Hot shot, p.24
Hot Shot, page 24
LJ’s event was listed as the fourth on the program. Jack let his gaze roam to the ten-year-old girls’ line opposite LJ’s, wondering which girl was Emily, but his main focus was in keeping his eyes on LJ, thinking he’d at least look her way at some point. But the kid never did. He was focused. That was a good thing.
The pool area suddenly went quiet at some unseen, unheard signal. Whatever it was, Cyrus understood and got up from his sleeping position under the bench Jack was sitting on. Jack poured water into his special bowl, and Cyrus lapped it up before he hopped up on the bench to wedge himself between his master and Harry Wong.
The first three races went off as scheduled to a lot of shouting, arm waving, and foot stomping by all the kids and the spectators.
And then it was time for LJ’s race. The boys lined up, followed by the girls. No one looked at anyone else. The boys’ swim coach walked down the line, whispering in each swimmer’s ear. The girls’ coach did the same thing. Cyrus leaned forward to see Little Jack better. He knew all about races and how they worked. If you won, Dr. Pappas handed out a special treat. He made sure he always won. He waited for the pop of the air gun for the start of the race. The minute he heard it, he was off the bench and streaking toward the pool, where he waited at the finish line of lane 4, where LJ would climb from the pool.
“What the hell!” Harry muttered.
“Oh crap, I should have remembered, but hey, this is on me. Cyrus likes to participate. He knows how to win. He was trained to do stuff like that. Damn, I hope they don’t disqualify LJ for this.”
“Look at that kid go,” Dennis yelled as he stood up on the bench to see better. “That kid can really swim!”
Cyrus started to bark at the turnaround and kept it up until LJ’s fingers touched the edge of the pool, the clear winner in Jack’s eyes. He about choked up when he saw LJ reach up for the big dog and pull him into the water. If there was a rule against it, no one knew what it was. The spectators watched as LJ dove deep and struck out for the opposite end of the pool. When he surfaced and saw Cyrus a length ahead of him, he did a somersault and floated the rest of the way to the edge. Boy and dog leaped out to a rousing round of applause from everyone in the pool area.
“Damn!” was all Jack could think of to say, other than, “Espinosa, if you missed even a second of any of that, I’m going to personally strangle you.”
“Got it all! Man, that was something. What’s the prize?”
“A basket of junk food,” Maggie said.
The gang was gathering their gear together before saying good-bye to LJ and heading for the airport when conditions by the pool became tense for a few moments. The male counselors were arguing with the female counselors about Cyrus. Cyrus pranced around, allowing himself to be petted and scratched, mostly by the girls, and Emily in particular. He loved every minute of it. The counselors looked at one another and just shrugged. No two-legged winner here. They walked away, smiling.
“We gotta go, Jack,” Dennis said, pointing to his watch.
“Just give me a minute, okay?” He ran down the bleachers, hugged his godson, and congratulated Cyrus and Emily, who looked like she was going to cry. He watched as his godson picked up the basket of goodies and handed them to her. “You and the girls deserve this. I couldn’t have won if I hadn’t eaten all those brownies you made for us guys. I lost five pounds this week and picked up two seconds. See ya next year!”
Jack stared at LJ. God, I love this kid.
“Gotta run, kid. Stay in touch, okay?”
“You bet.” LJ leaned up to whisper. “So, Uncle Jack, whatcha think about Emily?”
Jack whispered back. “You know what I think? I think next year that girl is going to blow your socks off.” Cyrus barked to show he agreed.
“I’m thinking the same thing, Uncle Jack.” LJ giggled.
“Come on, guys, time to go home! Our work here is done!”
“Amen!” Maggie said.
Old friends reunite for an adventure unlike any they’ve faced before in the latest novel by beloved storyteller and #1 New York Times bestselling author Fern Michaels.
