, could we just drop it?” Throwing the last of the

silverware in the drawer he stalked from the room.Jenny stood a moment. Where’d this JekyllandHyde business

suddenly come from? One minute he’s chuckling, poking fun at her, the next he’s acting like a sulky little boy.

She could hear him pacing, heels digging into the floor. “Listen,” she said, coming into the living room, “if you’re mad at me because I—”

“Why did you keep calling me Johnny?”She blinked. “Johnny? I didn’t call you Johnny.”“You did last night!” The vehemence seemed to startle even

him. “That was the name you kept calling out last night. Over and over. Johnny, Johnny.”

She could see the questions burning in his eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, moving to sit on the wide leather sofa. “I don’t call you that. I don’t think I’ve ever called you that. I don’t even know anyone by that name.”

His gaze was fixed. “This one you seemed to know quite well.”She couldn’t seem to swallow past the sudden rock in her

throat. Johnny? She tried to think: maybe a former boyfriend . . . or someone she’d known in school? Didn’t ring any bells. And how could she have been calling out for someone and not remember it?

“Jon,” she said to him slowly, absently rubbing her palms, “are you upset because you were thinking—”

“I wasn’t thinking anything,” he said, getting to his feet. Then before she could comment further he turned on his heel and disappeared into his room.

Karen R. Thorne 11

Jenny watched the door close. Maybe it was the lack of sleep—that must be it. She couldn’t imagine what else it could be. Jon was never moody or pensive; he was such an easygoing guy. Oh, he had his grumpy days, like everyone else, especially when he’d been pushing himself too hard (which was far too often). But to behave like this, out of the blue? To let something so simple as a name affect him. It just didn’t make any sense.

Sighing, she slid down deeper in the plump leather cushions. Yesterday everything had been fine. They’d enjoyed yet another of Jon’s superb gourmet dinners: oysters à la russe, roasted squab over wilted cress, butterseared potato fingerlings with sautéed minted green pea timbales and chocolateraspberry panna cotta for dessert (utterly divine), then settled down to watch a movie, which they ended up not even seeing because they got so engrossed in conversation. It wasn’t until they both started yawning that they’d finally called it a night.

At this Jenny frowned. Now that she thought about it—she sat up a little—that was when the dark cloud had descended. She hadn’t paid it much attention at the time, but Jon’s “good night” had sounded a bit taut. But why? It hadn’t even been that late, maybe only one in the morning. Each had gone off to their respective rooms, just as they had every night for the past two and a half months. Was that it? Maybe he was getting tired of having her around? Though her staying here was entirely his idea. But now maybe he was having second thoughts. After all, the entire twelve years she’d known him they’d always gotten along.

Except . . . except when interfered with by ghosts.

The frigid foothills wind was still howling later that afternoon as they dashed, heads down, out the door to Jon’s SUV. Of all times, he’d parked in the driveway behind the condo instead of pulling


into the garage. Hair and coats whipping, they fought the biting gusts as they got in and slammed the doors.

“Jesus!” Jenny said, teeth chattering as she buckled up. “You wouldn’t think March’d be so cold.”

Jon blew on his hands. “Good ole Colorado!” Turning the key, he started the motor and revved it a few times, adjusting the heater controls. “You know the old saying—in like a lion, out like a lamb.”

Yes.Jenny turned. “What?”“I said in like a lion, out like a lamb. March, I mean.”“No, after that.”“After that I didn’t say anything.”“Yes, you did, I heard you.”“Jen, I didn’t, I swear.” Putting the Land Rover in reverse, he

backed out. “Why, what did you think I said?”“I don’t know. That’s why I was asking you.”A halfgrin crooked the corner of his mouth. “Jen, I think

you’re starting to hear things.”Settling into her seat, she gazed out the window. “Maybe I

am,” she said, her voice drifting off.

As they sat waiting for the light at 6th Avenue (which was more highway than not, a major DenverGolden thoroughfare), Jenny peered up at the slope of the mountain looming in front of them, fingers absently twisting and untwisting her heavy winter scarf.

Jon looked over. “You’re sure you want to do this?”She hesitated.“We don’t have to, you know. I can take you back to my place

and then come back here alone.”“Light’s green,” she said.

Karen R. Thorne 13

With a nod Jon put the Land Rover in gear. Crossing the highway, they headed up the slight hill, coming to a stop on the small side street in front of Jenny’s house.

“You can pull around,” she said quietly.Giving her a sideways glance, Jon did a threepoint turn,

coming around the other side to turn into the driveway that curved around the back.

“Oh no!” Jenny said suddenly, sitting up straight.A large tree at the side of the house had lost a huge limb,

cracked through where it joined at the trunk and forced by the wind to the ground.

“That tree was over a hundred years old!” she said in dismay. “It was my favorite. My beautiful old oak!”

Jon reached over. “Hey,” he said, squeezing her hand. “Trees lose limbs all the time and they just keep on growing. I’m sure it’ll be all right.” Carefully he rounded the jutting end of the fallen branch and parked. “Well, here we are,” he said in a deliberately light tone. “You want me to come in with you, or—”

A blast of wind rocked the SUV, bending one of the smaller backyard aspens halfway to the ground.

Jon looked over. “Maybe you should put the Cruiser in the garage. At least until we’re ready to leave.”

An uncomfortable feeling came over her then. “You’re probably right,” she said with a reluctant nod. Jon shut off the engine and they both got out, the noise of slamming doors ricocheting off the back of the house and the garage. “I shouldn’t have left it here,” Jenny said, fumbling for the car key, fighting to see past her whipping hair, “I shouldn’t even have come back here that night at all.”

“Now Jen,” Jon said, hands stuffed deep into his coat pockets, “you tried. That’s all you could ask at the time. And I was more than happy to come pick you up.”

She fought the windstung tears. “I was such an idiot! Thinking I could come back here alone, at night—”


“Jen, would you stop it and just put the car in the garage? I’m absolutely freezing.” He danced from foot to foot, visibly shivering.

Rubbing at her eyes she unlocked the car door and got into the Cruiser, trying to keep her thoughts neutral as she started it and moved it far enough into the garage so the wind couldn’t damage it. Memories bombarded her. This is where he stayed, where he waited for me to come home. . . .

No, she scolded herself, do not go there. It’s just a garage. Hastily she shut the engine off and got out, yanking the garage door closed behind her as if she could shut out the barrage of images crowding her mind.

Head bowed against the wind, Jon waited for her to precede him. She could feel her heartbeat at the very top of her throat, beating in the tips of her fingers as she got out the house key, her hand going right to it as if they remembered, as if it were the key to unlock the front door of her longtime childhood home and not the door to the house she’d barely lived in three months and then so hastily left.

A lifetime, surely. . . .“Ooh, steady,” Jon said when she tripped on one of the steps.“This is so dumb,” she muttered, hand shaking as she fumbled

at the lock. “Really, really dumb. Why do I always do this? Why do I always make such a big deal out of nothing.” Turning the key she swung open the back door. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous—”

All in a rush, the sounds of laughter and cries and hours of quiet conversation, real as the moment they happened. . . . Her stomach dropped; one hand went out, fumbling, and Jon took it and grasped it firmly as they stepped inside.

Slightly musty, a closedup smell with a lingering hint of spice, the air damp and dull and close.

All at once she jumped.“What? What’s wrong?”“Didn’t you hear it? Just now—the phone!”

Karen R. Thorne 15

Jon frowned. “I didn’t hear anything. Maybe it was your cell.”“My cell plays Moonlight Sonata, remember?” She crossed the

kitchen into the living room, throwing her purse and keys onto the front entry table as she reached for the landline. “Who on earth would be calling me here? Everyone knows I’m staying with you.” The wind rattled against the windows as she stabbed at the handset buttons; nothing but dial tone.

“Maybe it was Margo,” Jon said. “Maybe she called my place and when she didn’t get an answer she decided to try here.”

“No,” Jenny replaced the receiver on the base, folding her arms against the chill, “she’d ring my cell or yours. It just doesn’t jibe. No one knows we’re here—” All at once her face went ashen.

Jon’s blue eyes became intense. “Jen, don’t. You’ll get yourself all upset for nothing.”

“But Jon, it’s the only thing that makes any sense!”“No! You hear me?” Without waiting for an answer he took her

face in his hands. “Jennifer Townsend, stop this now. It’ll do you no good, and it certainly won’t change anything. What’s past is past. It’s time to move on.”

“But Jon!”The seablue eyes remained steady.Everything within her wanted to fight this. Every last fiber of

her being wanted it to be so, wanted to make it so, to believe, to prove to Jon that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong and she was right and it really had been him calling. . . .

“Jenny.”She looked up. Her friend's steady gaze held hers, no need to

say anything; it was obvious what he was thinking. She gave a long sigh. “All right,” she said finally, body going lax, “you win. But I know I heard a telephone ring.”

From somewhere a voice whispered, Yes.

2

Standing once more in the house of memories proved far more difficult than Jenny imagined. More surreal than a dream—the walls, the floor, the furniture all seemed hazy and dim, a gauzy effect as if she’d stepped into some old blackandwhite movie from long ago.

“So where do you think you left it?” Jon said, heading towards the front entry closet to hang up their coats.

“Hm? Oh. Well, I’m not really sure—the last time I had it I think I was upstairs.” She went towards the oldcarpeted stairs, reaching out a hand for the worn carved railing. The aged wood of the bannister was smooth and cool beneath her hand, making her feel all drifty, an ancient handclasp that seemed to say Welcome Home.

“Well, are you going up?” Jon said, standing behind her. “I can go look if you want.”

Jenny glanced back. “No, no, I’ll go.” She ascended, one faded, carpeted step and then another, the series of answering creaks beneath her feet oddly comforting. And yet her heart was racing, nearly as fast as her thoughts. At the top she could see dusty sunlight slanting into the hallway of the second floor; for a moment her limbs refused to move, sticks of plaster as she stood gazing towards the master bedroom. So much had happened there. . . .

