The Long Way Home (13 page)

Marnie had a particularly vivid dream about Troy that night, so in the morning, while waiting for Laverne to get out of the bathroom, she pulled the cell phone out of her bag and called Troy’s cell phone number. When she got his voice mail, she hung up without leaving a message, and punched in the numbers for Kimberly’s house. As the phone rang, she pictured it ringing on the other end in Las Vegas. From the photos she’d seen, Kimberly had a modern house decorated with sleek, uncomfortable-looking furniture and blindingly white walls. According to Brian, Kimberly prided herself on her New Age sensibilities and thought indoor fountains added positive energy to a house. Something about flow. Kimberly also had oddly shaped chrome sculptures randomly displayed in cutouts in the walls. To Marnie, the house looked like it had been designed by a decorator who did the lobbies for hotel chains. Not that it was a bad look. Just not very cozy.

She clutched the phone to her ear, ready to hang up if Laverne came back into the room. It rang once, twice, three times. She wanted to hang up, but didn’t.

“Hallo, Berringer residence.” A female voice, older, with a slight accent. The housekeeper maybe?

“Good morning,” Marnie said, her voice all business. “May I speak with Troy, please?”

“He is not here at the moment. Can I take a message?”

Marnie hesitated. She wanted confirmation that Troy was fine. The dream had been so disturbing. “Troy—is he okay?” she finally asked.

“He is out shopping with his mother. Can I take a message?”

“Shopping?”

“Yes, yes, shopping.” The woman said yes so it sounded like the word
ease
. The silence hung for only a second, and then she filled the gap. “Shopping for his camp. What is the message?”

“Could you please tell Troy that Marnie called?”

“Marnie?”

“Yes, Marnie.” Marnie slowly spelled her name, but she still wasn’t sure the woman quite got it. “Could you tell him I’m driving to Las Vegas right now? To come see him?”

“Yes, yes, I tell him,” the woman said.

“Thank you
so
much.” Marnie hung up, relieved to have gotten a Troy update. If he was out shopping with Kimberly, he was alive and healthy. Dying people didn’t go to the store. And in the dream he had been dying. She dreamt that she’d come to visit him, but it wasn’t at Kimberly’s. It was somewhere else, somewhere not quite as nice, rustic even. She’d found him stretched out on some kind of gurney, groaning in pain. Heartbreaking. She’d brushed away his floppy bangs and rested a hand on his damp forehead. Troy opened his eyes, those beautiful dark eyes of his, looked up gratefully and said, “Oh, Marnie, I’ve been wishing for you to come. I’m dying.” She’d sat down next to him and sobbed in the dream, knowing that he was, in fact, dying. The dream had been so real that waking up was discombobulating. She still could feel the heart-wrenching agony of knowing she would lose him. There were actual tears on her face. Clearly she’d been crying in her sleep.

But it was just a dream. Troy was okay.

When Laverne got back to the room, her head wrapped in a towel-turban, Marnie gathered up her cosmetic bag and headed to the bathroom. So weird to shower in someone else’s house. She couldn’t imagine extending the same hospitality to strangers. Did that make her cautious or repressed? Inhospitable, anyway. She’d been so closed up, so careful, and for what? It hadn’t really gotten her anywhere.

When Marnie came down for breakfast, Laverne and Rita were at the table eating eggs and toast. Rita motioned her toward a set place at the table and went over to the stove.

“Good news,” Rita said, returning with a plate of food and cup of coffee for Marnie as if this were her kitchen. “Mike went to meet his mechanic friend so they could tow the Crown Vic back to his shop.” Marnie accepted the plate and mug, and Rita slid back into her chair to get back to her own breakfast.

“That is good news.” Marnie took a sip of the coffee. Strong, but not too bitter. Just what she needed. “Where is everyone?” she said. The house was unexpectedly quiet.

“Beth and Mike and Carson went to open the restaurant. Jazzy went with them to help.”

“And they just left us here?” Marnie asked, astonished that the Kent family was so trusting. She looked around at the well-kept house and wondered if she would trust strangers not to steal or break anything if the situation were reversed.

“If you hafta work, you hafta work,” Laverne said. “They said we should make ourselves at home in the meantime. One of them will come pick us up before lunchtime so we can eat at the restaurant.”

