In the entryway as coats were brought out of the closet, Dave reached out and pulled loose a short charcoal gray wool jacket. He handed it to Peg. “Let’s drive around and see the lights.” He was smiling but his gaze was steely.
Peg took a quick breath and swung toward Gina. “Won’t you come with us?”
Gina carefully did not look toward Dave. She smothered an unconvincing yawn. “I’m early to bed tonight. Have fun.” She glanced at Jake, bidding Tucker and Harrison and Charlotte good night. “Hey, Jake, after you make the cocoa, do you want me to take Susan’s tray up?”
Dave took Peg’s elbow, urged her toward the door. “I can show you the property while we’re out.”
Jake massaged one temple. “Thank you, Gina. I’m awfully tired. Everything’s ready. I’ll take care of making it right now. She likes her cocoa very hot to start with, though sometimes she lets it sit forever and drinks it stone cold…”
Jake’s querulous voice was cut off as the door closed.
Neither Dave nor Peg spoke until they were in his car, a two-seater sports car. He turned on the motor. “Did you talk to Susan this afternoon?”
“There wasn’t time.” Peg stared straight ahead.
“Look, Peg. You have to make an effort.” His tone was curt. “I’m making an effort. It’s critical that I get this loan. I’ve got everything lined up.”
Peg lifted a shaky hand, clung to the lapel of her coat. “Let’s not talk about it now.”
The car picked up speed. His profile in the wash of a streetlamp was set and cold. “Now is when you have to do something. She’s about ready to give all the money to that brat.”
“He isn’t a brat. He’s a sweet, dear little boy.”
Dave’s voice was measured. “Okay, he’s the world’s greatest kid. Tell her you think he’s wonderful. Lay it on thick. Then explain to her that I was going to give you an engagement ring for your birthday, but everything may have to go on hold. I can’t get engaged and think about a wedding when I’m trying to start up a new practice unless I’ve got some backing. For God’s sake, she’s taking away everything you’ve counted on. The least she can do is come through on the loan.”
The car pulled up at a stop sign perhaps three blocks from Pritchard House.
“Do you know, I think I’m too tired to take a drive.” Her voice was thin. She unclicked her seat belt, opened the door. “I’ll walk back. I have a headache and maybe the night air will make me feel better.”
“Peg…”
The door slammed shut.
In an instant, the car jolted forward, tires squealing.
The occupants of the house settled for the night. Peg had turned toward the wall as if shutting out the world. A night-light glowed not far from Keith’s bed. Keith was curled against an oversize teddy bear almost as big as he. Charlotte Hammond had presented the jumbo brown plush bear to him after the tree-trimming party. The bear, promptly named Big Bob by Tucker, sported a Santa hat and a red muffler decorated with candy canes.
I glided past the sleeping child and patted Big Bob’s soft plush fur as I set out to make my rounds.
Gina held a book. Her irregular features were drawn in a worried frown. She stared without seeing at the printed lines.
Jake’s plump face was puckered with unhappiness. She tossed and turned, misery evident even in her sleep.
Everyone was in their place. I smothered a yawn. As soon as I checked on Susan, I would settle on the chaise longue, ready to drift into sleep, remembering the friendly welcome from a stranger at the Christmas party and Keith’s excitement as he and Leon placed the star on the tip-top of the tree. I suspected memories of the afternoon would weave happy dreams as well for Susan Flynn tonight. However, I feared that the dreams of those to whom she had spoken after dinner would not be so sweet. I would be glad when Susan had signed the new will. Until then, I could not assume Keith was safe.
I entered Susan’s bedroom. A soft golden light spread near one corner of the ceiling. I was puzzled. The chandelier was dark. The only other light came from the Tiffany lamp on the nightstand. That was a small pool of white light…
A cold hand seemed to squeeze my heart.
The light from the Tiffany lamp illuminated the still figure lying on her left side in the bed.
Forever still.
“Oh.” I spoke aloud, a soft cry filled with sadness.
Suddenly, the limp right arm jerked upward and flopped.
Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps Susan lived. I zoomed to the bed. I bumped into someone and stepped on something. “Oh!”
“Ouch.” Susan Flynn’s voice was sharp and vigorous. “You’re standing on my foot.”
I jumped to one side.
“You kicked me.” The cultivated voice was aggrieved. “I don’t see anyone. Where are you? What’s happening? Why am I standing here and yet there I am on the bed? What’s wrong with me?” The arm was yanked this way and that. “Wake up.” Again the arm rose and fell.
“Susan, I’m here, but you can’t see me. If I can’t see you…” My words trailed away.
Susan was struggling against death, but there was nothing she could do.
I took a shaky breath. I’d signed up at the Department of Good Intentions to return to earth to help the living. I was, in fact, prohibited from contact with departed spirits (Precept Two). I’d dismissed that instruction from my mind. The idea that I would consort with a departed spirit was laughable.
I wasn’t laughing.
The golden glow near the ceiling shone with a compelling radiance.
“That light up there, it’s warm and beckoning.” Susan sounded farther away. The golden glow was pulling at her, urging her to come. “I must wake up. I have to take care of Keith.”
I should keep quiet, yet I felt compelled to console Susan. “Susan, I’m terribly sorry.” Was Wiggins frowning mightily in Tumbulgum? But I had to speak out. She was struggling to stay in the world, a struggle doomed to failure. I could help her realize that her time on earth was done.
Everything seemed out of order. Why did Susan have to die this night of all nights? “Susan, you’re dead.”
“Dead?” Her clear, resonant voice was stricken.
The side of the bed dipped and I knew she sat beside that still figure. A hand was lifted and held.
I reached out, found her arm. “I wish it weren’t so, I truly do. I hate for you to be dead.” That didn’t sound right. I didn’t want to discourage Susan. As soon as she let go of the world, she would find herself in a much better place, as Sydney Carton remarked so long ago.
She pulled away and scrambled to her feet. “I am not dead. I can see everything. I can talk and move about and I feel wonderful. Except I’m standing here”—she stamped a foot not far from the bed—“and I can’t make myself get out of bed. Besides”—her tone was reasonable as if making a rational point to herself—“I can’t be talking to someone who isn’t here.”
“I’m here.” At least I was present until orders were issued in Tumbulgum.
“Where are you? Who are you?” Her voice was thin and frightened.
For once I wished that Wiggins would arrive, gruff and irritable, fuming at my mistakes. He could tell me what to do. If I followed the rules (Precept Two), I would maintain silence, leave Susan to face eternity on her own.
I would not!
I cut my eyes around the room, quailing at my audacity. However, that bodacious thought should assure Wiggins’s arrival.
Not a sound. Not a sign.
Wiggins had always been quick to arrive when I departed from an emissary’s approved role. Of course, Tumbulgum was far distant and I supposed he couldn’t be in two places at once. Time zones and all that. He might find them confusing since there was no time in Heaven.
Whatever the reason, I faced up to a daunting truth: Wiggins wasn’t coming.