Hourglass (3 page)

Chapter 4

T
uxedo Guy looked even better the closer he got to us—tall, wide shoulders, smooth skin, those lips. I couldn’t believe he worked for a place called the Hourglass. Fifty-year-old bespectacled men with paunches should work for the Hourglass. Not a prince too gorgeous to be walking around with the peasants. He couldn’t be much older than me. Maybe he was an intern. Maybe Thomas got him on the cheap because he played in the minor leagues instead of with the big boys.

“Were you going to tell me he was here?” I said under my breath to Thomas, my emotions raging in the space between anger and horror.

“I was going to let him observe you first.”

“Like some kind of specimen?” I hissed. “Where’s my glass jar?”

I was ready to launch into a tirade but stopped when I realized Tuxedo Guy stood two feet away, eyeing me as if I might suddenly burst into flames.

“Michael Weaver, meet my sister, Emerson Cole.” Thomas’s hand on my back pushed me slightly forward, the motion suggesting he thought Michael and I should shake.

Michael looked from Thomas to me and tentatively held out his hand. I shuddered, turning away to hide my face in my brother’s shoulder. Even if Thomas’s acknowledging his presence proved he was currently alive, I didn’t want to touch Michael. When I looked back at him, he’d slipped his hand into his pocket.

The door to the patio opened once again, and this time it was Dru. I assumed Thomas hadn’t given her the latest news about my hallucinations, with all the preparations for the opening they’d done that day. I didn’t want her fussing over me.

“I’m sorry I’m so clumsy.” I waved her away as she started to hover, the motion helping to hide the shaking of my hand. “Everything is fine, go back inside.”

Dru has the kind of blue eyes most people describe as icy, which I really don’t understand, because ice is clear. Right now they exuded worry.

“You’re not clumsy; that’s why I’m concerned,” she said, ignoring my protests and placing her hand on my forehead before moving it to my cheek. “Are you sick? Are you feeling faint? Do you need food? Do you need to sit?”

“Couldn’t be better. Really,” I lied through my perfect teeth. What I needed was a way to escape the jazz trio I could still hear and the gorgeous consultant standing beside me. I really wished he were a little less male model, a little more tax auditor. I felt distracted enough already.

“In that case, Thomas, I hate to pull you away, but Brad from the bank wanted to talk to you regarding that property on Main.” She raised her well-groomed eyebrows, so I knew it must be a lucrative deal. “I can stay here.”

Thomas’s pained expression exposed his inner battle. I let him off the hook. “Go. You too, Dru. Make money.”

“No, I’ll stay with you, sweetie. I want to make sure you’re okay.” Dru tucked her arm around my waist to give me a quick squeeze.

“No. Really. Go. I’m fine,” I insisted.

“Will you stay with her?” Thomas asked Michael, his voice as serious as if he were negotiating my dowry. Or a real estate deal. “I don’t want to leave her alone.”

I shot Thomas an evil look. He was so going to pay for that later.

“Absolutely,” Michael answered.

I jumped at his voice, the sound putting every cell in my body on alert. It was mellow, husky. I’d bet he could sing. After I assured Thomas and Dru again that I was fine, I watched the only familiar people in the building walk away and wished desperately to be anywhere else in the world … except maybe Colonial Williamsburg.

I exhaled deeply, looked up at Michael, and offered a smile. When he returned it, my breath caught in my throat.

Buttered biscuits and honey.

“You’re not what I expected,” I said, hating the way my voice broke slightly in the middle of the sentence.

“I’ve heard that before,” he said, scoring major points by pretending not to notice.

“I’m glad you’re close to my age.” Please be close to my age. “Makes me feel like we’re on an even playing field.”

“I didn’t realize we were playing a game.” His dark eyes narrowed slightly. He was probably already wondering if he was getting paid enough to deal with me. “Should I call you Em or Emerson?”

I frowned. I didn’t recall anyone calling me Em in his presence.