On her shoulder she felt a reassuring warmth; Jenny forced a swallow. “I, um,” her voice caught, “I think I must have left it on the bedside table.” She took a step forward.

Something moved off to her right.She leapt back. “Jon,” she said, voice hushed, “did you see

that?”

Karen R. Thorne 17

“See what?”“That flash of white, at the end of the hall.”Narrowing his gaze he stared, then shook his head. “I didn’t

see anything. Could it have been a shadow?”“Shadows aren’t white.”“Maybe it was the sun reflecting off a passing car.”Her lips pursed. “Angle’s wrong. And this came from inside.”

Sidling sideways, Jenny kept a cautious eye on the end of the hall, but nothing else moved. Maybe she’d only imagined it.

Coming into the master bedroom, another wave of memories passed over her. Just as she’d left it, even to the wrinkles on the bed. No, no, it shouldn’t be this way! It can’t be this way. It’s too empty here, too hollow, too desolate. I can’t stay here . . . I can’t stay. . . .

“Jen,” came Jon’s soft voice from a few feet away, “it isn’t here.” Opening the small bedside table drawer, he rummaged through the small stack of papers, lifting them to peer underneath. “Not in in the drawer, either.”

One of the papers fell out.Jenny started to reach for it but Jon stopped her. “I’ll get it,”

he said, his voice gentle, his movements reverent as he retrieved the photocopied newspaper clipping and returned it to the drawer. Then he looked over at her. “If this is too difficult, we can leave.”

Her jawline tensed. “No, I—I need to find it. Let’s just keep looking.” Lifting the bed skirt, she bent down to check under the bed, then went to the closet and felt along the top shelf. Still nothing. Then as she turned her eye fell on the chest of drawers, on the halfmelted candle that still sat where it had been softly burning last.

“Jen, let’s go. This is too much for you. We can—”“No!” she said, fighting the choking in her throat. “If I don’t

find that journal I think I’ll go insane!” Striding to the chest of drawers, she jerked open the top drawer, shoving things and lifting them, roughly pushing the contents aside. “Don’t you


understand? I need to read it again. I need to try to understand what happened, to figure out why.”

“Jen, you don’t—”“How would you know!” Her face streamed with tears, but she

didn't care. “I know you think I’m either an idiot or a fool—all this fuss over someone I hardly even knew. But in those few weeks that Marek blessed my life, we shared a lifetime.” She shoved at the neatly folded camisoles and socks, then flung them from the drawer. “It’s not here,” she muttered, “it’s not here! Where is it? Where have I put it?” The chest shook as she slammed the drawer shut. “Where in bloody blazes have I put the thing? Dammit! I know it’s here somewhere. Maybe it’s downstairs. . . .”

Jon hastened to follow. He stood by watching as she began pulling off sofa cushions, knocking over the waterstarved peace lily and tearing into the CD storage bins as she had with the drawers upstairs. “Jen,” he said, “you’re getting all worked up. Let’s leave it for now and come back later when you’ve had something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry and I don’t want to eat,” she snapped, neither stopping nor slowing. “You’re just trying to distract me. You’re jealous, Jon Lansing, jealous of what it might say—”

Reaching, he grabbed her shoulders. “Jen.” Despite her brimming tears, he held her fast. “Jen, look at me. You haven’t eaten. You refused breakfast and then hid out in your room until well after lunch. It doesn’t matter whether you’re hungry or not, you have to eat. Remember what Nikky said?”

“Of course I remember,” she said, the words coming out as angry sobs. Again she tried to pull away.

“She said you have to eat. Otherwise, you’re too—” He cast a glance around. “You’re too vulnerable,” he said, lowering his voice.

“I know that, Jon. Don’t you think I know?”“Knowing isn’t enough,” he said, taking a firm hold of her

wrists when she once more tried to pull away. “You have to do it.”

Karen R. Thorne 19

Pausing to sniffle, she gave him a deepfurrowed scowl. “There you go again. Full of advice, all fatherly. You sound just like Richard.” Then as he loosened his grip she angrily slumped to the floor. “Jesus, why does everybody seem to think I need to be watched over and coddled like some immature adolescent.”

Jon knelt beside her. “Because,” he took hold of her chin, “you forget sometimes to take care of yourself. And because we’re your friends and we care about you.” Smiling, he extended a hand. “Come, madame, let’s go get something to eat and afterward we’ll resume our search.”

Giving him a scowling look, she reluctantly let him pull her to her feet. “Dang it all, why do you always have to be so convincing.” Then she gave a sniffling sigh. “Oh, I don’t know why I thought it would be in the CD bin,” she said in a disgusted tone. “Just look at the mess I’ve made.”

Following her gaze, Jon grinned. “Well, at least you’re good at it. Shall we go?”

But before either could move, a phone rang.“Mine,” Jon said, reaching for the leather holster at his belt.

“Hello? Oh,” his gaze went to Jenny, “hey, Margo, what’s up. Listen, did you call before? No, we’re over at Jen’s. Yes,” and now he turned slightly, “the house.” Jon’s voice dropped as he moved a little ways away.

Jenny could hear Margo talking: freaking hurricane . . . lunch . . . insides out. Margo must be having morning sickness again. That girl didn’t want to listen! If she’d just take the Ipecacuanha Jenny had given her, she wouldn’t be going through this. Countless times Jenny had tried to convince her that homeopathics were safe, even during pregnancy―even Margo’s obgyn said so. But she still stubbornly refused to let go of her ingrained beliefs. Hardheaded ninny!

“Yes, well,” Jon was saying, “you still should eat. You’re as bad as Jen.” He walked over to the coat closet, holding the tiny phone with his shoulder as he retrieved their coats, helping Jenny put


hers on. “Look,” he said, catching the phone before it fell, “we could bring you something. We were just heading out, and—”

“Tell her we’ll bring some potato soup,” Jenny whispered. “That’s pretty bland.”

Jon nodded, then frowned as he noticed Jenny beginning to sway. “Jen says we’ll bring you some potato soup. Look, Margo, we have to go. We’ll see you soon,” and he pressed the End button without waiting for a reply.

“Oh,” Jenny said, hand trembling as she put clammy fingertips to her forehead, “I don’t feel so good.”

“You don’t look so good.” He helped her to the sofa, easing her down. “Lie still. I’ll get some water.” Skirting the end table he made a dash for the kitchen.

“Jon, wait. . . .” But no more had she tried to sit up when the dizziness sent her stomach into her throat. She made a dash of her own.

“Jen?” came Jon’s slightly muffled voice a minute or so later from outside the bathroom door.

Running cold water over a washcloth, Jenny leaned her elbows on the sink, forcibly keeping her fingers from shaking. “Be right out,” she called, though even in the echoey bathroom the sound was feeble and small. By the time she opened the door, her legs were about to give way.

“All right, Jen,” Jon said, making a grab for her, “you’re okay, you’re okay. That’s a girl, come sit down.” He settled her, then reached for the glass, holding it for her as she awkwardly drank. “No, no, keep going, drink it all. Nikky said you need water to ground yourself.”

“Yes, I know,” she said petulantly, irritated at yet another reminder. “Jesus, I don’t know what came over me.” She collapsed back against the cushions, still gasping.

Karen R. Thorne 21

“Well, something sure did. You’re whiter than that milkglass vase.” Leaning one elbow against the back of the couch, he studied her. “So what’s going on? Talk to me.”

“If only I knew! I felt perfectly fine until I mentioned potato soup. Then all of a sudden I went completely dizzy.”

“Yep, that’ll do it every time.”She shot him a look, then noticed his expression. “Oh you,” she

said, batting at him. “Anyway, I don’t think potato soup had anything to do with it. It seemed more of a trigger of some kind, like it reminded me of something. Though now I can’t think what it was.”

“Any bad experiences with potato soup? Eating too much of it, or hearing some bad news while having a bowl?”

She shook her head. “Not that I can remember. It’s probably my favorite, though I mostly had it when I wasn’t feeling well. My mother used to make it for me when I was sick and couldn’t stomach anything else.”

“Well, there’s your answer. Your mind associates potato soup with being ill.”

“No,” she shook her head, “I’m sure it’s not that. Otherwise every time I mention potato soup I’d feel sick, wouldn’t I? I mean, we’re talking about it now and I feel just fine.”

“Hm, I guess you’re right. Well, whatever it is, all this talk of food is making me famished. We were headed out, remember?”

“Yes,” Jenny said, giving him a weak smile. “Can’t keep Jon’s stomach waiting, can we.” At his frown, she chuckled. “Come on, hungry man,” she said, rising to her feet and pulling him up as well. “Poor Margo’s going to think we’ve forgotten all about her.”

Between grabbing a bite and having to stop at two different stores to find potato soup, they didn’t reach Margo’s until nearly an hour and a half later.


“Beige again?” Margo said, noting Jenny’s clothes as she came up the walk.

Jenny frowned. “Well, you got onto me about looking ‘funereal’ wearing black so much—” She stopped at the sudden knot in her throat.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t mean go back to your usual drab old boring self. There are other colors besides beige and tan. You look like a barfbag.” She wrinkled her nose.

Behind her, Jenny could feel Jon’s amusement at Margo’s wounded (and in Jenny’s opinion, rather inflated) fashionsense. Jenny, however, saw nothing amusing. “Gee, thanks,” she said. “You’re looking rather Vogue yourself.”

“Thanks. Ugh!” her friend said, making a disgusted face, waving them inside. “God, you did bring that stuff, didn’t you. Well, don’t make me smell it, or else a barfbag will definitely be in order.”

Jenny gave her a wry look. “Yes, we brought it, and yes, you’re going to have to smell it. You’re also going to have to eat it, even if I have to force it down you.” Holding the container away, she gave her friend a hug. “Of course I can’t vouch for the taste—there wasn’t time to make homemade so we picked some up at Safeway.”

