The Flip (14 page)

“I didn’t ask if you like them, I asked if you’re sure you want them.”

Julie bristled. What was wrong with him now? Just because she’d brought up a psychic, his mood had soured. She saw Willy roll his eyes.

“What do you think, Will?”

“Not getting involved with your domestic crap. What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing.” Brad folded the paper and walked out the door. He stopped at the entrance and turned to Willy. “You coming or what?”

Willy stood slowly, looked at the two of them, and shook his head. He grumbled something under his breath, turned to Julie, and said, “What side of the bed did he get out of?”

She shrugged, annoyed with Brad. “Who knows? He was fine last night.” A memory of it rushed back at her, and for a moment her jaw dropped. “He’s just not himself,” she whispered, and then gulped.

Willy headed outside and hopped into the cab of Brad’s pickup. At the end of the long driveway, he asked, “What’s that all about, man?”

“What?” Brad pulled out onto Bedlam Street. “Shit, I forgot. I have to get something to Sal. Mind if we make a stop by his place first?”

“What’s going on between you and Julie?”

“I don’t know. Lately, she’s turned into a nag. She’d better get busy pretty soon.”

“I hear you. What she want?”

“She wants to bring in a psychic to talk to the spirits in the house.”

Willy laughed so hard tears ran down his face. “You kidding me. Who she want, that white lady on TV?”

“How’d you know?”

“She’s young, Brad. She never saw the shit we saw in her life. She’s a kid. Maybe you should humor her.”

“No way. It’s a crock, and we don’t have any money to waste.”

They pulled up to Sal’s antique shop. Sal was in the rear of the dimly lit store. He looked up when they knocked, running to unlock the door and let them in.

“You’re up early,” he told them, as they walked to the counter in the back of the cluttered store. “You’ve got a major haul in that house. You might have hit a little jackpot.”

“Don’t tell Julie,” Brad said morosely. He was carrying a box, which he set on the high counter. “She wants to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast.”

“Really?” Sal asked. Brad and Julie were solid partners in both marriage and business.

“She’s just so damn strange about that house. The sooner we flip it, the better.”

Sal looked up questioningly; he was trying to glue a flower onto the dress of a china figurine.

“She wants to hire that television psychic
to talk to our ghosts.”

The three men laughed.

“Who, you mean Georgia?” Sal said. “She wants Georgia Oaken?”

“You’ve heard of her?”

“Who hasn’t?” He shrugged and went back to his tinkering. “She did a job for the Realtor next door. One of the old estates he was selling was purportedly haunted. She cleansed it for them. That’s how she met Molly.” He paused to look over his shoulder. “She asked Molly to run her appointment books. Molly works for her at night.”

“Molly? The girl you’ve been dating?”

“Woman. Yeah, we met at Georgia’s lecture. It was fate,” Sal said dramatically. “Fate and Bon Jovi. She’s a real fan. I took her to Jones Beach—”

“But what about the witch?” Willy interrupted.

“Medium. She’s a medium. She communicates with the dead. I find her fascinating.” Sal held up the broken shepherdess he was fixing. “She was speaking at the library last year. Look, see this figurine? It’s about two hundred years old. Think of all the things these little eyes have seen.”

“That ain’t real; it can’t see nothing,” Willy said with a laugh.

“Well, sure. It’s not real, but does it have an energy? I have been interested in antiques all my life. I think about all the people who have used the objects. How many happy or sad occasions their belongings have been through. Do these things retain something of their owners?” He held up the figure, its face staring blankly at them. “Did this object play a role in somebody’s life? Is the essence of an owner imprinted on his belongings?”

“That’s some deep shit, Sal, man.” Willy picked up an old dueling pistol, the mechanism frozen. He hefted it, put it back, and then opened a small shaving case, touching all the bottles. “You mean like all this stuff has ghostly DNA or something?”

Brad took the porcelain shepherdess and studied the folds of her dress. He shook his head. “When a person dies, he’s gone forever. I’ve seen enough death to know the difference.”

“Maybe so, maybe not,” Sal told him. “You should speak to Georgia. I could call Molly and ask her to arrange a session.”

“No, thanks.” He handed the figurine back to Sal. “This is the lampshade I’ve been meaning to give you.” Gingerly, he took it out of the beat-up box. Holding it with two hands, he displayed it for Sal.