“Preston Place?” Marnie asked. “What’s the story with that anyway?”

“Yeah,” Laverne said. “Why did you and Jazzy make such a to-do about it?’

Rita added more creamer to her coffee before answering. “Do you really want to know?”

“Of course. We asked, didn’t we?” Laverne said.

And Rita proceeded to tell them about the deer in the wayside, a spectacle that Marnie had missed because she’d been getting a 7UP and couldn’t get the vending machine to accept her bills. While Marnie was inside, smoothing her single dollar bills over and over again, Rita had been getting some kind of sign from heaven. Or at least that’s how she saw it. Marnie didn’t want to burst her bubble, but she’d seen deer and goats act somewhat like that at the petting zoo. And she knew that so often people desperate for signs see things that aren’t there.

“So I immediately knew it was my daughter, Melinda.” The story finished, Rita got back to her plate and picked up a corner of buttered toast.

“Because she collected deer,” Laverne said, proud that she’d put it all together.

“Exactly. And Jazzy heard something about how we had to stop in Colorado at Preston Place. And here we were led right to it.” She took a nibble of her toast, a satisfied look on her face.

“So was the failed alternator part of this? The universe made the car break down?” As open-minded as Marnie was, it was a lot to process.

Rita raised one eyebrow. “Who can say? Stranger things have happened.”

Earlier that morning, Jazzy had woken early and dressed while Rita slept on. When she went downstairs, she found Carson already up reading and drinking from a large mug of coffee. “Good morning!” he said, closing his book and greeting her warmly. “Jazzy, is it?”

“It is,” she said, pulling up a chair as confidently as if this were her house. As comfortably as if she and Carson were old friends. The night before had been so harum-scarum that she hadn’t had a chance to really look at him. He was good-looking, she could see that now. Not pretty boy good-looking, but definitely above average. He had wavy dark hair and intense blue eyes, not a very common combination. His smile was wide and showed straight, white teeth. His short-sleeved button-down shirt covered his skull tattoo. Without it he looked more like a college student than a biker dude.

They were the first ones up, he said, and he offered her coffee and juice and whole wheat toast, which was what he was having. The house was quiet except for the ticking of a wall clock. Even in the cool of the kitchen, Jazzy felt summertime press in from outside. The sun was just above the horizon and rays of light grazed the window. The June air had a lightness to it. Jazzy let him serve her, and she ate with appreciation, not having realized how hungry she’d become. Maybe that was the reason for the headache last night.

Carson rested his elbow on his book. It was a novel she’d read last year when it first came out. She was about to ask about it when he said, “So how is it that you know the other women? Friends or relatives?”

“Neither, really.” She hadn’t planned on getting into it, but he seemed so interested, and since they had all the time in the world, the entire story spilled out. A half hour later, their plates were empty and Carson knew nearly everything about the road trip.

“So you just up and decided to go on a road trip with three older women you didn’t know at all?” Carson said.

“Basically.”

“But weren’t you worried about traveling with strangers? One of them could have been a complete psycho and then you’d be stuck.”

He made a valid point, despite the irony that he had also started out being a stranger. Jazzy said, “No, I wasn’t worried. I have very good instincts about people. A sixth sense, you could say.”

“A sixth sense? That would come in handy.” He leaned back in his chair, the front legs rising up off the floor. “My aunt has a real sixth sense. She even sees ghosts sometimes.”

“I get that too, on occasion.” She’d blurted it out without giving it much thought. Her usual policy of keeping it to herself had been shot to hell on this trip. In short order she’d told all three of her car companions and now Carson.

“Interesting,” he said.

She stopped talking and waited for the questions, the ones that inevitably came after someone found out she was psychic, but he just gave her a curious look.

Finally she had to know what he was thinking. “What’s on your mind?” she asked.

“I was just thinking…” He trailed off and then looked around the kitchen to make sure they were still alone. When he did speak, what he said surprised her. “I was thinking that I didn’t know someone like you existed in the world.”

“Psychic, you mean?”

“Not that. I was thinking how nice it is that you go out hunting for people who need your help. Most people go out of their way to avoid having to put themselves out there. But you do the opposite.”

“Well, I don’t know about that…”

“Think about it this way—how many people would just meet someone and take off work and go on a road trip to help them?”