“Won’t make any difference. Everything smells awful, tastes horrid, and only makes me feel marginally better.” With a grimace Margo shooed Jenny past. “So Jon, how are you? Looks like you’ve been pulling the latelate shift once too often.”

He sent a glance in Jenny’s direction. “Well, it’s been a bit difficult,” he said, watching as Jenny took the soup to the kitchen.

Margo indicated he should sit down. “Jen’s been having an awful time with dreams,” he said,

keeping his tone nonchalant as he seated himself in the leather recliner. “But not just any dreams. These are really vivid, emotional dreams—or nightmares—and she can’t seem to wake up.”

Karen R. Thorne 23

Margo’s eyes went wide. “It’s not those ghosts again?” she said in a hushed voice.

“I don’t know. She’s—”“Soup’s on,” Jenny joked, coming back in brandishing a bowl

and spoon.Instantly Margo shot from her chair, disappearing into the

bathroom.Jon and Jenny looked at each other. Sounds echoed from the bathroom for nearly a minute; then

there came the sound of running of water and a toilet flushing. “Sorry,” Margo said as she shakily rejoined them. “I told you I didn’t want to smell it.”

“Geez,” Jenny said, face concerned as she came to sit on the sofa. “Have you talked to the obgyn? Maybe this isn’t normal.”

“Oh, it’s normal all right. Doesn’t happen to everyone, but of course it has to happen to me.” Plunking herself down in the armchair she let out a ragged sigh. “They can call it ‘morning sickness’ all they want, but with me it’s twentyfour seven.”

Jenny glanced over at Jon. “Well, even if it makes you sick you have to eat,” she said, reaching for the spoon, taking up a steaming spoonful and blowing on it. Then she held it out to Margo, who made a face. “Oh, come on,” Jenny said with an exasperated sigh. “If not for you, at least for the baby.”

Margo flicked a look at Jon, as if this whole thing was somehow his fault. Then reluctantly she opened her mouth, closing it around the spoon, grimacing as if it were a rotten persimmon.

“That good, huh?” Jon said, trying not to grin.“I tol’jou,” Margo said, mouth full, “everything’s awful.”

Forcibly swallowing, she took the glass of water Jenny handed her. “I get absolutely famished, about every twenty minutes or so, but nothing sounds good or tastes even remotely palatable.”


“Yes, well,” Jenny said, spooning up another bite, “if I have to I’ll come over here every day until Perry gets back just to make sure you eat.”

“I don’t need a babysitter . . . yet,” Margo said, one eyebrow arched. “And you’re always telling me not to fuss. I can perfectly well. . . .” The words were stifled by Jenny spooning in more soup.

“Um, not to take sides here,” Jon spoke up, “but on this I do have to agree with Jen. I know it sounds cliché, but you really do need to keep up your strength. Your baby is only as strong as you are.”

Margo’s grimace turned scathing. “Ganging up on me, are you? Now that’s a fine howd’youdo. I appreciate your concern, but I’m a grown woman and soontobe mother! I don’t need either of you butting in. I can take care of myself.” She made a shove at the spoon Jenny held out.

With a sharp hiss Jenny jerked back. “Margo!” she said, taking the handful of tissues Jon handed her, wiping at the hot spill on her pants leg.

Her friend let out an exasperated sigh. “Sorry, Jen,” she said, shoulders falling. “I didn’t mean to snap. These days my emotions are just all over the place.” Abruptly she burst into tears.

Jenny caught Jon’s eye. “No, no, it’s okay,” she said, taking her friend in her arms, stroking Margo’s spiky red curls. “We understand. All this is really stressful for you, what with Perry being gone.”

At the mere mention of her fiancé’s name Margo’s tears intensified.

Jon reached over and snagged the box of tissues, handing them to Jenny. “Here,” she said, pulling out several and giving them to Margo. “Sometimes it’s good to cry.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Margo said tearfully, “I just can’t help it! Fal’s been away over a month now, and between that, the pregnancy, trying to keep up with the online business and planning the wedding, the stress is really getting to me.” Folding

Karen R. Thorne 25

the tissues, she wiped at her eyes, then gave her nose a good blow. “I just wish he’d come home!”

An odd twinge went through Jenny’s middle. “Yes,” she said, making a subtle grab for the arm of the sofa, “I know how you must feel. It’s awful when someone you love is away like that, especially for such a long time.” For some reason the room was beginning to feel very hot and sticky.

“He’ll be home soon,” she heard Jon faintly say, “and then maybe he’ll be able to finally settle down, now that he’s done ‘sowing his wild oats,’ as they say. . . .”

The words faded almost as fast as Jenny did.

Jenny. Echoing, the voice, soft and faraway. A feeling of floating or drifting; someone rubbing her hands. “Jenny, wake up.”

“Here, Jon, here’s some water.”A female voice now, someone she knew. Or did she?“Jenny, here, sit up.” Strong gentle hands guiding her body

upright, sensation of cold as a smooth glass rim touched her lips. “Drink some of this.”

“Johnny,” she managed to say.Icy as a mountain stream; shocking as it went down. Her eyes

fluttered open.Two faces, looking at her with concern, and a scene she didn’t

recognize. Pulling herself back, she stared at them as if she didn’t know them.

“Jen?” the man asked.“Johnny,” was all she could say.The woman leaned down. “Why does she keep calling you

that?” she said to the man in a low voice.Him? What about her?“She’s been calling for him every night,” the man said, not

taking his eyes from her. “Calling for him and crying.”


Which is what she felt like doing now.The woman shook her head. “Oh, Jon, I don’t like this.

Something’s wrong. Look at her eyes.”“Johnny,” she said again, the sound of her own voice strange

and weak to her ears. “My Johnny!”The man leaned back, still staring at her. “Nikky said this

might happen,” he said, speaking to the redheaded woman, who seated herself unsteadily. Then the man leaned forward. “Please don’t be frightened,” he said in a gentle voice. “Can you tell us who you are?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Then she heard a sound, a car going by . . . and the next moment a highpitched whine seared her eardrums as the room went black.

When she came to, Jon was gently wiping her face with a cool cloth.

“What happened?” she said, wanting desperately to sit up but doubting she had the strength to do so.

“You went out on us,” Jon said, dunking the cloth in the bowl next to him and then wringing it out. Laying the moist cloth on her forehead, he held it gently in place with his palm.

“How long?”“Oh,” he said, doing that little funny mouththing as he peered

at his watch, “a good two, three minutes, I’d say.”“Three minutes?” Now she did sit up—or at least she tried.

“Surely it was longer than that,” she said, holding her pounding temples.

Jon shook his head. “No, you keeled, I picked you up, and Margo had just brought me the cold cloth when you opened your eyes.”

“You mean the second time. How long was I out the first time?” She waved Jon’s hand away, pushing at the cloth.

Karen R. Thorne 27

Margo frowned. “First time? Jen, what are you talking about?”“Oh come on, Margo. You know very well—” All at once

everything seemed fuzzy and vague, like a wisp of her recent dreams. “You mean I fainted only once?”

Both her friends nodded.Sagging back, Jenny let out a groan. “I know they say dreams

are over in a flash, but this is ridiculous.”“Why?” Jon readjusted the cloth. “What do you remember?”She shook her head. “No use asking, it’s all gone. All I know is

I blacked out and now I feel confused, with this sense of having lost time. I’m not sure if I blacked out once or twice, or even at all. Maybe I just dreamed it. . . .” Her eyes went to each of them in turn. “Maybe I still am.”

“No, Jen, you’re awake,” Jon reassured her. “Can’t you tell?”Her countenance darkened. “No. I can’t tell anymore. I mean,

how do I know that what I’m saying now isn’t a dream, too? It seemed so real before, maybe it just seems real now.”

“Oh, this is getting too confusing,” Margo said as she stood up, pressing her hands into her lower back. “I’m getting some more water. Anyone else?”

“Bring three,” Jon called after her, then returned his attention to Jenny. “So can you remember anything of this socalled dream? Any small detail that might give us a clue?”

Closing her eyes, she thought a moment. Bits and pieces flickered across her mind’s eye, none of it intelligible. “No,” she said finally. “I have a feeling of it, like I can almost reach out and touch it, but I can’t quite put it into words.”

“Here you go,” Margo said, coming in and handing Jon a halffilled crystal goblet. “I went ahead and brought the whole pitcher,” she said, setting it down.

Jenny likewise took the glass Margo handed her and downed the contents, waiting as her friend refilled it twice more.

“Well, Margo,” Jon said, finishing off his glass and standing up, “I hope you’re feeling better now. It’s getting late and we have


to get going. I have some things to do tonight. Jen and I are going to my friend’s art showing tomorrow afternoon.”

Jenny’s hand went to her head. “Oh my gosh, I’d forgotten!”“An art showing?” Margo said. “Sounds deadly dull and

boring.” She got up, following them to the front door. “Well, guys, I hate to admit it, but the soup actually did some good. At least those awful hunger pangs are gone . . . for now.”

Jenny smiled. “I left the container on the kitchen counter, so you be sure to heat some up later when you start to feel hungry. No sense letting it go to waste.”

“Yes, Mommy,” Margo said. “Ooh, don’t forget your coats!”As she turned, Jenny gave a little gasp. “Oh, Margo,” she said

with a broad smile, “you’re starting to show!”Jon’s brows raised and Margo’s face took on a wide grin. “Yes,”

she said, gazing down, “just barely. Wonder what Fal’s going to say when he gets back and sees his bigasahouse fiancée?”

“He’ll say you’re even more beautiful than ever,” Jenny said, giving her a hug.

“Yes,” Jon said, “men tend to like that. You wouldn’t think they would but they do.” As he reached over to run a hand lightly over Margo’s slightly rounded belly, a wave of heat flushed through Jenny.

Margo was still beaming. “Well, I hope so. Hey, thanks for coming over. I really appreciate it. And the soup,” she added grudgingly.