“Emerson will be fine for now. Are you Michael or Mike? Or Mikey?”

“Do I
look
like a Mikey?” he asked.

“Um … no.”

“Michael will be fine. For now,” he said, pressing his lips together. Not in a prudish way. In a very sexy, trying-to-hide-hissmile way.

He reached out to run his hand over the wrought-iron fence that lined the patio, and then turned to face me, shaking the rain from his fingers. “Your brother has a gift. I’ve never seen someone put so much effort into recapturing the beauty of a place. Did he renovate all of these buildings?”

The patio displayed a bird’s-eye view of the award-winning restoration prominently featured in the town square. Warm light shone behind many of the second- and third-story loft windows, home mostly to young professionals and empty nesters, with the occasional family thrown in for balance. Replicas of antique gas lanterns lit streets lined by quaint businesses, antique shops, coffeehouses, and galleries. Window boxes and planters spilled out brightly colored seasonal flowers. Even though it currently ranked in the top ten of America’s best small towns, it was too easy to imagine it as it had been a century ago, which was proving to be a problem for me.

No way was that horse-drawn carriage real.

The beginning notes of Rodgers and Hart’s “Bewitched” floated through the rain-scented air, mixing with the smell of the purple sweet peas climbing the iron fence. I looked away from the overactive town square and refocused on Michael.

“Yes, Thomas had a hand in every single renovation. His vision is very specific.” And expensive … yet somehow always profitable.

“How’s your vision?” Sneaky. His tone was light, but I could sense the deeper question behind the words. I wondered what Thomas had told him about me.

I reached out to wrap my fingers around the iron bars, avoiding the damp sweet peas. “Why are you here, Michael Weaver?”

“To help you.” The concern on his face was a welcome difference. He looked like he wanted to know what my problem was. I almost wanted to tell him.

Almost.

Instead, I let out a derisive laugh. Leaning away from the fence, I held on with one arm and swung back and forth slightly, like I’d done on the poles that held up my swing set when I was a little girl. “‘To help you.’ That line is so tired.”

“How many times have you heard it?”

“Let’s see, there were the two sisters who claimed they could see into my past and my future. Apparently I’m a descendant of Mata Hari, who is somehow next in line for the Finnish throne.”

“There’s not a—”

“I know.”

“Ouch.” A sympathetic crease formed between his eyebrows.

“I made Thomas give me the refund on that one—
and
his credit card—so I could go for some shopping therapy. I tried really hard to bankrupt him.” I grinned at the semihappy memory, and Michael smiled with me. It almost made me forget what I was saying. “Um … then there was the shaman who thought I needed to be exorcised. That one was fabulous; he claimed he could do it with pickle juice and ashes.”

Michael shook his head in disbelief. “Where does your brother find these people? He’s clearly a shrewd businessman—why would he hire such obvious frauds?”

“Desperation? My boarding school was in Sedona. No shortage of ‘spiritual healers’ there. I guess the news that a concerned brother was throwing around a surplus of cash to help his loopy sister spread pretty fast. And none of the people using traditional methods could help me. They all wanted to drug me into a vegetative state or commit me.” I let go of the iron bar and bit down hard on my bottom lip, stopping short of telling him they succeeded, angry with myself for being so honest. If he was a fake like all the others, maybe he would feel guilty and go away before inflicting any damage.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said. No pity, just empathy. His expression was easy to read, or he was a really good actor. He reminded me of old Hollywood, very Cary Grant–ish, except for the slightly shaggy hair.

“So what’s different about you?” I asked, growing weary of the conversation. Already anticipating the disappointment. “What kind of promises are you going to make?”

“None that I can’t keep.” The set of his jaw was resolute, his voice full of certainty.

“What are your qualifications? Did you climb a mountain and meet with a guru?” I asked, baiting him. Wanting a reaction. “Did you have an out-of-body experience, and now people speak to you through mirrors and mud puddles?”

