furniture. Now Calla can see through the window that there’s nothing but a stretch of bare teal carpet and several cardboard moving boxes stacked near the door.
Clearly, the Yateses are getting ready to vacate their cottage for the winter.
Mr. Yates, a gray- haired, balding man, steps onto the porch, accompanied by a barking terrier. As Darrin’s father peers at them through the window in the door, Calla sees a spark of recognition—quickly followed by dismay— in his gray-blue eyes, behind a pair of wire- framed bifocals.
“Jasmine, shh, down, girl.” He collars the dog and opens the door a crack. “Yes?”
“Hi, Mr. Yates. I’m not sure if you remember me. . . .” Yes, she is sure he does, but it seems polite to reintroduce herself. “I’m Calla Delaney. Odelia Lauder’s granddaughter?”
And Stephanie Lauder Delaney’s daughter, but no need to voice that aloud. He knows.
“Hello.”
“And this is my . . .” “Friend” seems wrong. And this is not the best moment to call him her boyfriend for the first time. “This is Jacy Bly.”
Mr. Yates offers Jacy the same polite, yet frosty, nod.
“I need to speak to you— and your wife, too. It’s about your son.”
He raises a bushy gray eyebrow. “What about him?”
Calla falters.
“It’s probably a good idea if we come inside and sit down,” Jacy speaks up. “If you don’t mind.”
“No. Come in,” he says heavily, as if he realizes, somehow, what’s coming.
Still keeping a grip on the dog, he leads them into a sparsely decorated living room that’s shockingly uncluttered by Lily Dale standards.
“We’re getting ready to leave this weekend for Arizona,” Mr. Yates explains, sweeping an arm around the room. “Most of our things are packed away. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
He shuts the dog into a room at the back of the house amid barking protests, then goes upstairs.
Calla and Jacy perch close together on an uncomfortable sofa with stiff, shiny green-and- brown- striped fabric.
“Are you okay?” Jacy asks in a low voice, reaching into his pocket.
She nods, afraid her voice will crack if she tries to speak.
She’s not okay. She’s a nervous wreck.
Especially when she sees Jacy remove a folded sheet of printer paper from his pocket.
What if the Yateses don’t believe it? What if they think the article is a fake?
About to ask Jacy what he thinks, she looks up, then does a double take, spotting something over his shoulder.
“Darrin is here,” she whispers to Jacy, knowing she probably shouldn’t be surprised to see him.
“Where?”
She points to the apparition sitting somewhat stiffly in a chair behind him. “Can you see him?”
“No, but I can feel him,” Jacy says simply.
Footsteps creak on the stair treads, and Mr. Yates descends with his wife, a wiry, petite woman with cropped silver hair.
“You remember Calla and Jacy,” he says, and she nods, looking about as thrilled to see them in her living room as Calla is to see Darrin.
In silence, the Yateses arrange themselves in a pair of wingback chairs facing the couch.
Then the four of them look at one another for a few awkward moments.
To Calla’s surprise, Darrin drifts across the room toward her, and gives a slight nod.
She clears her throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Yates, I don’t know how to say this, so . . . I mean, I guess I just have to say it. I know you’ve been looking for your son for years, and I know you said you both believe he’s still alive. . . .”
No, they don’t, she realizes, stunned to see the sorrowful expression in both sets of eyes that are fixated on her.
They said they sensed that Darrin was still on the earth plane, and maybe they really did, while he was.
But not anymore.
Something Ramona told Calla a while back comes back to her.
Nothing is more powerful than the bond between a parent and a child, but there are some things a parent might not want to see, or accept.
The Yateses know .
They probably couldn’t
Clearly, the Yateses are getting ready to vacate their cottage for the winter.
Mr. Yates, a gray- haired, balding man, steps onto the porch, accompanied by a barking terrier. As Darrin’s father peers at them through the window in the door, Calla sees a spark of recognition—quickly followed by dismay— in his gray-blue eyes, behind a pair of wire- framed bifocals.
“Jasmine, shh, down, girl.” He collars the dog and opens the door a crack. “Yes?”
“Hi, Mr. Yates. I’m not sure if you remember me. . . .” Yes, she is sure he does, but it seems polite to reintroduce herself. “I’m Calla Delaney. Odelia Lauder’s granddaughter?”
And Stephanie Lauder Delaney’s daughter, but no need to voice that aloud. He knows.
“Hello.”
“And this is my . . .” “Friend” seems wrong. And this is not the best moment to call him her boyfriend for the first time. “This is Jacy Bly.”
Mr. Yates offers Jacy the same polite, yet frosty, nod.
“I need to speak to you— and your wife, too. It’s about your son.”
He raises a bushy gray eyebrow. “What about him?”
Calla falters.
“It’s probably a good idea if we come inside and sit down,” Jacy speaks up. “If you don’t mind.”
“No. Come in,” he says heavily, as if he realizes, somehow, what’s coming.
Still keeping a grip on the dog, he leads them into a sparsely decorated living room that’s shockingly uncluttered by Lily Dale standards.
“We’re getting ready to leave this weekend for Arizona,” Mr. Yates explains, sweeping an arm around the room. “Most of our things are packed away. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
He shuts the dog into a room at the back of the house amid barking protests, then goes upstairs.
Calla and Jacy perch close together on an uncomfortable sofa with stiff, shiny green-and- brown- striped fabric.
“Are you okay?” Jacy asks in a low voice, reaching into his pocket.
She nods, afraid her voice will crack if she tries to speak.
She’s not okay. She’s a nervous wreck.
Especially when she sees Jacy remove a folded sheet of printer paper from his pocket.
What if the Yateses don’t believe it? What if they think the article is a fake?
About to ask Jacy what he thinks, she looks up, then does a double take, spotting something over his shoulder.
“Darrin is here,” she whispers to Jacy, knowing she probably shouldn’t be surprised to see him.
“Where?”
She points to the apparition sitting somewhat stiffly in a chair behind him. “Can you see him?”
“No, but I can feel him,” Jacy says simply.
Footsteps creak on the stair treads, and Mr. Yates descends with his wife, a wiry, petite woman with cropped silver hair.
“You remember Calla and Jacy,” he says, and she nods, looking about as thrilled to see them in her living room as Calla is to see Darrin.
In silence, the Yateses arrange themselves in a pair of wingback chairs facing the couch.
Then the four of them look at one another for a few awkward moments.
To Calla’s surprise, Darrin drifts across the room toward her, and gives a slight nod.
She clears her throat. “Mr. and Mrs. Yates, I don’t know how to say this, so . . . I mean, I guess I just have to say it. I know you’ve been looking for your son for years, and I know you said you both believe he’s still alive. . . .”
No, they don’t, she realizes, stunned to see the sorrowful expression in both sets of eyes that are fixated on her.
They said they sensed that Darrin was still on the earth plane, and maybe they really did, while he was.
But not anymore.
Something Ramona told Calla a while back comes back to her.
Nothing is more powerful than the bond between a parent and a child, but there are some things a parent might not want to see, or accept.
The Yateses know .
They probably couldn’t
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