A Spirited Gift (2 page)

I wasn't really sure if I was. It had become ritual for Shayla and me to meet on my mother's birthday, October 15. Shayla was a medium who'd lived in Duck for the last few years. Contacting my dead mother was what had brought us together originally. Now we were friends—even though our personalities were very different.

I had already decided, as the month of October approached, that this was the last time I would try to raise the ghost of my mother.

It was a big decision for me. I'd desperately wanted to talk to her after her death more than fifteen years ago. There'd been no time to say the things that needed to be said before her car went off one of the bridges that connect the Outer Banks to the mainland of North Carolina. I just wanted that last opportunity to tell her that I loved her. And that I was sorry.

“Spirits of the air—hear my voice.” Shayla began the ritual while I tried to decide if we should even do it. “We seek Jean O'Donnell. Her daughter is here to speak with her. Hear me, spirits. We ask your blessing and to speak to Jean O'Donnell.”

I squeezed my eyes closed—wanting so much to see her and, at the same time, afraid that I would. I'd never seen a ghost. Shayla had told me it was a lot like seeing a living person. I had a feeling that wasn't quite true. I wanted to believe that my mother could come back to me. I wanted to hear her voice one last time.

“Is anything happening?” I whispered. I could hear the wind battering the house outside. I knew Duck might be catching the tail end of a tropical storm that was headed up the coast after hitting Florida.

“Nothing is gonna happen if you keep talking, Dae.” Shayla's voice seemed loud even though she was whispering.

The candle on the table between us flickered as though some errant breeze had filtered through the room. There was a scratching sound at the window beside us. I rationalized it as a tree branch, clawing at the glass.

Shayla invited the dead to join us again. Her plaintive cry was made poignant by the not-so-subtle overtones of her New Orleans accent. I wondered if anyone was listening to her.

It seemed to me as though my mother must not have anything to say to me. Maybe she was still angry. Maybe she blamed me for her death. I knew she was upset when she left me at college that day. We'd argued, as we frequently did. She'd left early for Duck because a storm was brewing in the Atlantic. I'd let her go without telling her that I loved her. She'd left me without looking back.

Was I to blame for her state of mind? Had she been crying when she lost control of her car and skidded off the bridge into the Croatan Sound? Her body had never been found.

If guilt were a necklace, mine would be ten feet long and weigh a hundred pounds. I didn't know if she blamed me, but I blamed myself. I was a stupid, selfish, thoughtless kid who didn't know any better. But that was no excuse. Which was why I was sitting here, hoping to talk to her and make amends.

But it appeared it was going to be just another night. A flickering candle and an eerie feeling didn't mean my mother was with us.

Shayla sighed. “I'm sorry, Dae. But I don't think you should give up.”

“It's been a long time.” I opened my eyes and glanced around the room. A prickly tingling went up and down my spine, but that was all. About what you'd expect when you're sitting in a dark room trying to call back the dead. “I don't think she wants to talk to me.”

“Listen, it's not always that cut-and-dry. The dead have regrets too. Sometimes it isn't that easy to come back. Maybe your mama just can't get here to you.”

I smiled at her, took my hands back and wiped the tears from my eyes. “Thanks for saying that. But I think this is it. I'm not trying again.”

As though my words were a signal to some unseen source, the wind outside began whipping up even harder. The candle on the table not only went out—it, and the candleholder, fell over. The tree branch that had been politely tapping on the window broke off and smashed into the glass. Rain and wind blew in on us from the cracks.

Shayla and I moved quickly away from the broken window that overlooked Duck Road. “Help me move the table,” I said.

“Never mind that,” Shayla argued. “I think we might have created a breach in the spirit plane. That kind of stuff doesn't just happen with a normal séance.”

I dragged the Thomas Jefferson table away from the rain and pushed it into the center of the room. Shayla might not appreciate the importance of the piece, but I did. I'd done the research on it—which in this case consisted of touching it to learn its history.

Shayla might see ghosts and be familiar with the spirit plane. I have a gift too. Nothing so fancy—I can find lost things that people are looking for and learn about those things by touching them.

“It's just the storm,” I assured her. I'd been born and raised on the Outer Banks, the strip of barrier islands that lies between the Atlantic and the various waters that separate it from the North Carolina coast.

“Look at those,” Shayla whispered, pointing. “Do
those
look like something the storm dragged in?”

I followed her finger and saw three balls of light floating across the dark room. The practical aspects of my Banker (Outer Banks) heritage made me go over and try to touch them. That same Banker heritage made me stop short of actually connecting—we were superstitious too.

“What are they?” I asked my specialist on the spiritual realm.

“Spirit balls,” she answered, clearly awed. “I've personally never seen them before, but I've heard stories from my ma and her gran about them. Spirits sometimes travel like this when they don't take form.”

I swallowed hard. “Can you talk to them?”

“I don't think so. They're pure energy.”

“Do you think one of them is my mother?”

As if in answer, one of the balls flared out like a sparkler, then disappeared. The other two continued their leisurely pace across the room.

Shayla took out her cell phone and started taking pictures. The flashes seemed to disturb the balls—they fled into the wall and disappeared.

“Did you get them?” I figured photos were the only way anyone would ever believe us.

She checked the camera function on her phone. “They don't look like much. No wonder pictures of phenomena like this are always fuzzy. Who's prepared?”

