Adelaide Upset (26 page)

Tuesday morning I woke up
feeling guilty. I had avoided Lucas, crashing in my own bed after
reading another entry from Demidov’s journal. I should go over to
his place, call him at work, leave a note,
something
. I halfheartedly toyed
with the idea while getting ready for the day.

The trouble with my hair
always matched my mood, if I was annoyed or frustrated it would
become unruly and difficult. It seemed especially ratty after my
shower, and combing it into submission was hard work. I had my
hands up in the air so long the blood drained out and I had to stop
and take a breather halfway through braiding the beast.

It came to me then,
mid-groom, the reason why Dusty Antiques rang a bell. It was a
little shop on St. Simons. I scrubbed my brain, trying to recall
more. It was something I’d noticed when I first moved to the
island, but I had never actually ventured into the store. And I had
a vague impression that it was somewhere near the lighthouse. Near
Nancy’s Parlor, which was convenient, because I’d already been
planning a trip in that direction.

Five minutes of driving
downtown and I was ready to quit. I had all the windows down, but I
couldn’t get a good breeze going because my progress was minimal.
All the streets were punctuated with stop signs and stop lights,
clumps of people waiting at every corner, skirting in front of my
car if they got the chance. I was melting, the faux leather trim on
my bucket seat sticking to my skin. I peeled myself away, sitting
forward, but it wasn’t an improvement. I still had my cotton
T-shirt to deal with, the cloth glued to my sweaty back. Georgia
was nice and mild in the winter, but she turned into a relentless
bitch all summer long.

I circled around the neighborhood, scoping
out the place, but I didn’t see a sign for Dusty Antiques. I gave
up rather quickly, parking at the first place I could find, just
wanting to escape my oven of a car.

I walked to the Parlor,
threading through the tourists. I used to consider this therapy—the
exposure to emotions, testing my ability to keep control, to mask
my reactions. That was before Reed made things complicated, before
Percy’s ring and the ghosts. With so much change in my life, so
many challenges, this task seemed simple now. Easy. A
cakewalk.

The easel was out, the
Parlor open for business. But when I walked down the dusty hallway
no one was waiting at the reception desk. I shrugged and continued
back, familiar with the way to Nancy’s upstairs apartment. She
answered my knock looking harried, her messy hair messier than
usual and a drip down the front of her blouse.

She looked at me for a moment, and then a
blast of worry took over. “Is everything okay?” she more or less
demanded, remembering her ominous predictions. “Has something
happened?”

“A couple of things actually,” I said. “But
only one of which I’ve come to talk about. Is this a bad time?” I
glanced at the food still clinging to her breast.

She followed my gaze,
swiping at the blotch in a preoccupied manner. “Jam,” she muttered.
Then, “Come in. Come in,” waving a hand to flap me through the
doorway.

“I didn’t see Eclipsys downstairs,” I said,
following her into the kitchen. “I let myself up.”

“
It’s her day off. I’m
supposed to be watching the shop, but I didn’t even hear the bell
ring when you came in. I’ve been so busy, distracted...” Her voice
trailed off as she began to clear the table, piling up papers
before making tea.

“
What’s all this?” I
asked, my eyes skimming the stacks.

“Preparations for this year’s conference. Do
you remember?” Nancy asked. “I told you about it once.”

“
Yeah, I remember. It’s
for gifted people.” Then I added irreverently, “Or people that wish
they were gifted. I didn’t think it was ‘til October.”

“It’s not, but I have to start planning
months in advance.”

“
You’re stressed about
it,” I said, relaxing into my chair, letting the cool, airy kitchen
tranquilize me. “Why? if you don’t mind me asking.”

Glancing over her
shoulder, Nancy smiled at me with a sort of tired good humor as she
stood over the sink, filling the kettle with water. “I forget how
insightful you are with that gift.” She sighed, moving to the
stove. “The event traditionally takes place at the Crowne, but
their conference rooms are being remodeled. I thought I might use
Sleeping Oaks Country Club this year, but they only loan out space
to members. Even if I could get a sponsor, I’m not sure if we’ll
have many participants. Every year the numbers dwindle. Percy was
the real draw, he had connections all over...” She stopped talking,
thoughts of Percy making her sad.