“No trouble,” Jenny said, affecting a jovial tone. Slipping into her coat she followed Jon out, hurrying down the rapidly tilting sidewalk towards the Cruiser as Jon got in his SUV. “Call if you need anything,” she said to Margo over her shoulder as she got in and backed out, fiercely resisting the loud ringing that had taken over her ears. Now she really wished she hadn’t left her car at her house that night. She wouldn’t have to be driving it back now.

Karen R. Thorne 29

In the rear view mirror she saw Jon back out behind her. Watching until she saw Margo go into the house, she immediately she pulled over.

Jon pulled up and stopped behind her. “What’s wrong?” he said, coming up to the window as she rolled it down.

“I still feel funny,” she said, for once glad for the frigid wind. The stiffness of it in her face was at least bracing if not curative. “I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. I can’t seem to shake this.”

“Want me to drive? We can leave the Cruiser here and get it later.”

“No, I’ll be all right. Just need a bit of fresh air, I think.” She leaned her cheek on the open car window frame.

Jon’s blue eyes clouded as he knelt. “Jen, I don’t think you should drive. Let me take you home and then come back.”

“No, no,” she said, sitting up straight, “I’m fine. I’ll just leave the window down. The cold helps.”

Still dubious, her friend gave a sigh. “Okay then,” he said reluctantly as he stood. “But drive slow, and if I see you weaving I’ll force you over.”

“Got it,” she said, keeping her tone light. She just hoped he wouldn’t notice the cold sweat that had broken out along her upper lip.

By some miracle they managed to make it back to Jon’s place, though Jenny wasn’t exactly sure how. The dizziness had only gotten worse as they drove—she found herself gripping the wheel until her fingers nearly went numb, and her vision had blurred; she was never quite sure whether she was really in the road or not. She could only trust that Jon would indeed force her over if she got too far out of line.

Her legs were still a bit shaky as they went inside.


“You go on in the living room and sit down,” Jon said, closing the back door behind them. “I’ll make us some tea.”

“Tea sounds good,” Jenny said, still unsteady as she moved towards the living room. Not bothering to take off her coat, she sank into the depths of the massive leather couch. What on earth was happening to her? First the dreams and now this. Bad enough to not be able to sleep, and now something (or someone) was intruding on her waking hours.

And poor Jon, caught in the middle. She could hear him rummaging around in the kitchen. A twinge of guilt: fussing over her yet again, the lamb. She really did appreciate his letting her stay. She just wished there was somewhere else she could go. After this morning, she doubted she could go back to the house—still too many memories. (Though not the kind she’d been looking for: after all that, she never did find her journal.) Richard had offered to let her come stay with him, but his quaint onebedroom apartment was barely big enough even for him, and there was no one else she felt she knew well enough (or comfortable enough) to spend an extended period of time with. Margo would’ve been the logical choice, but with she and Perry getting married—

“Here’s the tea,” Jon said, coming in. As he set the tray down he leveled a stern look. “I brought some digestive biscuits as well. Which I expect you to eat.”

“Thanks,” she said, taking the cup he handed her. She spooned some turbinado into it, watching as the tea turned a rich caramel color beneath the pearlgrey wisps of steam rising from the surface. It reminded her of fog rising from the surface of a faraway river. She could almost see it, the river lazily slipping past far below, as if she were standing on a bridge looking down at the murky surface, all dark and opaque and seemingly shallow yet going on forever. And beneath her bare forearms, the sharp chill of the metal railing as she leaned onto it, the bumpy steel grating pressing through the thin soles of her shoes. Dressy high heels—sandals, it seemed, though she never wore them—and a pale

Karen R. Thorne 31

green chiffon gown far too diaphanous for the chilly riverfront breeze. Thank goodness for the thick furcollared coat (even if he had given it to her), its heavy wool blessedly buffering her small frame from the razored stiff wind, the wide white ruff like a billowy cloud as she pulled it up around her face. . . .

“Jenny!”With a start she looked up.“I’ve been sitting here calling your name for five minutes,” Jon

said. “Where were you?”For a moment she merely looked at him. “Off in another

world,” she said, gazing into her cup. “I’ll say.” Jon took a sip of his tea, gazing at her steadily. Then

with a loud clink he set the cup down. “Jen, this isn’t normal. You’re starting to drift off like this without notice. Is it the ghosts again?”

“No,” she said, “it’s not the ghosts again. Why are you so eager to always blame them?” She set her own cup down, a little too hard, spilling the tea though she pretended not to notice. “I don’t know why you feel the need to always point the finger at spirits,” she reached for a napkin, “just because you don’t happen to get along with them.”

“And for good reason, if you recall! Look, Jen, I’m not trying to blame anyone, just trying to figure out why you’re acting this way. Maybe I can help.”

“And what makes you think I need your help? Don’t you think I’m capable of taking care of myself? I am not a child, Jon Lansing, and I don’t need your help. I’ll thank you to leave me to live my own life as I see fit.” Taking her cup, she knocked back the three or four drops of her tea that remained.

He was quiet a moment. “So what are you saying?”“What do you mean what am I saying.” Reaching for one of

the biscuits, she bit into it. When she looked up his blue eyes were round and full. “Don’t give me that look. You know perfectly well


what I’m . . . oh, never mind!” Tossing her halfeaten biscuit on the tray she shoved her empty cup and saucer aside.

He sat a moment, watching her run her hands through her hair. “Jenny,” he said softly, “who are you?” She looked up. “Who are you becoming?” When she didn’t answer he gave a small sigh. “Jen, what’s happening here. When you go off like this I know you’ve become someone else. You act as if you don’t know me or have forgotten who I am. You don’t even look like you. It’s as if your face changes, morphing into someone else—even your voice is different. I look into your eyes and it’s like looking into another world. Which is where you yourself have said you are! But . . .” he tried to lift her chin to make her look at him, “I don’t know that world. I only know this one, where Jenny Townsend is. Or at least where she was before she went away.”

Eyes burning, she averted her gaze.“Don’t you see? I’m losing you here to whatever’s pulling you

there. No wait—” he held up a hand, “I didn’t mean that like it sounded.” He scrubbed the side of his face. “Look, you’re my friend. Aside from anything else, you’re my closest and dearest friend, and I don’t want to lose that, ever. But whatever is happening to you is pulling you away—further and further each time. And because it’s happening to you it’s happening to me.” He sat back, folding his arms. “That frightens me.”

Absently she’d been twisting her hands. Now the light glinted on her diamond ring; she tucked her hands beneath her knees. “Yes, well,” she said with a scowl, “you haven’t exactly been yourself lately, either.”

“What do you mean?”“Oh, Jon, come on! All that business last night about Johnny,

getting mad at me and storming off to your room.”His expression was puzzled. “Storming to my room? I never

did any such.”“You did! Right after you accused me of calling you Johnny

and I told you I didn’t know anyone named Johnny.” When he

Karen R. Thorne 33

continued staring at her blankly, she stamped her foot. “Jesus, Jon! Don’t tell me you’re going to start too.”

“Start what?”“Not remembering!”“I remember last night perfectly well, just not what you’re

telling me I supposedly did.”“Supposedly?” Jenny’s mouth opened and closed. “I can’t

believe this,” she muttered, shaking her head. “You get all worked up about me calling you Johnny, which I didn’t, acting like you’re jealous or something and then marching off to your room like some spoiled teenage brat, and now you say you don’t remember any of it.”

“Maybe you dreamed it—”Her look stopped him. “Look, Jen,” he said, carefully folding together his palms, “it

really isn’t worth all this. You say you remember one thing, I remember something else. How about we leave it at that? I mean, since when do we fuss and argue so much? Not since I can remember. And I see no reason to start now.”

She sat, chin jutted, waiting for him to go on. Instead he merely gazed at her, some unspoken message behind his eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say,” she said finally. “I admit, some strange things are happening to me that I can’t explain. But it’s not like there’s any warning, once these . . . episodes . . . start. I’m not even aware they’re happening, so I don’t see how I’m supposed to do anything about it.”

The silence that followed was almost audible.All at once Jon stood up. “I’ll be back,” he said, making a grab

for his coat. Two long strides and he was at the front door.“Where are you going?” Jenny called after him.“I just need some air,” he said as he went out. The loud slam,

she felt sure, was unintentional.


Jenny stared at the door a long moment. Then, heaving a long sigh, she gathered up the tea dishes onto the tray and took them into the kitchen.

Ten, fifteen minutes, and Jon had not yet returned. Jenny glanced over at the tea dishes on the counter. Guess she’d have to wash them by hand—they were far too delicate to put in the dishwasher.

Squirting a mound of soap onto the sponge, she turned on the hot water. Well, at least it would give her something to do until Jon got back. She took up one of the lovely saucers, turning it over. No date, but they had to be quite old; the colors of the handpainted little flowers and intricate little leaves were delightfully pale, so unlike those of modern china. A gift from Jon’s grandmother—or was it his greatgrandmother? Rinsing the saucer, she set it carefully in the drainer and reached for one of the cups. The fine lines and swirls around the silvery edges looked to have been drawn by hand. Of course, she was no expert, but she imagined the set was probably quite valuable. Though their real worth no doubt lay in their sentimental value—

“Oh!” Hastily she made a grab for the cup, but an ominous clink confirmed the worst. In dismay she watched soap bubbles scatter as the fragments of china disappeared, leaving a ring of settling bubbles with a dent in the middle. “No, no, no!” Jenny moaned, grasping for them as if she could reverse what had been done. If she could just find all the pieces . . . .

Suddenly she jerked her hand away, drawing in a long hiss. “Ooh, serves me right,” she muttered, squeezing her finger as she watched the end of it ooze bright red. Wincing, she held the cut under the running water, hissing again as the soap mightily stung, a line drawn with fire, then bobbing in place as the fire got worse. Briefly she took her finger from under the water; the gash was

Karen R. Thorne 35

deeper than she thought. She hoped Jon had some butterfly closures.