“Listen, I can understand why you don’t have a lot of faith”—he kept his voice low and even, but I suspected a hint of temper—“but what if I
can
help you? Why wouldn’t you let me?”

“What if I don’t think anything’s wrong with me?” Not anything I expected him to be able to fix, anyway.

“I didn’t say there was.”

“Offering to help me implies I’m in distress. I’m not currently.”

“What about ten minutes ago when you tried to put your drink on a piano that wasn’t there?”

“That wasn’t distress. That was …” I sucked wind.

He saw the piano.

Chapter 5

I
punched him in the stomach. Hello six-pack. Even with the protective layer of muscle, he let out a rush of air and bent over, wrapping his arms around his middle.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I apologized, shaking the feeling back into my tingling hand. The streetlights seemed to flicker, and I wondered fleetingly if we were in for another storm. “I needed to make sure you were really here.”

“And there wasn’t a better way to do it?” Michael groaned. He was lucky I aimed high. I’d considered kicking him, but remembered my lethal shoes at the last moment.

“Stress reaction.” I shrugged and stepped out of my high-heeled weapons before I had the urge to do any more damage, appreciating the feel of the cool concrete beneath my feet.

Michael straightened, looking down at me and sizing me up. I couldn’t tell if he liked what he saw. Was surprised to find that it mattered.

“Why were you worried about whether or not I was real? You wouldn’t shake my hand a few minutes ago, even though your brother saw me.”

“It’s been a different kind of day. My world’s been turned upside down and sideways.”

“Probably for the best anyway.” He gave me a grin that made me wonder what he wasn’t saying. “So tell me, what’s been so different about today?”

“I’ve never seen a full jazz trio before, for one thing. It threw me off. The rules must be changing.”

“What are the rules?”

“I see people from the past.” The bells in the clock tower on the town square loudly chimed the hour, but I kept my voice low. “They’re like a film projection, no substance, and when I try to touch them, they disappear. I’ve sure as heck never seen three at once accompanied by a piano.” Or a horse-drawn carriage.

“At least they sounded good. That bass was smooth.” He inclined his head toward the building, where the music spilled from the open windows. “Still is.”

“You don’t seem to be impressed. No one’s ever been able to see or hear what I do. What’s your story?” I asked, although it was clear. He was as screwed up as I was.

“Let’s just say my mom thought I had a lot of imaginary friends.”

I tilted my chin up to get a better look at him. “So it’s been happening since you were little?”

Michael nodded. “You?”

“Four years.” The bells stopped after ten chimes, and the air felt eerily quiet. Time for a subject change. Distract and divert. “I really am sorry I hit you.”

“You’re forgiven.” He winked. “I think I can handle a tiny little thing like you.”

I bit my tongue. So we would work on the male chauvinism.

“If you help me, how does it work? Do we have … sessions or something? What are you going to do to me?” Oops. Scary, scary light in his eyes. I cleared my throat. I would need to watch my phrasing. “I mean,
for
me.”

The light didn’t fade as he answered. “I’d like to start by hearing your story.”

“Simple enough.” As if reliving every terrifying moment was easy. As if I wanted to make myself vulnerable to a total stranger. I rubbed the knot of tension forming at the base of my neck.

“Emerson.” I loved the way he said my name. Or maybe I just liked watching his lips move. “I know this is hard for you, but I want you to be honest with me. You can trust me.”

He obviously had not heard the rule that you
never
trust anyone who says “you can trust me.”

“We’ll see how things go. When do we start?” I asked.

“How does tomorrow sound?”

Too soon.

The next morning I dressed in my favorite jeans and a black fitted T-shirt, slipping on my black Converse sneakers for comfort and courage. They always made me feel ballsy. Twisting my hair into an updo, I pulled out some of the pieces the sun had made blonder than the others. I took a little more care with my makeup than usual, playing up my clear complexion. All for breakfast with Michael.

Hmm.