“But we saw them.” My whole body felt like it had been immersed in a vat of static electricity. Shayla turned the lights on. They flickered a few times but eventually stayed on. We laughed at each other—our hair was standing straight up on our heads.

“We did,” she agreed. “I think this means you shouldn't give up trying to talk to your mother, Dae. The spirits are trying to reach you. You have to give them more time.”

I couldn't argue with her. The whole experience had left me trembling and ready to jump—which I did when my cell phone rang a moment later.

Heart pounding, I answered and tried to focus. It was problem number 347 for the Duck Mayor's Conference. Who'd have thought so many problems could come up for a two-day event? “I'll be right there,” I promised our town clerk, who sounded on the verge of collapse.

“You can't go now,” Shayla said after I got off the phone. “We're so close—I can feel it. You might still be able to talk to your mother tonight.”

“As exciting as that sounds, if I don't get over to the Blue Whale and sort some things out, the town staff might all be dead from stress. Think how much guilt I'd have then, since the conference was my idea.”

“You shouldn't play around with the dead,” Shayla quoted with dark intent.

“I'm not. Really—maybe you could tell them how serious I am. We could try again after I get things settled down.” I hugged her and smiled. “Thank you for being here with me.”

She rolled her expressive dark eyes. “Go on then. Go do your mayor thing. I'll try to get this place cleaned up. You know, I think this storm might be worse than the TV weather people are expecting.”

Chapter 2

I'd brought the golf cart and my umbrella to Shayla's house for the séance. Neither of them was any good at protecting me from the hard rain and high winds that were sweeping across the island. It was hurricane season—but not anything to panic about.

My storm knee that I'd injured surfing when I was fourteen ached like crazy, telling me that Shayla was right about the tail end of this tropical storm. It would surprise me if it wasn't upgraded to a hurricane before the end of the day.

Most stores and houses were locked down, windows already boarded up or protected by heavy shutters. Storm debris was being pushed across Duck Road, our major thoroughfare.

But people were still out, dressed in colorful ponchos and boots. A few restaurants and shops were open, including Game World, our gaming arcade. Most people took bad weather for granted. Only the worst of it got our attention.

That made it difficult sometimes to protect the population. Most Bankers flatly refused to evacuate in the face of hurricanes, much less a tropical storm. Even though I was the mayor of Duck and understood the emergency protocols, I was just as bad. I couldn't imagine what kind of storm would make me and my grandfather leave our home on the Currituck Sound.

As far as I knew, an O'Donnell had never left Duck for something as unimportant as some rain and gale-force winds. My family had lived here for several generations. Stubbornness was bred into our Banker bones.

I turned down the side street that led to the Blue Whale Inn. Rain almost blinded me, but I hunkered down behind the plastic windshield and kept my foot on the accelerator. The battery-powered golf cart responded with its usual sluggish movement. It was lucky to go ten miles an hour. But it was better for the environment than a gas-powered golf cart and cheaper to run. A lot of people here used carts instead of cars.

Though, in times like this, Gramps's old car might've been better.

The Blue Whale Inn sat squarely facing the Atlantic side of Duck. Its three stories, tall turret and sweeping verandah welcomed guests into a wealth of comfort and Southern charm. It had been built in the early 1900s and had been the scene of many major events in Duck—both legal and illegal—down through the years.

It was owned now by ex-FBI agent Kevin Brickman, who'd labored long hours to make the place livable again after it had sat empty for more than thirty years. Between his wonderful cooking and painstaking refurbishing, the Blue Whale was again a hub of activity year-round.

I pulled up through the circle drive and parked by the old hitching post. As I got out of the golf cart, I spotted a set of keys on the ground. I stooped down and picked it up, thinking someone would miss it. There was only a single key—a car key—on the key ring, and a fob—maybe a dolphin?—broken in half.

Immediately, I was swamped with emotions that came from the object. I couldn't make out the woman's face as she threw the key ring at someone, but I felt her anger and frustration. Whoever the key ring belonged to was having a very bad day. I pocketed it, then turned to go inside.

“Where have you been?” Nancy Boidyn, the town clerk, demanded in an uncharacteristic tone of panic. She was waiting for me on the verandah. Normally she was an unflappable Banker, unmoved by any outside force. “This place is going crazy! We have to do something.”

I was drenched, and my teeth were chattering. “You have Barbara and Althea helping you. What can I do?”

Nancy's eyes flared with anger for an instant. Her narrow lips pressed tighter together.

I realized we were all under a lot of stress. I didn't know what was going on that they couldn't handle, but I knew Nancy didn't get upset over just anything. “I'm sorry. I should've been here. I'm soaked and freezing. I was with Shayla. It's October 15.”

Her pretty face softened instantly and she hugged me, totally disregarding my wet clothes and hair. “I'm so sorry, Dae. I completely forgot the date with all this rushing around. Did you hear anything?”

Nancy wasn't surprised by my attempts to contact my mother. Most people from Duck believed having the dead in your life was part of living. Ghosts weren't a big deal. Curses and pirates were our daily fare.

“No. Not really.” I didn't go into the spirit balls. I'd probably tell her about them later. Right now, the living needed attention. “So, what's going on?”

She took out a large pink notebook. “The mayor from Elizabeth City needs seltzer water with a twist of lemon, not lime. The mayor from Manteo needs a room with a bigger window. The mayor from Virginia Beach needs a bigger room—with a view of the Atlantic. Some of the schedules were blurry. There may not be enough wine, but it's too late to get any more.”