So she needed access to the country club and
something to spark interest... or maybe someone. “I might have a
solution for your problem, give me a few days and I’ll get back to
you.”

“
Thank you, Adelaide,” she
said with utter trust. “I’ll be happy for some help. Now,” she
said, shaking away her sorrow. “How can I help
you
?”

“I want to know if your abilities ever
changed, like... got stronger, maybe?”

She absently drew the sponge across the
counter, wiping while she thought. “Yes and no. My ability never
changed, but I have honed my skill.” She waved a hand, struggling
to explain. “When I was younger, looking into the cards, I saw
nothing but disjointed images. The stories come easier now,
experience helping me interpret what I see.” Looking at me, she
asked, “Does that help?”

I didn’t like telling
people things, but this was important. “My boyfriend, Lucas, he
doesn’t— I can’t feel his emotions, I never have. Now his
ex-girlfriend is in town, and she said—” I took a breath, hating
the halting quality of my voice. “Well, she makes it seem like
something is wrong with him, that he needs help, as if only she can
fix him or something. He’s estranged from his family, but I don’t
think that’s what she’s talking about. And she mentioned something
else too, a curse.” I watched Nancy. “Do you know anything about
curses?”

“No,” she said, taking a seat at the table.
“I suppose you would know better than anyone if she was trying to
deceive you.”

“
She wasn’t,” I said,
totally sure. “I think she believes he’s cursed.”

“But what do you believe?” Nancy asked,
reaching around to pluck the kettle off the burner when it started
to whistle.

“
I
want
to believe that she’s full
of shit, but I’m pretty sure she’s not. And I think she knows I’m
an empath. She said something vague about Lucas being ‘wrapped up
in my feelings.’”

My words sat heavy in the
air, both of us ruminating over their meaning. Nancy methodically
dipped the tea bags before eventually pouring us both a mug. I
hated tea, but she never had anything better to drink. I wrapped my
hands around the warm ceramic, waiting for her to speak.

“Since you asked me if my abilities ever
changed, I suspect you think your empathy may be affecting Lucas
differently.”

“
He’s supposedly cursed,
right? And I’ve never been able to feel his emotions, yet his
ex-girlfriend knew I was an empath. How did she know? She saw us
together, and on those occasions I would get upset, and then Lucas
would get upset...”

“You think he’s cursed to feel nothing, but
somehow your empathy is reaching him?” Nancy asked, following my
thought process.

“
I think
my
feelings are
reaching him,” I admitted. “It’s never happened before, I mean, I
would have noticed by now. Not that it happens all the time with
Lucas, just when my emotions run high.”

“Adelaide, it sounds as if you’ve figured
this out for yourself. You don’t need me,” Nancy said, sipping her
tea.

“It all sounds far-fetched and ridiculous,”
I replied, not wanting to believe it. “I’d like to know if you
think it’s possible.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “But I think you
should test your theory before you do anything rash.”

She might not be an
empath, but she could sense my disquiet. If it was true, if Lucas
never felt anything for me that I didn’t feed him... No, I couldn’t
think about that. I wouldn’t, it was too distressing.

There wasn’t much to say after that. It was
only on my way out the door that I remembered to ask, “Oh, Nancy,
have you heard of Dusty Antiques?”

“
Sure,” she said. “Leslie
Hopper’s old place.”

“So it’s out of business then?”

“
He closed the store...
two years ago, I think. You wouldn’t know it from looking through
the window though. He retained most of his inventory and still
collects as a pastime,” she explained.

“You know him well,” I said, feeling her
fondness.

“He’s been a neighbor for years.”