Just then she heard the front door. Ignoring the fiery pulsating sting, Jenny used her other hand to grab the sink sprayer to rinse out the rest of the soap, then reached for a paper towel to scoop up the remaining china pieces.

“Sorry, Jen,” she heard Jon say, coming into the kitchen, “I just had to get out—” He stopped.

Jenny felt the heat in her cheeks. “Oh Jon, I’m so sorry. I was only trying to wash up the tea dishes when . . . I broke one.” Vainly she tried to hide her bleeding finger. “I’m really sorry. I hope they weren’t too valuable.”

“Valuable? Never mind that, what are you hiding behind your back—let me see.”

“No, it’s nothing,” she said, twisting to conceal her hand. “Just a little cut.”

“Let me see,” Jon insisted, grabbing hold of her arm. “Jesus!” Reaching past her he tore off a paper towel, hastily folding it and wrapping it over and around the bleeding cut. “Hold that on there and don’t move. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Feeling a bit woozy, she nodded. Her ears were singing by the time he returned.

“I assume you washed it? Good. We’ll just put on some antibacterial ointment and cover it, then.” He tore open the wrapper and laid the fingertip bandage face up on a clean paper towel, fingers scanning the neatlyarranged kit. “Now I thought I had some . . . ah, here they are.” Taking out the small box of butterfly closures, his face fell. “Only one left—guess it’ll have to do.”

She winced as he carefully he removed the bloodsoaked paper towel from her finger, then winced even more as he held her finger under the water to rinse it. Her pulse was heated and loud in her ears as Jon dried her hand and gently affixed the single


butterfly closure (it really needed at least three), taping the bandage over the makeshift suture.

“Thank you, Dr. Jon,” she tried to joke, despite the rising queasiness. She nearly felt green.

“Here,” he said, reaching into the kit. He tore open a small white packet with his teeth and held a small square under her nose.

“Ugh!” She jerked away.“It’s only rubbing alcohol,” he said, forcing her to breathe it.

“It’s what they gave my sister in the hospital when she was nauseated after her surgery.”

“Oh god, it’s awful,” she said, refusing to admit it was helping. “Okay, Jon, that’s enough.” She pushed his hand away. “I really hate that stuff.”

“Me too,” he said, tossing the square in the trash. “But it works, that’s all that matters.” He snapped the kit shut.

Jenny sagged against the sink. “What about the china? I know that had to have mattered.” Now that her finger had been taken care of, the guilt had returned.

“Forget the china,” he said, his voice all of a sudden sounding faraway. He reached for her injured hand. “What really matters is you.” Gently he held her hand in both of his, easing down one corner of the adhesive bandage that had come loose. Raising the finger to his lips, he gave it a gentle kiss. “How does it feel?” he whispered.

The movement of his lips gave her gooseflesh. “It’s . . . it’s much better, thanks.” She watched as he caressed her hand, feeling oddly detached as he turned it gently to place another kiss in her palm. In the quiet kitchen, with only the hum of the refrigerator, the sound of her swallowing seemed awfully loud. “Jon,” she finally managed to say, “what are you doing?”

His eyes slid upwards to meet hers. “It’s not Jon,” he whispered. “It’s Johnny.”

3The next morning, Jenny was up at dawn.

Sixthirty, dressed and out the door, despite having had very little sleep. Breakfasting at The Java Bean, then heading off for a long and thoughtful stroll along Clear Creek—anything to be away from the place before Jon got up.

As her feet carried her down the winding footpath beside the river, she chafed at being no closer to understanding the previous night’s events. She couldn’t decide which was more baffling: his unexpected comment, or the look in her friend’s eyes. Which, at that moment, hadn’t looked like her friend at all.

She just couldn’t face him. What would he say? Worse, what would he do? After his strange remark about being Johnny she’d bolted out the back door, covering the neighborhood blocks at a racewalker’s pace until shortwindedness had forced her to slow down. Circling back, she’d waited until his light went off before coming back inside.

Now, with midday approaching she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. A promise was a promise, and she’d promised to go with him to his friend’s art showing. Not that she was looking forward to it—fancy shindigs with crowds of strange people had never been on her list of “todo.” But she couldn’t very well renege, especially after Jon had made it out to be such a big deal.

“Hey,” he said when he looked up and saw her coming in, “I wasn’t sure you’d make it back in time.” He was already dressed and ready to go: she caught a glimpse of the new cableknit fisherman’s sweater and forest green pants he’d bought the week before as she zipped by.

“Well, I’m here,” she said, slipping into the guest room and closing the door. Then she leaned up against it, fully aware that she needed to quickly touch up her makeup and change clothes,


but first she needed to dislodge the knot that had come up when her heart had gotten stuck somewhere between her ribs and her throat.

Despite her best attempts to act casual and nonchalant, Jenny couldn’t seem to shake the ridiculous level of selfconsciousness she felt as she climbed into the Land Rover, especially as Jon stood holding the passenger door for her, as was his habit to do. It took enormous effort just to avert her gaze. Please, she prayed, just don’t let my cheeks be red, too. Then as he shut the door and went around to the other side, she sent out a desperate wish she’d develop a headache or something so she could get out of this gracefully.

Jon started the vehicle and backed out, pulling out of the condo complex and heading south towards 6th Avenue. Turning, changing lanes to get over for the exit to C470, merging onto the highway—all without a word, nor even a glance in Jenny’s direction. Was he just being quiet or purposely giving her the silent treatment?

Focusing her attention on the rugged Rocky Mountain landscape, she decided to blank her mind, as she did in meditation. Maybe giving it a rest for a bit would ease some of the confusion. Shifting a little, she settled down. Stiff mountain grass swayed and bent in the fierce crosswind coming off the foothills; above, a sheet of dull stainless steel formed the sky. Now and again the dark outline of a crow drew an invisible line across the endless grey backdrop, its caws piercing against the muted sound of the traffic. At times gusts of stronger wind buffeted the Land Rover, though the sturdy vehicle easily held its own. The cold outside was no match for the powerful heater, which even on low made the interior toasty warm. Between the heat, the hum of the engine, and the passing scenery blur, Jenny began to drift.

Karen R. Thorne 39

“Hey,” Jon nudged her after a bit, “wake up.”“I’m awake,” she mumbled, shifting. “I didn’t get much sleep.”“Yeah, well, me neither,” he said, glancing up at the rear view

mirror. He signaled to change lanes.“You didn’t sleep well? How come?” She waited a moment. “It

wasn’t me again, was it?”His nostrils flared. “No,” he said, glancing over his left

shoulder, then accelerating to pass the slow car in front of them. Then when she continued to stare he added, “What? Sometimes I don’t, that’s all.”

So why all the shifting in your seat, the shrug to cover it up? “Jon,” she said, “something’s bothering you.”

“Nothing’s bothering me,” he said in that don’tberidiculous tone. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I? Then why did you act the way you did last night?”“Last night?”“Oh, come on, Jon. Don’t pretend.”“Pretend what?”“You know perfectly well.”“If I did I wouldn’t be asking you.”“Kissing my hand like that!” There, she’d said it.“I never kissed your hand.”“You did.”“Jenny,” he said with a little frustrated chuckle, “unless I was

sleepwalking, I’m telling you I didn’t.”“And I’m telling you you did! Jon Lansing, don’t pull this on

me. Not today. You want me to go to this thing, this—” she waved a hand, “ fancyshmancy art shindig, but I cannot do it with you acting like this.”

“Like what?”“Like this!”Jon exhaled a forceful sigh. “Okay, look, we’re getting

nowhere. Would you please just tell me what you’re talking about? One minute you’re asking me why I didn’t sleep well, and the next


you’re accusing me of having kissed your hand and getting mad at me when I say I didn’t. Doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“All right then,” she said, halfturning to face him, “did this,” she held up the bandaged finger, “happen, or did I dream this too?”

“Maybe you’re dreaming now.”“That’s not funny!”“Okay, okay. Look, I don’t know about this whole kissinghand

thing, but as for me not sleeping, it’s not that big of a deal.” His gaze scanned the road. “I just don’t know how to put it without sounding silly.”

“Just say it.”The seablue eyes gazed off into the distance. “I think my room

has ghosts.”She sat up. “Really? What makes you say that?”“Lots of things.” He shrugged, as if it didn’t really matter.

“Stuff I put places and then they’re not there. Noises late at night, taps, rapping,” with his knuckles he demonstrated on the dashboard. ”Even the sound of crying sometimes.”

Her face softened. “Oh Jon,” she said, “why didn’t you tell me? You know Nikky is teaching me to deal with things like this.”

In an instant the fine brows knotted. “Nikky isn’t teaching you anything,” he said darkly. “You haven’t heard from Nikky in weeks.”

She didn’t like his expression. “Well, she is in India,” she said, trying not to get defensive. “Besides, she started teaching me before she left. I just—well, I haven’t had much practice. After all,” she slid him a narrow look, “it’s a little difficult working with spirits if you don’t know there are any around.” She folded her arms. “Anyway, if ghosts are bothering you I want to know about it.”

He neatly avoided answering by flicking on the turn signal to take the exit ramp. Slowing at the bottom of the hill, he turned

Karen R. Thorne 41

and went under the overpass towards the restaurant where they were having lunch.

Jenny pressed together her lips. “Okay, fine then,” she said in a flippant tone, “don’t tell me about it, don’t need my help.” She turned, looking away from him out the window.

“Hm, where’ve I heard that before?”A little flush went over her. “Yes, well, this is different. And

anyway, I’m not coddling you, I’m just trying to get some answers. Like who or what besides me is keeping you awake at night—your dark circles have dark circles, you know.”

Craning his neck, he leaned towards the rear view mirror. “Do they?” he said, pretending to search his reflection.

“Oh, stop it,” she said, giving him a halfhearted clout. “Seriously, Jon, you’re looking awfully tired. I didn’t want to say anything, but now . . . well, now that we’re around each other so much, I just can’t help noticing.”