FAR AND AWAY
As Sophie De Luca has learned, many things really are better the second time around, whether that’s a wonderful year of marriage with Goebel, her sweet second husband, or strengthening her bonds with childhood friends Toots, Ida, and Mavis.
Yet ever since she and Goebel moved into their new home, Sophie has sensed something a little . . . unusual. Old houses often contain items left behind from previous owners, but what remains in this case is a painful secret. Facing this past presents a special kind of challenge, but with her three extraordinary friends by her side, Sophie is ready to confront a terrible wrong that occurred within the house decades ago. And, just maybe, each of the lifelong friends will get the chance to claim a sweet, surprising future chiming with wedding bells when the task is done...
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Sophie jerked upright in the bed, stunned. Her heart drummed against her chest, sweat dampened her forehead, and the back of her neck was slick with perspiration. Unsure whether she had just experienced a vision by way of a dream, she reached for the lamp on the bedside table. Turning it on, she could see that she was safe in the master bedroom, with Goebel snoring contentedly beside her. They’d celebrated their first wedding anniversary that evening. Poor Goebel! He rarely drank, and had imbibed one too many celebratory glasses of champagne. Not wanting to wake him, she grabbed her robe from the bedpost and tiptoed out of the room, not bothering to turn out the light. She knew that Goebel wouldn’t hear her. His soft snores were comforting as Sophie crept out of their room and headed downstairs.
She didn’t even want to begin to analyze her dream, or rather her vision, until she’d had a cigarette. As usual, Goebel had been after her to quit, and, as usual, she said she would think about it. Downstairs in their newly renovated kitchen, Sophie found her cigarettes and lighter on the counter by the back door. Just like at Toots’s house, she thought. Except she didn’t have a coffee can full of sand in which to stub out her cigarettes. She’d actually bought one of those ashtrays used in public places, the kind where you dropped the cigarette in a small hole and it went out as soon as it began to suffer from oxygen deprivation.
Sophie stepped outside on the screened-in veranda, into air almost oppressively thick with humidity. Goebel’s bubble-gum tree filled the air with its sweet scent. Birds chirped and the occasional croak of a frog could be heard, all the ordinary night noises that were normally soothing. But after what she had just experienced, Sophie found them annoying. She stepped outside, where she had a lounge chair and table for this very purpose. She lit her cigarette and took several drags, letting the nicotine’s calming effect settle her nerves. She thought about the dream or vision she’d had.
The woman in her dream had been dressed in clothes from the early 1920s, before the flappers but after the drab style of the World War I era. And she had been excited, then all at once frightened; Sophie felt the woman’s fear again. She closed her eyes and focused, something that was becoming easier with time. Last year, Sophie had developed a new psychic skill, clairsentience. By touch she was able to see through the eyes of another, to feel what they were feeling in real time. She returned her focus to the woman in the dream. Her dress was scarlet, made of the finest silk. Sophie saw a bolt of cloth on a ship, which startled her. “That wasn’t a dream,” she said out loud.
Knowing this, she lay back against the recliner’s plump cushions, closing her eyes and trying earnestly to decipher the images imprinted on her mind. Taking several deep breaths, Sophie could feel herself relax, the way she did right before she fell into a trance. Unlike a trance, however, she was very much aware of the woman, her fears, and her physical pain.
She’d been celebrating; Sophie knew this as she felt the woman’s anticipation. Focusing on the emotions coursing through the woman, Sophie again felt the woman’s fright when it rekindled the same fear in Sophie that had awoken her from a sound sleep. The first trickle of apprehension coursed through her, the woman, as Sophie’s external self would refer to her.
A tinge of alarm was replaced by an icy-cold fear that permeated the woman as she called out a name. Sophie homed in on the words that only she could hear.
“Theodore?”
Anxious, Sophie concentrated on the name, hoping that her perceptiveness would lead her to find the meaning behind the woman’s fear as she spoke the man’s name. Again, centering every ounce of her psychic abilities on the emotions felt by this woman, she experienced a stabbing fear so great, she felt panicky. Acknowledging her gift, yet sometimes unsure of her own power, Sophie felt the force of the woman’s complete and utter fear spread through her nervous system like an electrical jolt.