“It’s more than that,” I said, gauging her
emotional response. Not the feelings of a casual neighbor, but a
peer. “Wait. Is he— Does he have a gift?”

She clicked her tongue at
me, it was the first time I’d ever really annoyed her. “Don’t
expect me to answer. I don’t go sharing other people’s business,
some things are meant to be private.”

“But you told me all about that woman and
her abusive husband,” I said, trying to work out her convoluted
logic.

“
Oh that’s different,” she
declared, flapping a hand at me.

I smiled at her frown, the both of us
knowing she’d already answered my question. “Does he live
nearby?”

“Above the store,” she ground out. “But what
business could you possibly have with him?”

“
Ghost business,” I
answered. “Being a neighbor and all, I assume he’s close by, just
point me in the right direction. That would be great.”

Nancy believed the ghost
gift was meant to facilitate its possessor in helping the ghosts
complete their unfinished business and move on, toward the light or
whatever. Apparently that was what Percival spent his life doing,
the overachiever. So hearing I was on ghost business had thawed
Nancy out quite a bit, and she’d pointed me in the right
direction.

Leslie Hopper had a place
much like Nancy’s, narrow and stacked with his apartment above the
closed antique shop. No wonder I hadn’t found the store on my own,
the sign had been taken down. The hooks remained, jutting over the
large rectangular window. I peered through the glass, cupping my
face to block out the light. Nancy was right, the store might be
closed but it was still here, the space brimming with
junk.

Around back there was a
wooden staircase, bleached gray from the sun. I climbed the steps,
avoiding the banister because it looked like a splinter factory. I
knocked and waited, hearing shuffling from inside.

The door was opened by an
old man. He looked to be Ben’s age, but that was probably the only
thing they had in common. Ben, tall and whiplike, was quick and
energetic, with a wiry beard and bad attitude. This man was small
and round, clean-shaven and unhurried, his emotions easy and
relaxed.

“
Leslie, right?” I
inquired. “Leslie Hopper?”

“
Yes,” he agreed, opening
the door a bit wider. His hair was snowy white, even on his arms
where it dusted over his age spots, and his eyes showed crystalline
blue through his round, gold-rimmed glasses. Despite being sans
beard, he reminded me of Santa Claus.

“
I’m a friend of Nancy
Bristow,” I said, thinking she probably wouldn’t like me dropping
her name to get a foot in the door. “Can I speak to you for a
bit?”

“
Nancy, hmmm,” he said,
squinting at me. Curiosity was a mix of thoughtful excitement, and
he was like that now, slightly pensive and eager. With Nancy as our
connection he must have come to the same conclusion, wondering what
my gift might be.

Those with divination were
gifted from birth, and, according to Raina Thompson, a dime a
dozen. Whether your predictions came from bird calls or spilled
salt, the ability was ultimately the same. But other gifts, like
mine, were individual, tied to some event in life when it was made
manifest. I didn’t want to be a snob, and I certainly didn’t want
to agree with Raina, but such gifts were more fascinating in that
they were unique. Whatever Leslie had, I hoped it was awesome. He
looked like the type of guy that could talk to animals, all nice
and grandfatherly.

“Best come in then,” he finally said. “Mind
the mess.”

The house resembled his
shop below, packed full of crap, though this lot seemed well
tended, no dust or must. The hall was lined with antique furniture,
every surface filled. My eyes flitted over it all as he led me
deeper into the apartment. Bowler hat. Bust of an eagle. Brass
phonograph. Old sewing machine.

He gestured for me to sit,
but the settee looked Victorian with an oval back and spindly legs.
Did he really want me to put my butt on it?

Sensing my hesitation he
chuckled. “It’s a reproduction, I can assure you.”

“Oh.” I dropped down, letting my messenger
bag flop at my feet. “What else is a reproduction?” I asked, no
longer impressed.

“
Only the things I use,”
he said, seating himself across from me. “So the chairs and the
teacups. Speaking of, can I get you something to drink?” he
inquired, already sitting forward to get up again.