An arch of the eyebrow. “You can’t?”“No.” Deliberately she avoided the double meaning. “Maybe

that’s why you’ve been having so much trouble at work lately. Maybe it’s lack of sleep. Which, of course, is partly my fault.”

“Or maybe,” he said as they finally parked and got out, “it’s concern over my best friend. I’m not the one having all these realityslips, remember?”

Reality slips. Was that what was happening to her?Fortunately, heading into the restaurant gave Jenny an excuse

not to reply. “Lansing, table for two,” Jon said to the hostess who greeted

them.The young woman’s eyes lit up. “This way, Mr. Lansing,” she

said with a winsome smile.Jenny suppressed a grin.To her dismay, they were seated at a booth right in the middle

of the restaurant. She’d hoped for one by the window, where she


could feel a little less claustrophobic. Still, at least they had a table—

the place was insanely crowded.

Barely had they had time to look at the menu before the waiter arrived.

“Good afternoon,” the young man said. “Can I start you off with something to drink?”

“Yes,” Jon said, “an iced green tea with lemon for the lady, and . . .” he scanned the lower half of the menu, “a house wine spritzer for me, thank you.”

He didn’t seem to catch Jenny’s reaction.“Very good, sir,” the waiter said, moving off.Returning his attention to the menu, Jon perused the various

items, settling back. “What?” he said when he realized Jenny was staring at him.

“You don’t drink,” she said.He shrugged. “Every once in awhile I feel like having

something.” Knotting his brows, he scrutinized the list. “I hear the poached salmon is really good here. They serve it with capers in a cream butter sauce with their house specialty, whipped parsley potatoes. Or you could try the chicken piccata. I’ve had that, though you know me, I don’t care so much for dishes with lemon.”

Jenny said nothing.Reaching for the water pitcher, Jon poured a glass for Jenny

and one for himself. Then he made a noise of disgust. “Why do they always,” he fished around in the glass with his fork, “put lemons in the table water? Not everyone likes lemon. Seems to me they could just put plain water on the tables,” he gestured, “and then a little covered dish of lemons on the side so people could decide if they wanted them or not. Ruins perfectly good water—makes it all sour and bitter.” He plunked the dripping lemon slice into Jenny’s glass.

“Thanks.” She leaned forward. “So are you going to tell me what’s really bothering you, or are you just going to keep playing this game of everything’sfinethoughI’mactingreallystrange?”

Karen R. Thorne 43

The menu folder closed with a snap. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said, looking away. “I’ve already told you I didn’t get enough sleep, and there are ghosts in my room. The latter most likely being the reason for the former.” He sipped at his water, making a sour face. Then a moment later he gave a frustrated sigh. “Jen, please stop staring at me like that, as if I’m supposed to say something else.”

“Well, you could elaborate. Have you actually seen this ghost, or just heard sounds? Anything besides the rapping and tapping? Has anything touched you, or harmed you in any way? What about —”

“All right, all right, Agent Friday, you can stop with the third degree.” He paused to remove his coat, his dark expression brightening as he spotted the waiter coming with their drinks.

“For the lady,” the waiter said, setting down the large mintgarnished glass, “and for the gentleman. Are you ready to order?”

“Jenny, have you decided?”Crap. Convenient, volleying it right to her. “Um—” she

reopened the menu, vainly searching for some choice she should have decided on before getting into this conversation, “I’ll have the poached salmon, that sounded good.”

“I’ll have the same, no lemon.” Folding his menu, Jon handed it back to the waiter, took up the spritzer and downed it all in one gulp. “And another one of these, thank you,” he said, waving the small glass.

Jenny’s eyes widened.“Very good, sir. If you require anything while you’re waiting

just raise the flag.”At Jenny’s puzzled look, Jon pointed: each table had a small

triangular flag mounted at the top of the decorative pole that served as a coat rack. When the flag was raised the point of the triangle faced the table where service was needed.

“Neat, huh,” Jon said as if reading her mind.


“Hm? Oh, you mean the flags. Yes. Saves all that embarrassment of waving to get the attention of the waitstaff when you need something.” She took long draw from her water.

Opening a packet of sugar, Jenny slowly emptied it into her green tea, watching with a distant eye as Jon absently drew patterns on the white tablecloth with his finger. A canyon of silence had opened between them. Occasional laughter drifted towards them from other tables, snippets of conversation. Their conversation, however, seemed to have been forgotten.

“So,” she said finally, “how did you find this place? It’s really lovely, what with all the tapestries and rich carpets and aged wood. You don’t find very many places with medieval décor—”

“It’s a girl,” he said suddenly, his blue eyes following the motion of her stirring spoon.

“What?”“The ghost in my room. She’s a girl.”“You mean like a little girl? How old?”He shook his head. “A young woman, maybe in her late teens

or early twenties.” His eyes slid upwards to meet hers. “She’s the one who’s been keeping me awake at night.”

All at once a dry patch came up in Jenny’s throat; it took several sips of green tea to quench it. “I see,” she finally sputtered. “Is she . . . what does she look like?”

Just then a lively group of three or four passed their table; Jon waited until they’d passed before speaking. “Well, I don’t know, really,” he said, leaning forward. “Sometimes it seems I see her clearly, then later I doubt what I’ve seen. You know how you dream about people and in the dream you clearly see them, but when you wake up and try to describe them their faces are all vague and shadowy? It’s like that.” He picked up the spritzer glass, forgetting he’d already drained it. “Other times,” he said, gazing with longing into the empty glass, “it’s like a mist or a fog, just as I’m falling asleep. Or at least trying to.”

“You mean you actually see a mist in your room?”

Karen R. Thorne 45

He gave a slow nod.“Oh Jon, why didn’t you tell me all this before? Do you have

any idea how many people would give their eye teeth to see what you’ve just described? Much less how difficult it is for a spirit to manifest, even in amorphous form!”

“Lucky me,” he said, mouth turning down.Before they could say more, their food arrived. “My, that was fast!” Jenny said as the waiter set the steaming

plate in front of her. “Oh, and it smells wonderful.”Jon agreed. “Fish doesn’t take long,” he said, leaning away as

the waiter set down his plate and second wine spritzer. “Oh, and could we get some extra caper sauce? It’s really top notch.”

She would’ve liked to continue the discussion, but the enticing aromas beckoned. Taking a bite of her salmon, she gave an appreciative inhale. “Oh, my, but this is good!” The delicate fish had been cooked perfectly, seasonings exquisitely balanced and, as Jon said, set off beautifully by the tang of the caper sauce. Melt in your mouth more than aptly described it. And the parsley potatoes were the perfect complement: light, airy, yet just enough substance to give a good mouth feel. Subtle white pepper and paprika and a waft of cream floated amidst the cloud of whipped potatoes, flecked with the wisps of parsley balancing out the dish—so reminiscent of Jon’s own cooking.

Food, however, meant the ghosttalk had to wait. Stealing glances at Jon every now and then, she fidgeted, eager to know more. A beautiful girl haunting him? And a mist in his room . . . how she’d love to see that! She longed to divine his thoughts, to know more about this mysterious girl in the mist, but as usual he was thoroughly engrossed in what he was eating, oblivious to anything else.

At last he leaned back. “Oh,” he said, making a pleased sound, “man, that was good. I’m so full I won’t eat again for a week.”

Jenny chuckled. “Yeah, right. You’ll be at it again in half an hour.”


As if reminded, he glanced at his watch. “Speaking of, we’d better get going.” Slipping a crisp fifty into the leather check folder, he slid out of his seat, stepping back to allow Jenny to precede him.

Weaving their way through the crowd towards the door, she could feel the heat of his conflicted aura behind her as he followed. However much he was trying to be aloof or detached about all this, this ghost girl really had him going. Apparently he’d forgotten how well Jenny knew him—all his little tricks, his attempts to cover up the fact that he was not the computerlogical left brain he pretended to be, but instead a compassionate, caring man whose sensitivities ran deep.

Of course—that’s what’s got him so upset, she thought as they climbed back in the Land Rover. This spirit girl needs help, and he doesn’t know how to help her.

“So,” she said aloud, “where’s this art gallery we’re going to?”Jon shook his head. “It’s not a gallery, it’s a house. Or, should I

say, mansion. Chris has this humongous spread in Highlands Ranch—you’ll see.” Signaling, he accelerated up the entry ramp, merging over into the far left lane, where they remained for several miles.

Jenny’s mind whizzed almost as fast as they did, zipping through thoughts like the mile markers they passed. So badly she wanted to broach the subject of the ghost girl again, but her overactive mind just wouldn’t let her.

Ten minutes later, Jon exited the freeway and turned right, heading into the elite estates dotting the gently sloping landscape south of C470. Largely new construction, every house consisting of at least two if not three large stories, with lots of expansive open windows, vaulted ceilings and skylights, though very little in the way of trees or bushes.

Jenny wrinkled her nose.A little ways down Jon turned onto a winding, upscale

residential street. New trees, garages, and small wellkept lawns—

Karen R. Thorne 47

very Highlands Ranch. “Here we are,” he said, coming to a stop behind a row of parked cars near the culdesac. Turning off the engine, he got out and came around, opening the door for Jenny and closing it after she alighted. “It’s the tan and Dutchblue one.” He nodded.

Through the tall windows she could see a small milling crowd.“Ooh, Jon,” she said, taking his sleeve, “are we dressed for

this?” Suddenly she felt very selfconscious in her simple cotton twills and buttondown sweater.

“Nonsense,” he said, linking arms with her as he led her up the walk. “Chris is a great guy.” But before she could decipher his cryptic tone, they were accosted by a large Golden retriever, tail furiously wagging. Jon smiled. “Careful,” he laughingly warned as Jenny tried to pet the squirming mass of exuberance, “she’ll smother you with kisses.” He gave the dog a few affectionate thumps before ascending the short flight of steps to the door.