“Wow, oh wow.” Sal held out eager hands to examine the colorful shade. He turned it on the side, the small mosaics of glass rattling gently.
“This is the holy grail, my friend.” He whistled. “It’s signed. This is going to be worth some serious money, Brad.”

“Well, that’s good news, and I’m not sharing it with any dead people.”

“What’s a thing like that worth?” Willy asked.

Sal opened his laptop.

“What you doing?” Willy asked.

“I’m typing in a description. These are lotus flowers. It’s signed by Louis Comfort Tiffany. It’s mint, but it’s just a shade, not the whole lamp. Holy crap!”

“What?” Brad asked.

“Holy crap!” Sal repeated. “I can’t sell this, Brad.”

“It’s not stolen. I’m sure it comes from the house.”

“It’s not that—I have to put it in a special auction. It says here that last year a Tiffany lotus lamp sold for seven figures.”

“What?”

“It sold for over a million dollars.”

Brad threw his head back and roared with laughter.

Chapter 17

Julie started demolition on a bathroom in one of the many bedrooms. She needed to lose herself in some work. She was losing her mind. Images of last night with her husband played like a movie in her head. The bodies were familiar, yet at the same time, they were not. The whole episode had a dreamlike quality, and for now, Julie wasn’t sure what part of what they had done was real or from her imagination. It was better to keep busy, think about things to keep her occupied, so her head wouldn’t explode.

She trudged upstairs and started working in the first of the guest bedrooms. It was an en
suite, perfect for a bed-and-breakfast. Why couldn’t Brad see that? she wondered. She lifted out the toilet, carefully pulled a rusty medicine cabinet from the wall, and started chopping at tiles on the floor, both of her tiny hands whacking away with a giant mallet. They had decided that nothing was salvageable in this bath. She dragged the fixtures out of the small bathroom to a cleared corner in the bedroom. It was hot. Sweat trickled down her back. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt and yoga pants from Target. She fanned herself, smiling when she thought of the pretty ladies’ fan in her makeshift bedroom. Julie went to the window. The trees surrounding the house were painted amber, red, and yellow. A breeze ruffled the branches, and Julie wanted to air out the stuffy room. She pounded the painted window
lock and used a screwdriver to chip away the many coats of paint crusted over it. She blew away the paint shavings, slid open the mechanism, and unlocked the window to allow a blast of cool air to circulate the room. The old sash stopped midway, frozen in place. The window wouldn’t budge. Julie put her back into it, tugging at the stubborn sash, a smile lighting her face when it finally gave, allowing her to open it all the way.

She leaned on the sill, inhaling the crisp air. Stretching, she leaned out the window, drawing great gulps of fresh air and enjoying the breeze. She heard the window move and realized it was coming down fast. Falling backward, she made it in just as the sash slammed shut with a
loud crack. Julie sat on the floor studying the closed window and then got up to attempt to lift it again. It was stuck fast.

Using her screwdriver, she was trying to leverage it open when the door to the bedroom slammed shut with a bang. Julie dropped the screwdriver and turned to face the door; a dart of apprehension traveled up her spine. The moment took her back to the house fire, so she nervously ran to the door, trying unsuccessfully to pry it open. The handle slid between her fingers. Panic made her heart race. She tugged at the knob, but it remained solidly shut. Julie felt the blood rush to her face, her breath quickening. She returned to pull at the sash, attempting to open the window. She struggled with the stubborn wood,
but as soon as she got it slightly raised, it slammed shut. Her nail broke down to the quick and she cursed loudly. She stuck her thumb into her mouth and then ran back to the door to try to open it. Bracing her feet, she twisted the knob, registering that it wasn’t budging and that she was caught in a cosmic tug-of-war. Sweat beaded her brow, and she dug in with both bare feet to anchor herself against the force holding the door shut. She yanked hard. The door gave, propelling her to the far wall. She hit it with her back, getting the wind knocked out of her. Julie slid to the floor gasping in pain, her brain in a daze.