Leaning forward in the chaise lounge, Sophie catapulted from her visions of another’s past and became instantly aware of her present surroundings. She was sitting in the backyard, her pack of cigarettes lying on the small table beside her. Her hands shook as she reached for the lighter and smokes. This dream, this vision, this clairsentience, if that’s what had just happened, was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Last year, she’d discovered this ability when two children had gone missing. She’d been able to touch their possessions, feel their emotions in real time, seeing through their eyes as they’d been led down into a dank basement in Charleston. By the grace of God, the police found them before they were shipped off to a known pedophile.
But this experience was different. She knew she was seeing through the woman’s eyes, and the woman had lived in the early 1920s. Sophie could almost feel the lightness of her undergarments, something very different from the corsets of the previous decade. Most likely she was wearing a chemise or a camisole and bloomers. Her low-waisted gown with the just-below-the-knee hemline and the bodice typical of the time was made of the finest silk embellished with rhinestones that sparkled when the right lighting hit them. She was waiting at the top of the staircase for her husband. All of this Sophie knew.
That’s it, Sophie thought. Theodore was the woman’s husband!
Sophie took some deep breaths, hoping to steady her erratic heartbeat. Confused and trying to make sense of what she’d seen as she reached for yet another cigarette, she almost jumped out of her skin as she heard the back door slam.
Placing a shaking hand on her chest, she shouted, “Damn you, Goebel, you just about scared the life right out of me.”
Goebel, wearing a navy robe and carrying two mugs of steaming coffee, sat down at the foot of the chaise. “When I woke up, you were gone. Figured I’d find you out here huffing.” He held the coffee cup out for her.
She sipped at the hot brew, then placed the cup on the table. “Huffing? Goebel, you’re going to have to check your choice of words in the future. Do you really know what huffing is?” Sophie didn’t want to talk about her dream, her vision, just yet. Still the world’s leading expert at changing the subject when it suited her, most often to distract her from her own thoughts, she raised an eyebrow, demanding an answer. “Well, do you?” she asked again. She pulled her legs up to her chest and drank her coffee, patiently waiting for her husband of one year and one day, almost, to answer.
Goebel sighed, patted her on her knee, and took a sip of his coffee. “Why do I think you’re about to tell me?” he asked, his voice laced with humor.
“I can’t believe you, a former New York police officer, don’t know what huffing is.”
“Okay, Soph, you got me on that one. Of course I know what it is. It’s called all kinds of names. Bagging, dusting, sniffing. All ways to partake of a chemically soaked rag or a can of something, like cooking spray or Freon, and I’m sure there are more than even I know, but yes, to answer your question, I know what huffing is. Next time I refer to your cigarette habit, I’ll make sure not to use the word huffing. So now that that important information is out of the way, I would love to know why you, my intelligent and sexy wife, are lounging in the backyard in the wee hours of the morning?”
Sophie couldn’t help it; she laughed. God, she loved this man. He knew her too well, but in her case, it was a good thing. “I wanted to huff.”
They both laughed at her words.
“Seriously,” Goebel coaxed. “Are you feeling okay?”
Sophie knew he wasn’t asking if she was physically well. He wanted to know her mental state, if her psyche was in a good place. Not wanting to discuss her vision just yet but knowing she would tell him soon enough anyway, she asked, “Another cup of coffee?” That would give her a few much-needed minutes to try to figure out how exactly to explain what she’d seen to Goebel.
He reached for her cup. “Two minutes.” Light on his feet since he’d lost over a hundred pounds with their friend Mavis’s encouragement and rigid diet, he hurried inside, leaving her alone with her crazy thoughts.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to tell Goebel what had actually brought her outside in the wee hours of the morning. The problem was that she didn’t really know how to describe this very new experience. What she’d seen had been from the 1920s, close to a century ago. But that wasn’t what was really bothering her. No, her main concern was that something was nagging at her subconscious, something Sophie needed to know, something that the woman wanted her to know.