A smiling face greeted them. “Jon! Come in, come in—no, no, Sophie, get down. Behave yourself now, go on out in the yard. Oh my goodness, I’m so glad you could come. Just about everyone’s here,” and with a flourish their effusive host opened the door wide.

As they stepped inside the lavish home, Jon greeted his friend, then introduced Jenny. Turning to her, he said, “Chris is the fabulous artist whose amazing work is being presented this afternoon.”

“Oh, stop it,” their host flicked a hand at him, “my ego’s puffed up enough as it is.” He gave Jenny a wide smile. “Christopher Jakes,” he said, “for signing checks, autographs, and if we’re being formal. Which we’re not, so just call me Chris.”

“Pleased to meet you, Chris,” she said, extending her hand. He shook hers in both of his, his grasp light yet firm.

A flickerimage skittered past.


But before she could think much about it, another young man came up. “Here you go,” he said, handing Chris a glass of wine. Then he turned to gaze at the two guests.

Jenny’s knees nearly buckled.“Jon, you remember Christian,” Chris said, indicating with a

wave of the glass.“Why, yes,” Jon said, “from the dance studio. How’s the Dell?”The young man grimaced. “Acting up again,” he said. “I think

it’s time to get a new one. Though you’re welcome to come out again and fix it,” he said, giving a small laugh, his gaze falling on Jenny.

“Sure, anytime.” Then Jon noticed the young man’s pointed silence. “Oh, sorry! This is Jenny Townsend.”

“Christian Harding,” the young man said, holding her with his incredible brown eyes as he kissed her hand.

She muttered something unintelligible. Stop staring, Jenny. He’ll think you’re rude.

With a laugh Christopher brandished the wineglass. “Chris and Chris, that’s us. Well, make yourself at home. There’s fruit and hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen,” he said, gesturing, “and on the sideboard you’ll find the wine and cheese. Help yourself and just give us a shout if you notice anything running low.” Together he and Christian went off to mingle.

She felt Jon’s steadying hand under her arm.“Told you he was a great guy,” Jon said, eyes twinkling as his

voice reflected amusement.Jenny couldn’t resist elbowing him.Jon was unperturbed. “You fell for it, didn’t you? You really

thought I was going to try to set you up.”“I don’t know why you would,” she said offhandedly, edging

past a small group engrossed in conversation.“Well, you always did accuse me of that, even though you

knew different.”She stopped and turned, not exactly sure what he meant.

Karen R. Thorne 49

But Jon merely took her arm, leading her towards the sideboard. “Come on, I want to check out the cheese. Chris only buys the finest, and he promised he’d get some Danish Havarti.”

Her mouth fell open. “Jon Lansing, we just ate!” Then as she watched him fill a small plate, she shook her head. “I don’t know where you put it.”

“Just watch,” he said, and the entire cheeseandcracker he was holding disappeared.

With a narrow frown she rolled her eyes, letting her gaze rove over the small crowd.

Jon nudged her. “Looking for Christian?”She nudged him back. “Would you stop it? Jesus.”“Hey,” he said with a shrug, “I’m not even on that team, and I

know he’s a great looking guy.”“Jon!” Then as she looked up the subject in question spotted

her from across the room and smiled. “Though,” Jenny said, easing into a nearby chair, “I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t attractive. He’s gorgeous.” The drone of talking and laughter rose and fell. “Do you know,” she said, her voice faraway, “I actually went weak in the knees?” Her gaze followed the handsome young man as he mingled and laughed and chatted. “That’s never happened to me before.”

“Not even with Marek?”Instantly she crashlanded.Jon’s face went nearly as red as the wine. “Oh Jen, I’m sorry. It

just slipped out.”The sudden knot in her throat wouldn’t let her answer.“Here,” he said, reaching for one of the glasses. “It’ll settle your

nerves.”Fighting back tears, she was aware of Jon holding the glass to

her lips and she taking a sip. Promptly she made a face. “God, I hate that stuff,” she said with a shudder, turning away to wipe at her eyes.


Jon handed her a linen napkin. “I’m sorry, Jen. I really didn’t mean to say that. But there is something about him, isn’t there?” he said, gazing in Christian’s direction. Then he chuckled. “No, I don’t mean like that. I mean he has a sort of charisma, an aura about him that draws you in.”

Jenny was beginning to wonder if her drink at the restaurant had been mistakenly spiked—either that or Jon’s spritzers were having an untoward effect.

“Christian has a mystique,” he went on, reaching for another glass of wine. Swirling it, he inhaled the bouquet. “Almost . . . otherworldly.” He took a sip.

“I wish I knew what you’re driving at,” she said in exasperation, folding her arms. Now she really did wish she hadn’t come.

Looking around, Jon leaned in close. “He’s a walkin,” he whispered.

She nearly spilled his glass. “You’re making that up!” She could feel her cheeks growing warm. “Jon Lansing, that’s not funny.”

“Honest to God, I swear.”“And just how would you know?”He took a bite of cheese cracker. “He told me.”Just then they were startled by a pinging on the side of a glass.

“Everybody! Everybody, can I have your attention please? If you would all make your way into the great room, the showing will begin.” Christopher waved a hand high over his head, indicating the direction.

Jenny tugged on Jon’s sleeve. “I thought this was going to be like a regular art gallery, just walking around and looking at stuff.”

“Christopher has his own way of doing things. He shows the paintings one by one, explains a little about each, and afterward anyone interested makes an offer, much like an auction.”

They followed the crowd into the great room, where numerous framed paintings sat on easels and leaned against walls. Most

Karen R. Thorne 51

were covered by dark silk cloths. “All right, everyone, gather round.” Christopher’s slateblue eyes proudly gleamed. “I’m so glad you all have come here today. It is such an honor and privilege that you allow me to share my art with you. I hope you enjoy it. This,” he removed one of the silk cloths, “is my first work, ‘Tangled Whispers’ . . .”

Jenny gazed around, wondering if the rather bizarre scene in which she now found herself was another one of those “reality slips,” as Jon called them. Art showings weren’t exactly her thing—she’d only agreed to go because it was a friend of Jon’s. She’d never been one for social gatherings, especially ones that involved any sort of alcohol. After four hellish years of dealing with it with her exhusband Alan, she much preferred her smaller, closeknit group of coffeeandchaidrinking mughuggers with whom she felt comfortable. Though Christopher was a very genuine person, and certainly a likable host.

Christian isn’t bad, either, she heard her mind say. Of course, his allure was undeniably due to his betterthanGQ looks and those amazing brown eyes that . . . well, like Jon said, drew you in.

As she stood listening to Christopher talk, the heat in the crowded room seemed to intensify; Jenny felt her throat fast drying up. Desperately she wished for some water, but there was none to be had, at least not at the moment. She tried to focus on what Christopher was saying—his paintings and sculptures were indeed quite beautiful, not to mention unusual—but she couldn’t concentrate. All around she felt the pressing energies of all the people, standing too close, as if they were physically leaning on her. Removing her cardigan helped, though it left her feeling rather naked.

“Lovely, aren’t they.”Blushing, she jumped. “Oh! Um . . .” She turned, but Jon had

apparently slipped from the room.


Christian gave her a warm smile. “I was just wondering what you thought of Chris’ work.”

“Oh, they’re really amazing,” she gushed. Lovely work, Jenny—we’re talking about Christopher’s art. “Such a unique style.”

“He has an amazing talent,” Christian said, gazing in Christopher’s direction, “even if I am biased.” Then he turned. “It’s awfully warm in here. Why don’t we get some air?” Taking her by the arm he led her from the room.

Jon, she begged silently, where are you?Christian led her onto the wide balcony deck just off the

kitchen. “Much cooler out here,” he said, closing the double French doors behind them.

She moved across the mahogany deck to peer over the high hardwood railing, the rising breeze refreshingly cool against her perspiring face. “What a beautiful view,” she said with genuine admiration.

“Yes. It’s why we bought the place.” He joined her in gazing out over the expanse of manicured lawn that met the broad semicircular field behind the distant crescent of newbuilt houses. “Chris likes peace and quiet when he works.” He turned. “So do I.”

She wished the drumbeat of her heart would get out of her throat.

“Here,” Christian said, pulling up two ornate iron chairs, “make yourself comfortable.” Seating himself, he poured a glass of ice water from the large pitcher on the table, offering it to her.

“Thank you,” Jenny said hoarsely. It was all she could do not to gulp it.

“So,” Christian said, settling back into the thick cushions, “Jon tells me you speak to ghosts.”

Instantly she choked. “Yes,” she spluttered. It took her several seconds to stop coughing. “Or at least they speak to me.”

“And what do they say?”How nonchalant he was, how offhanded the question. At least

the breeze was becoming more brisk; it helped her to focus. “Oh,

Karen R. Thorne 53

lots of things.” She tried to match his nonchalance. “Some ask for help, some just say hello, others aren’t so nice.” Finishing the last of the water, she struggled to hold the glass steady as Christian refilled it.

“Is that so.” Suddenly he leaned forward, the soft amber floodlight reflecting on the sculptured planes of his face. “You have a secret,” he said softly.

She felt herself shake her head. “No.”“Yes,” he said. Then before she even realized it he’d taken her

hand. “You know I’m a walkin, don’t you.”The air seemed to desert her lungs.“But that’s not the secret,” he said. Slowly his fingers stroked

her hand, thumb against her palm, a slight feeling of electricity. “I’m not the first.”

His words hit the mark. Christian was silent for several moments. The only sound was

that of the rising breeze, and the distant hum of cars. “He must have meant so much to you,” he said softly.

Forcing herself to sit up, she nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said, taking a tissue from the box he held out.

“It’s all right. Things like this can’t be held in forever.” He set the box down, again reaching for her hand. “Some scars take a long time to heal.”

She gasped. The web of painful white scars on her palm was fading.