I walked through downtown slowly, enjoying the peace. The humidity hadn’t kicked in yet, and after yesterday’s rain I could almost smell the crisp air of the approaching autumn. I was a sucker for falling leaves, hayrides, scarecrows, and especially Halloween. When your everyday life was as spooky as mine, Halloween really was all about ridiculous amounts of candy and the Great Pumpkin—as long as I stayed home to answer the door. None of my visions had ever rung the doorbell, so I was generally pretty safe with Charlie Brown on the television and a contraband stash of Twizzlers in my hands.

Michael and I were meeting at Murphy’s Law, the combo coffeehouse/café/bookstore owned by Lily’s grandmother. Not only is the woman a saint, but she makes killer Cuban espresso and apple empanadas that taste so good they’d make a nun cuss. There was only one downside to the location.

When I’d suggested Murphy’s Law the night before, I’d been too flustered to consider that Lily could be present during the meeting. I was saved from having to develop a plausible story to tell her when I ran into her on the sidewalk, heading away from the building. She had her camera bag slung over her shoulder.

“Lily! How did the shoot go?”

She faced me but continued walking backward. “Pretty well. Except for the bats the boss failed to mention. That and the film crew. At least I was only hit on by one production assistant this time.”

“Wow, just one guy? You must be losing it.” Lily’s boss sometimes worked in conjunction with documentary filmmakers. She claimed most of them displayed more entitlement issues than the whole of the English monarchy. And most of them thought they were entitled to her.

“Losing it? We can only hope.” She reached into her camera bag, fumbling around before pulling out a huge blueberry muffin wrapped in a napkin and taking a bite.

“Are you in a hurry?” I asked, trying to be nonchalant. I tilted my head toward her camera bag. “Another shoot?”

“Clean up from last night, maybe a little Photo-Chop.” She stopped walking and looked at me. Her eyes widened along with her mouth, and she treated me to a glimpse of chewed-up bread. “Look at you, all sexy first thing in the morning. Where are you going? How did the party go?”

I mentally debated telling her about Michael. There was no way I really could without giving her the whole story, and Lily was mostly in the dark about my … visions.

“Nowhere really. And you didn’t miss a thing.” Except a jazz trio, some broken glass, and the most gorgeous guy who ever drew a breath. “Go. We’ll talk later.”

Lily raised the hand that was holding the muffin to look at her watch. She hated being late, but I could see the desire to interrogate me in her expression. I hoped manners would beat out curiosity.

“You’d better,” she said over her shoulder as she ducked down the side street that led to the photography studio.

Close one.

Pausing in front of the coffeehouse, I placed my palm to my stomach, trying to quiet the butterflies fluttering inside. I couldn’t decide if I was anxious because of the upcoming discussion or whom I was about to see. I pushed through the front door, setting the bell attached to the doorframe jingling, breathing deeply to inhale the rich scent of brewing coffee. And to calm my nerves.

Michael sat near the back, reading a paper in something that looked like Spanish. After I ordered I joined him, tucking my backpack under the table and pulling out a chair. He had a day’s worth of stubble and was dressed almost exactly like me in a black T-shirt with a well-worn pair of jeans. I took a moment to appreciate the snug fit of both. The boy’s muscles had muscles.

“Are you really reading that, or are you just trying to show off?” I asked, lowering myself into the seat.

He looked over the paper, opened his mouth, and a torrent of foreign words flew out.

“Okay, sorry, just asking. Wait, how many of those were curse words?”

Michael laughed, flashing white, even teeth. It was a good sound, comfortable, like he did it a lot. I wished I could laugh like that. His smile distracted me just as much as it had the night before.

“What language was that?”

“Italian.”

“How did you learn Italian?”

“My grandmother.” Michael put the paper down and leaned across the table toward me, unexpectedly intense. “What do you want?”

“I already ordered an espresso,” I answered, reflexively leaning back.

“No, I mean what do you want from life?”

“Good morning to you, too. Isn’t it a little early for philosophy?” I pushed a stray strand of hair back from my face and shifted in my chair.