She put her hand beneath her to stand up, but felt a weight settle on her shoulders and hold her down. She tried to call for help, but her voice
wouldn’t cooperate. When it returned, it came out thin and reedy, as though she were being strangled. The door slammed shut so hard that the chandelier overhead swayed as if in an earthquake, sending a rain of broken crystals whipping around the room. Julie felt the sting of one slicing her cheek; tears mixed with blood when she wiped her wet face. She rolled onto her stomach, coming face-to-face with the cracked medicine cabinet she had removed earlier. It lay on its side, the warped mirror reflecting her stark white face. She touched her bloody cheek, a scream dying in her throat as the image wavered. A stranger stared back at her. She touched the red-haired girl in the reflection, feeling her hand on her own face. Familiar hands touched a stranger’s face, yet she was in front of a mirror.

“No,” she whispered. “What do you want?” The girl in the mirror smiled back at her, making chills dance down Julie’s spine. She skittered away in disbelief, her breathing shallow. “Brad,” she croaked. “Help me, Brad.”

The solid walls of the room looked liquid. The faded wallpaper rippled, the shape of a woman’s body filling its contours. Like an ancient bas-relief, the surface filled out with a female form. The eyes opened and looked at Julie, the mouth yawning in a wordless scream.

Julie rose unsteadily, running to the door. This time it opened easily, and she raced down the stairs screaming for Brad. Julie made a beeline to the kitchen, where Brad and Willy were stacking boxes.

“I hate this place,” she said as she rushed into the room. “It’s possessed. We have to get out.” She was panting, her eyes wild.

Brad looked up, laughing, his eyes reflecting red.

Julie screamed and ran from the house—barefoot, without a coat, and in total terror.

Chapter 18

“What was that about?” Willy looked up, shocked.

“Damned if I know. Jules! Jules, come back.”

Brad ran after her, but didn’t see her anywhere. He stood on the porch, his eyes scanning the tangled lawn, looking for his wife. Cursing, he took the truck and circled the area. She didn’t have a cell phone, or shoes, or a jacket—nothing. Where could she go? What the hell was the matter with her? He circled for hours, losing a full day of work. He called Willy several times, but Julie had not returned. He combed the narrow country roads, looking up
windy driveways for his errant wife. He considered calling the police—to report what? His wife freaked out and ran half-dressed from the house. No, he figured he’d save her the embarrassment.

Julie ran down Bedlam Street, slipping, her feet frozen from the cold asphalt. She wiped the stinging cut on her cheek with the bottom of her oversized shirt. A little cottage housing a ladies’ clothing store stood in a cramped row of charming pastel-colored shingled shops on the main street of the village. It was the first building she ducked into.

The interior was overbearingly warm and smelled strangely of wood smoke. It was an old building, one of the earliest restored in the town.

“May I help you?” a blue-haired lady wearing a Lilly Pulitzer lime-green sweater set inquired.

“I locked myself out of the house. I was sweeping, you know.” Julie improvised with a pretend broom, a smile pasted on her face. “Could I use your phone?”

A relieved look replaced the frown on the older woman’s face. “Of course, dearie. And no shoes, oh my.”

Julie ignored her and dialed her sister. “Heather, I need you. Now. I am at…” She looked inquiringly at the hovering woman, who appeared interested in her conversation.

“The Perfect Fit,” the woman supplied.
“Bedlam and Horatio Streets.”

“Thanks. Did you hear that? No, I’ll tell you later. Now! Just come.”

Julie hung up. “Thank you so much. My sister will be here shortly. Do you have shoes? Looks like I need a pair.”

Julie made her sister buy her a pair of very expensive ballet flats. They were teal blue, just the thing for a cruise, Justina assured her. Justina Long had lived in Cold Spring Harbor her entire life. Her parents owned a great deal of the land there, she told Julie. She knew each and every Hemmings that had ever lived in the house, ad nauseam. Julie enjoyed the cup of orange pekoe tea, served in a dainty cup and saucer with
Milano cookies, while she waited for her sister.

“But, one of the first, you know, Tessa Hemmings, was the most interesting. She was quite the cat, if you know what I mean. Never married, but had dozens of lovers. Dozens. No man was safe from her,” she told Julie with a conspiratorial nod. “She was supposed to marry Gerald Kanning of the Kanning banking family. He died in the war. I guess she waited for him.”

Heather pulled up in her Volvo wagon, got out, came inside the shop, and paid the exorbitant amount for the shoes while she stared at Julie’s face with worry.

“What happened to you?”

“Oh, Heath, I don’t know—”