“Three of us did, actually,” she said, smoothing her hair back.

“But it’s different for you,” he said. “Those other ladies are older. They didn’t have anything better to do. For you, it was a sacrifice.”

False praise. She didn’t really have anything better to do either, but she didn’t contradict him. Watching him watching her had an addictive quality. He gave her his full attention. His eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. She had a sudden flash, an image of him in ten years, then twenty, then thirty. His hair would be somewhat thinner and gray would creep in along the sides above his ears, but he would still have that gorgeous smile and it would still be aimed right at her. Right at her because they would still be together. The thought gave her a jolt.

He was really looking at her now, his eyes studying her face in an intense way. “I like your laugh.”

She got another flash of images, this one involving future children and grandchildren. An involuntary shudder overcame her, the shock of seeing a future image pertaining to her own life, something that had never happened before. Her flashes had always involved other people. This was intense. “Whoa,” she said.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concerned. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“You didn’t freak me out,” Jazzy said. “I’m fine.” She was fine, but it was still a relief to hear Beth and her husband coming down the stairs right at that moment. It was enough of a shock to meet someone who had no questions about her psychic ability, but then to get the message that this man was the one who would be by her side for the rest of her life? She needed some time to process this.

With others in the room, the spell was broken. Jazzy caught Carson looking at her out of the corner of his eye, but when she met his gaze he looked away, shy in front of his parents. In the next hour, the kitchen got busier, so she and Carson weren’t able to talk anymore. After Rita and Laverne came down for breakfast, Mike arranged to meet a tow truck at Rita’s car, and the family planned their day.

“Unfortunately, we have to get to the restaurant,” Beth said, explaining about the setting up that needed to be done before the lunch crowd arrived. “So you’ll be on your own this morning.”

Jazzy, who’d just finished helping Carson do the dishes, piped up. “Can I come too? I’d love to help you work.” She was feeling antsy, but there was more to it than that, of course. She felt this magnetic attraction to Carson and to his parents too, for some odd reason. She had an odd compulsion to follow them around, to see what they were all about. The idea of staying behind with the three older ladies had no appeal.

“Well, sure, hon, if you don’t mind,” Beth said. “We can always use another set of hands.”

Later, when they arrived at the restaurant and pulled into the back lot, Jazzy lost the feeling of being on vacation that she’d had since leaving Wisconsin. Walking from the lot to the building, waiting while Big Mike fumbled with the keys before getting the door unlocked, and walking into the restaurant kitchen, every step of the way, it all felt familiar, she thought, but even as the idea floated across her brain she knew that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t familiar because she’d been there before. It was familiar because she could see ahead. Past memories were getting confused with future memories.

Beth flipped on the fluorescent lights. They flickered for a moment and then burst into full power, illuminating a large room with large stainless steel counters, a sink deep enough to bathe a Labrador, a row of industrial stove tops, and several glass-fronted coolers. “Welcome to our world,” she said. “My main job is baking pies. We open at eleven thirty. Carson cooks, my husband puts the orders together, and I take care of the front of the house. Our part-timer, Sherry, is waitressing today, but she won’t come in until eleven.”

Jazzy looked at Carson. “You cook?”

Carson nodded. “Don’t be too impressed. It’s a pretty limited menu. Mostly sandwiches and soup. And the soup is already made. A lot of times people just order pie and coffee.” He looked down modestly for a second before adding, “I’m actually just filling in for the regular cook. He’s in rehab.”

“Really?” she said, one eyebrow raised.

“Poor Burt had a double knee replacement,” Beth said. “We’re lucky Carson could cover the restaurant while he’s recovering.”

“You don’t have a job?” Jazzy asked.

“I just graduated. I don’t start my new job until fall,” he said, and before she could ask where he graduated from and what he was going to do, Beth handed her an apron and put her to work slicing cheese and filling tiny paper cups with coleslaw.

Getting the restaurant ready to open required a series of repetitive chores that Jazzy found both mind-numbing and soothing. Eighties rock music poured out of speakers cleverly hidden throughout the place, and she found herself working in time to the beat. After she was done with the coleslaw, she sliced rolls, and after that she folded napkins. Before she knew it, they were done, and Mike had gone to pick up the other ladies. “Don’t open until I get back,” he said to his wife.

“You can bank on that,” she said.