“Why does the question make you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t go around discussing my deepest desires with strangers.” The waitress brought my drink and empanada to the table. When she walked away, I continued. “Technically, you might not be a stranger, but still, I just met you yesterday.”

“I’m not so strange.” Another distracting flash of white teeth. “Let’s start with something simpler than what you want from life. What do you want from today?”

I wrapped my hands around the cup I held to blow on the contents, feeling the steam rise to my face. Maybe he would think I was just … warm … instead of blushing.

Michael looked at me as if he had all the time in the world to listen, so genuine he threw me off balance. The butterflies in my stomach stirred. I wasn’t ready to be completely honest with him. Maybe I never would be. I wasn’t a very good liar. But avoidance?

At avoidance I was a master.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? I’m sure I would be more comfortable with this whole situation if I knew more about you.” There. He couldn’t argue with that. And I really did want to know more about him. A lot more.

Michael placed his hands on the table. His fingers were long, his nails squared off but a little longer on his right hand, making me wonder if he played the guitar. He wore a silver ring on his left thumb.

“I have a sister; her name is Anna Sophia. My mom is in real estate, high-end historical homes, very successful—a lot like Thomas. She’s also my hero. My dad has been out of the picture since I was eight or so.” He gave me a small smile. I wondered about the rest of the story. “I grew up outside Atlanta, and I’ve been working for the Hourglass for almost a year.”

Since my Internet research returned void, I knew nothing about the Hourglass, but the mental image in my brain involved Marlon Brando in the back room of an Italian restaurant surrounded by cigar smoke and heavily armed men named Paulie and Vito. I needed a clearer picture. Or at least a less frightening one.

“What does the Hourglass do, exactly?” I asked.

“Consulting jobs, mentoring.”

“How did you find them? Or did they find you?”

“They found me. I was assigned a mentor, who helped me learn about my ability. When I came here for college last year, I started doing small consulting jobs. Talking to kids who needed a friend, gathering information, stuff like that. Then things changed. When my mentor died”—he paused, taking a deep breath—“I asked for more responsibility. I wanted to give back what I had been given.”

Michael’s eyes and the set of his mouth expressed pain and something else, maybe anger. I could only guess how much emotion was swirling underneath the surface.

“I’m sorry about your friend.”

“Life is about gains and losses,” he said, the pain winning out over the anger in his eyes. “You know that firsthand.”

Except my life was too heavy on the losses. “What kind of job am I? Consulting or mentoring?”

“Part of what I do is talk to people who are struggling to accept themselves. I listen.” He shrugged.

“Like you’re listening to me.”

“You’re different.”

“I am?”

“Yep.” He grinned, and the butterflies in my stomach were sucked up into a hurricane. “I’d listen to you anyway.”

I stuck my face in my tiny cup again. After I took another sip of coffee I asked, “So you’re already in college?”

“I’m getting ready to start my sophomore year. What about you?”

“Thomas’s plans are to enroll me at Ivy Springs High School for my senior year. I only have a semester left because I’ve done summer school the past two years. Really, I just want to take my G.E.D. and get it over with. But Thomas won’t let me.” I laughed, but there was no joy in it. The last thing I wanted to do was go back to the scene of my public mental collapse. “I wish he would. I need a break.”

“My guess is that if anyone deserves a break, it’s you,” Michael said, his voice full of understanding. “Maybe you can find another alternative for school that you and Thomas can agree on.”

“Maybe.” But doubtful. “Anyway, I’ll try to get myself straightened out as soon as possible. So you can move on to keggers, football games, and sorority girls.”

“I don’t drink, I prefer professional baseball, and sorority girls aren’t really my type.”

I bet they wished they were.

“And Emerson,” Michael said, resting his forearms on the table and looking into my eyes. “Just to be clear. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Uncomfortable with the sentiment and his proximity, I looked away. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. But I disagree. No offense.”

I heard him sigh. “I know you have more questions. Why don’t you go ahead and ask them?”