We arrived in good time, so I parked the car and joined Cathy for a farewell cup of coffee in the station cafe.
‘I may be back,’ she said mysteriously, as we sat down opposite one another at a little table overlooking the tracks. ‘I’m thinking about buying a place over here. If I’m going to be travelling back and forth, back and forth… it tires me out just thinking about it. And Heathrow? Son of a bishop, don’t get me started!’
I smiled over the rim of my cup. I’d always thought that Miami International was the devil’s brainchild, until I touched down at Heathrow Airport for the first time, and that had been before the recent Terminal 5 expansion where a glitch in the automated baggage system sent 28,000 bags into luggage hell. ‘Do you have any place in mind, Cathy?’
She leaned across the table, speaking in a husky whisper. ‘Now I’m going to surprise you!’
‘Please do!’
‘When I took that book over to Susan Parker’s that day? She was out in the cemetery with her dog, pulling weeds. I told her about my idea, about visiting Slapton Sands and all, and I’m here to tell you, Hannah, she was on board with it one hundred per cent.’
Funny, I thought it was my idea, but I kept my mouth shut and nodded.
‘Then…’ Cathy paused, making me wait for it. ‘Then, she gave me a private reading! What do you think about that?’
‘That depends on what Susan told you, I guess.’
‘Knocked my socks off, Hannah. Blew me away.’
‘Susan has a tendency to do that,’ I said, remembering my experience in Foss Street not so very long ago.
‘After the reading, I marched myself down to that estate agent in Hauley Street, the one near the beauty parlor, you know? Looked through a bunch of listings, then bingo! I think I’ve found the place, but I have to go home and get the financing together.’
‘Where is the place?’
Again the mysterious smile. ‘Can’t tell you yet. I don’t want to jinx the deal.’
‘Paul and I have talked about buying a holiday cottage in the UK, but even with the downturn in the market, everything’s still so expensive!’
‘Confession time?’ She raised a neatly drawn eyebrow.
‘Uh, sure.’
‘I may look like a hick from the sticks to you, Hannah,’ she said, pegging me for the snob that I was, ‘but my stepfather owned a small chain of motels that sold out to Motel 6 just before he died. What I’m saying? Money is no object.’
When I got back to Dartmouth, I left the rental in the car park near the Visitors’ Center and tucked the keys under the rear floor mat, to be collected by the rental company later in the week. I’d miss having the little Corsa at my disposal, but with Paul away sailing at Cowes for the next several days, I wasn’t planning on driving anywhere anyway.
I was window shopping my way back to the B &B and had just made the turn on to Duke Street at the Butterwalk when my cell phone rang. Unknown caller. I usually ignore incoming unknowns, but I had time on my hands that morning, so I thumbed the iPhone on. To my astonishment, the caller was Susan Parker.
‘Hannah? I hope you don’t mind. Janet gave me your number.’
‘I don’t mind at all! How nice to hear from you. It gives me an opportunity to tell you how much I enjoyed seeing your show in Paignton last night.’
‘You were there? I’m so pleased you were able to get tickets.’
‘I’m surprised you didn’t see me. Do you remember an elderly gentleman, around eighty, sitting on the aisle? You called on him.’
After a slight pause, Susan made an ah-ha sound, as if a light bulb had flashed on over her head. ‘The fellow in the yellow tie?’
‘You got it. That was Alison Hamilton’s father. You met Alison at dinner the other night.’
‘Alison’s father, huh? Well, I’ll be damned. What a small world we live in.’
‘You didn’t see us?’
‘The spotlights can be blinding, and… well, when I’m working, I tend to be rather focused.’
‘I can imagine.’ Just as I was wondering why on earth Susan Parker would be calling me, she apparently read my mind.
‘Hannah, there is a reason for my call. Last night, just before I went to sleep, I had another message from your mother.’
I stopped dead in my tracks, cell phone glued to my ear. Somewhere in the back of my brain, a bell started clanging, rung by my conveniently absent husband. ‘Here it comes, Hannah,’ he was saying. ‘The pitch. She’s gonna ask you for money. Didn’t I tell ya so?’
‘I’m sorry she disturbed your sleep,’ I said cautiously.
‘The spirits, I’m afraid, are no respecters of time or place.’ Susan was silent for a moment, the empty air on her end of the line filled by music playing softly. A Mozart string quartet, unless I missed my guess. ‘Your father must have been quite a handful,’ she said.
‘What??!’ I said it aloud, just like that, with two question marks and an exclamation point. After Mom died, my father had crawled inside a bottle. He’d been sober for years now, thank goodness, but back then, being ‘quite a handful’ was putting it mildly.
‘She’s OK with it now,’ Susan was saying when I tuned in again. ‘Actually, I think the message is meant for your father. Is there another woman in his life?’
The day had turned surreal. There I was, staring through the window of Mullin’s Bakery at a tray of plain, ordinary, everyday pork pasties while getting messages from my dead mother concerning my father’s sex life.
‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘He’s got a steady girlfriend.’ Her name was Cornelia, but I decided to keep that fact to myself in case Susan was able to pluck her name, like a rabbit, out of her hat.
‘Look, Hannah, I really feel the need to talk to you privately. Today’s insane, but I’m wondering if you could come for a private reading, say eight o’clock tomorrow morning? My place?’
‘I appreciate the offer, Susan, but…’ I paused for a moment, trying to organize my thoughts. What did that guy say at the theater last night? No way I could afford two hundred dollars (or was it pounds?) for a private reading. As intrigued as I was with the idea of a private session with a world-famous medium who was calling me (little ole me!) on my mobile phone, talking to me like she was my new best friend, I knew that neither my American Express nor my Visa card could take such a hit. ‘Susan, I have to be up front with you. I really can’t afford a private session.’
Susan laughed, sounding genuinely surprised. ‘Oh, Hannah! I didn’t invite you over to ask you for money! I just want to talk, I promise. Say you will.’
I must have hesitated a moment too long because she quickly upped the ante. ‘I’ll brew up a pot of one-hundred per cent American coffee. And if that’s not incentive enough, I’ve got bagels. And cream cheese.’
Then it was my turn to laugh. ‘Consider my arm twisted. Eight o’clock then?’
‘Eight o’clock. Janet will tell you how to get here.’
As I slipped my cell phone back into my handbag, I found myself genuinely looking forward to the visit. The way I figured it, either Susan Parker was the real deal, or she wasn’t. If she was, she might open the door to communication with my late mother. If she wasn’t? Well, I hadn’t had a decent bagel in a long, long time.
The next morning I was up, dressed and had eaten a small dish of fruit at the table by myself when my cell phone beeped. Susan was texting me. ‘Running L8. 8:30?’
‘OK,’ I texted back. A woman of many words, that’s me. My daughter, Emily, would have texted ‘K’, but I felt that as a celebrity, Susan deserved the bonus ‘O’.
I was already halfway out the door, so I decided to kill some time by walking the long way around by Bayards Cove – where the Mayflower pilgrims first set off for America in 1620 – and watch the Lower Ferry come in. Afterwards, I wandered along the Embankment to the Station Cafe. From 1889 to 1972 or thereabouts, the cafe had actually served as Dartmouth’s train station, selling tickets, although there’d never been any platform, tracks or trains. Now it was a restaurant, primarily providing hot beverages and snacks to the tourists who lined up to catch buses or passenger ferries at various locations along the Embankment.