Christian blushed. “I have the healing touch,” he said with a small modest smile. Then he leaned forward, large eyes intent. “He had it, too, didn’t he.”

Jenny could only stare.At this he laughed. “No, it’s not magic. It’s not even because

I’m an empathic walkin, though many of us do have such gifts. Most are simply regular folks, the kind you bump into on the cereal aisle at Safeway and hand your shirts to at the cleaners. So often people try to make us out to be some kind of gods or


something, putting us on a pedestal, but it’s really not like that.” He stroked her hand. “Is it.”

Somehow she found her voice. “No,” she said slowly, extricating her hand to reach for her water glass, “I guess it isn’t. Or wasn’t.” The icy cold going down helped.

“Tell me about it.”She paused. Had anyone else said it, she would’ve been

furious, or else would’ve fallen apart. But something in his gentle tone made it all suddenly seem so logical. “I don’t really know where to begin,” she said. “I guess it all started when I bought this house. . . .”

She told him of being drawn to the house, how despite all appearances she simply had to have it . . . then wondered if she’d made a mistake when she discovered how haunted it was. She had every intention of leaving it at that, glossing over the details, but instead she found herself describing the whole intimate story. How Marek had come to her in her dreams, even in her waking life; how she hadn’t been sure whether he and the malevolent ghost harassing her were one and the same, until she learned they weren’t; how she’d so swiftly and deeply fallen in love with him. How he, too, was in love with her―so much so that he walkedin to be with her, to try to overcome Tom, the evil entity who’d murdered the lovely Rebecca because she wasn’t in love with him but instead loved Eli, whom he murdered, too. All this they’d learned via séance, during which Jenny relived everything, as if she’d been there. Yet this wasn’t the worst of it: that came when her exhusband Alan had shown up on Christmas Day, none too pleased to learn that his “wife” (never mind they’d been divorced for over two years) was with another man. He’d been stalking her, for months apparently, intent on getting back together. So when he showed up again on New Year’s Eve, drunk out of his mind, things got ugly fast: Alan’s drunkenness allowed Tom to step in and take control, reenacting his murder of Eli and Rebecca with Marek and Jenny. Only Jenny survived.

Karen R. Thorne 55

Christian’s eyes were moist by the time she finished. “That’s amazing,” he said softly, voice reverent. “Marek must have been an amazing guy.”

“Amazing doesn’t even begin to describe him,” Jenny said, sniffling and wiping her eyes. “I mean, it wasn’t the fact that he was once a ghost haunting my house, or that he loved me so much he walked in to be with me. It was who he was. Someone who had befriended his own ego, living his life from a place of pure spirit, pure heart, pure love. Someone who recognized his own flaws and had come to accept them, as well as the fact that he wasn’t perfect but that was perfect too. He was . . . well, he had a depth of soul greater than anyone I’ve ever known.” Her voice trailed off.

“And that’s saying a lot, isn’t it.”She nodded.“Here, let me see your hand again.” This time he waited for

her to extend it. “Yes,” he said, taking it, eyes half closed, “there is great depth here, great depth indeed. Stretching back many lifetimes, in many capacities, many guises, yet always the same. No wonder you two had such a deep bond.”

“You mean Marek and I shared past lives?” When Christian nodded, she sat forward. “How? How did I know him? Did we share very many of them? When? Can you tell me about them?”

A small smile. “I don’t know if I could tell you all that. There are very definite limits to my abilities.” He stroked her palm, gazing at it. “But what I can tell you is that what happened to him was because of you.”

“Well, of course, if he hadn’t walked in to be with me he wouldn’t have been there that night and Alan would never have—”

“I don’t mean in this lifetime. I mean the one before.”She sat back. “What?”“He loved you before, when he was Connor Marek in 1939. It

was his love for you in that life that drove him to try things he wasn’t yet ready for, then and now. It was his way of trying to get you to notice him.” Seeing she was both confused and too stunned


to speak, he went on: “Now I don’t have the whole story, but what flashed in my mind when I took your hand was this. Back in St. Louis, you say he had a girlfriend, a fiancé—Anna, I believe. But the reason he was so reluctant to marry her was because he was in love with someone else. You.”

She extended her hand again, her eyes begging, and he took it, his own eyes closing. “In that life,” he said, “you were called Ysabella.” He paused, as if listening. “Yes, that’s the name I’m hearing, eesabella. The daughter of a local shopkeeper, I think, some kind of general store or something. Young Marek—or Connor, as he was then called—did the shopping for his mother as a way to earn money for something he was saving up for, and every time he came in the store he looked for you, hoping you’d talk to him. But I get the impression your father was a strict man, that he wouldn’t allow you any contact with the local boys. I’m not sure why, but it may have had something to do with his wanting you to marry someone with money, because the neighborhood I’m seeing is rather poor. Maybe it was because Connor’s family was Polish. Anyway, I think that whole business with Anna was really just a distraction, a way for Marek to get his mind off you. But his feelings for her were never more than lukewarm. He fiercely believed he would become a great pilot—barnstormer is the word I’m getting, whatever that means—and then he could prove himself to both your father and you.”

Before he could go any further, the French doors opened. “There you are!” said a smiling Christopher, Jon right behind

him.Christian returned the smile. “It was hot and the crowd was

pressing so we came out for some air. How’s everything going in there?”

Christopher beamed. “Splendid. I’ve already sold six paintings and that freeform sculpture with the wings. And a woman is interested in setting me up at a small gallery up in Evergreen next month.”

Karen R. Thorne 57

“Wonderful!” Christian said, and Jenny agreed.Christopher relieved Christian of the empty glasses, reaching

for the pitcher. “Well, I hope you two are coming back in now. Those afternoon clouds rolling in look nasty, and it’s starting to get chilly.”

As Jenny got up she felt herself sway.“Yes,” Jon said, eyeing her carefully, “it’s about time Jenny and

I head back.”“So soon?” Christopher’s face reflected his disappointment.

“We were hoping you’d stay awhile after everyone leaves.” He carried the pitcher and glasses to the sink.

“No,” Jon said, “we really do have to get back. But we’ve had a wonderful time.” Subtly he took Jenny by the arm. “Thanks again for the invitation.”

“My pleasure. I’m so glad you could come, both of you.” He started to follow his guests to the door.

“Jon, wait.” Jenny turned to Christopher. “Before we go, may I use your bathroom?”

He laughed. “Which one? There’re five!” With a wave he gestured. “Just take your pick, and if you can’t find one then something’s seriously wrong with you.” Smiling, he and Christian headed off towards the living room to check on their other guests.

Jenny watched them go. Then, still reeling from all Christian had said, she made her way towards a set of stairs leading down into the lower level. Halfway down, she felt compelled to turn.

Sitting on the stairs was a little girl in a frilly white dress and patent leather shoes. The moment she saw Jenny looking at her, she ran up the stairs and vanished.

So that’s who was making me dizzy, she thought as she found the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face.

When Jenny rejoined Jon a few minutes later, she crooked a finger at him, whispering in his ear.


One eyebrow raised. As Christopher walked by, Jon made a grab for him. “Tell him what you just told me,” he said to Jenny.

She felt herself flush. “You have a ghost downstairs,” she said, trying to keep her voice matteroffact.

“Oh, you mean the little girl? Yes, she’s a sweetie. That is, unless she doesn’t like what I’m painting. Then she comes in and tugs on my arm, trying to mess me up!” Laughing, Christopher continued carrying the tray into the kitchen.

Jenny stood dumbfounded.“You didn’t think I’d tell him, did you,” Jon said with a grin,

helping her with her coat. “And you certainly didn’t think he’d believe you.”

“No,” she said, tugging at her coat zipper. “When it comes to ghosts most people either don’t believe or don’t want to know.” Even as she followed Jon to the door she could feel eyes watching; turning, she caught a glimpse of the little girl by the window. The curtain moved a little as she disappeared.

“Here,” Christopher said, coming up to hand Jon a small container. “Some of the Havarti to take home with you.”

“Thanks,” Jon said with a smile. “And remember to send the painting to my home address—those coworkers of mine’ll snap it right up if you send it to the shop.”

“I’ll remember,” Christopher said, grinning broadly. “Thanks again!”

As Jenny and Jon stepped outside, Sophie immediately spotted them. Tail thumping against the polished mahogany boards, she pushed her head against Jon’s hand as he bent down to pet her.

Jenny smiled. “Dogs like you,” she said.“Most animals do,” he agreed, giving Sophie a final resounding

pat.“So do most people,” she said softly.Behind them the front door opened. “Oh good, you’re still

here,” Christian said, quickly closing the door. Pressing a small

Karen R. Thorne 59

card in Jenny’s hand, he gazed at her intently. “Here’s my cell number. Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay, I will.” Trying not to stare, she returned his meaningful gaze. In return he gave her that winsome smile, waiting as they went down the front steps before going back inside.

Jenny cast a glance over her shoulder. “You know,” she said, watching as Christian joined Christopher in the kitchen, “part of me wants so badly to say what a waste.”

Jon followed her gaze. “Not for Christopher,” he said with a knowing smile. Then when she didn’t move he gave her a little shove. “You’re barking up the wrong tree, you know,” he said in an amused tone.

“Barking up the—oh now, Jon Lansing, you stop it! I’m not interested in him and you know it. It’s just those eyes.”

“Yes,” he said with a mischievous grin, “and you’re such a sucker for beautiful eyes.”

To her surprise he paused, leaning against the Rover, blocking her from opening the door. She pursed her lips. “I’m not a sucker for anything,” she said, “and would you please move so I can get in? It’s absolutely freezing out here.”

“Not until you tell me what you and Christian were talking about.” Planting himself firmly, he folded his arms.

Jenny sniffed. “Nothing important. Can we get in, please?”He shook his head. “You’re driving,” he said, and he dropped

the keys in Jenny’s hand.“Me? I can’t drive this thing! Jon—”But he had already climbed into the passenger seat, moving

her aside so he could close the door.

~End of excerpt~

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