For no reason that she could come up with, the words the attic came to mind. Sophie recalled several large trunks she’d seen when Goebel and she had first moved in to the old plantation house outside of Charleston, months earlier. At the time she didn’t give them too much thought. Old houses always had items left behind from previous owners. She’d planned on going through them, but the timing never seemed to be right. She always seemed to have more important tasks to attend to. Now, though, she knew that there was something she had to investigate and that whatever she was supposed to find would be in one or more of those trunks. She would immediately put the task on her to-do list.
Goebel let the back door slam behind him, startling her. She sat cross-legged and put her smokes beside her, giving him room for the tray he carried. “You’ve either done something you don’t want me to find out about, or you’re trying to butter me up. Which is it?” Sophie asked, as Goebel refilled her mug.
He snickered. “Neither. Now, quit stalling and tell me why you’re out here at this ungodly hour.” He’d put prepackaged blueberry muffins on two plates, along with the butter dish. He sliced a muffin in half, slathering it with butter.
“Is that real?” Sophie asked, eyeing the butter.
Goebel continued to swipe the butter on the muffin. “No, it’s not. If you don’t stop stalling, I might be forced to rub this fake butter all over you. Then of course we would be forced to shower together to clean ourselves, or I could just lick—”
“I get your drift, Mr. Blevins.”
“And?”
“I know you’ll accuse me of stalling, but I’m being serious. When you bought this house, did you research its history? Did you get the names of any previous families who’d lived here? Did Toots share anything with you?”
Goebel had formally proposed to her the night he took her to see this house, telling her it was theirs to do with as they pleased. He’d actually carried her across the threshold. She smiled at the memory.
“As you know, Toots had the place for a few years. Before she bought it, it was owned by the great-great nephew of the original plantation owners. I think it was built sometime in the first half of the nineteenth century, maybe in the eighteen thirties. I think that the great-great-nephew inherited it sometime in the nineteen seventies or eighties, maybe a hundred and fifty or so years after it was built. Why all the sudden interest? I thought you hated history.”
“Do you know the great-great nephew’s name?”
“It’s somewhere in all the papers I have. Is it important? If so, I’ll go look now.”
Sophie took a pull of her lukewarm coffee. “It’s important, yes, but you don’t need to look now. This is so strange, I’m not sure how to put it into words.”
“You’re never at a loss for words, Soph,” Goebel encouraged.
As the sun started its ascent, the sky became a hazy bluish gray, replete with oranges and pinks. The birds were chirping loudly, and, from somewhere in the distance, Sophie could hear a car door slam. Most likely that little place across the road, where a young couple lived. She’d yet to meet them but had seen them coming and going. Probably yuppies, she thought, with jobs downtown in Charleston.
“You’re distracted, Soph. Go on, try to focus and tell me why you came outside so early.”
“I thought I was dreaming when I first woke. I was sweating, my heart felt like it was going to explode. I was nervous and shaky, thinking I’d had a nightmare. I felt a woman’s fear and pain, saw her as she tumbled down a set of stairs, but it wasn’t like I was seeing this as it happened now. This wasn’t in real time like those kids who went missing last year. This was in the nineteen twenties. The woman—that’s what I’ve been calling her in my mind—wore a low-waisted dress with a hemline and bodice typical of the early nineteen twenties. She had on a chemise or camisole and bloomers, no corset. That’s what is so weird. I felt the lightness of her undergarments. Very different from what I would have felt had she been wearing a corset.
“As you can see”—she touched her nightgown—“there is nothing at all restraining here.” She wore a loose, light green, cotton gown with a pocket. Sophie was big on pockets. “This is perfectly comfortable, with no pressure on me at all. And that was the same way that woman’s undergarments felt.”
