Perhaps you could be more specific?
“More specific. Right. Um…” My mind raced through the events of the night before. “Did you do the lock and the lights and the lilacs and the… the fire? Did you light the fire in here this morning?”
Why, yes, my dear. As Derek indicated, I wished to celebrate your arrival. You really should trust what he says about the cottage, Lori. He and Emma know it better than anyone. And you must stop blaming young Bill. I assure you, he had nothing to do with my arrangements.
“Well, thank you, Dimity, it was… lovely.” I was reluctant to voice the other suspicion that had occurred to me. It was rather deflating, but it was also staring me in the face. “I should have known it’d take supernatural intervention to turn me into a good cook.”
NO! I had nothing to do with the omelette!
“You mean it?” I asked. “You’re not say—er, writing that just to make me feel better?”
I am telling you the truth. I did lend a hand with the crumpets, but that was only to build your confidence. You may take full credit for the omelette. You might try the oatmeal cookies next. I do so love the scent of cinnamon.
“Me, too,” I said, with a nostalgic smile.
I had become so caught up in the give and take of our “conversation” that I had temporarily forgotten what was actually taking place. In fact, I had pretty much lost touch with reality altogether. When a log fell on the fire, I jumped, then looked slowly around the room, realizing the picture I would present to anyone peering in through the windows. I was sitting in an isolated cottage, the wind was howling, the rain was roaring, and I was communicating with the dead. I tightened my grip on Reginald and glanced nervously back at the journal as a new sentence took shape.
/ know how strange this must seem.
“Now that you mention it, this is a little… no, this is a lot strange. I mean, you did say something in your letter about not coming back from the grave. And what about all those long chats with my mother?” I paused, almost afraid to ask the next question. “Dimity—how is she?”
I haven’t seen Beth yet.
“You haven’t? Why not? I mean, you’re both in… the same place, aren’t you?”
Not precisely. She’s gone ahead.
“Oh. Well, she… went first, I guess. But you’ll catch up with her, won’t you?”
I hope so. A sigh breezed through the room. You see, Lori, things are a bit muddled.
A bit muddled? Was that what they meant by British understatement? My suspension of disbelief was about to snap.
It’s my own fault, of course.
“What is?”
Oh, everything. I’ve known all along that I would never be forgiven.
“Forgiven for what?”
I simply don’t deserve forgiveness. And this isn’t such a terrible way to spend eternity, is it? I could think of much worse
The handwriting stopped.
“Hello?” I said. “Are you still there? Can you hear me?”
Nothing more. I stared at the page until my head swam, then looked up, round-eyed, to see Bill standing over me.
14
“Don’t let me interrupt.” As his eyes traveled slowly around the room, he held out the manuscript of Lori’s Stories. “I finished reading it this morning, up in my room, and thought I’d return it before… Lori? Lori, what is it? What’s the matter?” He put the manuscript on the desk, then knelt before me. “You look like you’ve seen a—”
“Don’t,” I said. “Please, Bill, no jokes.”
“But I’m not—” His eyes widened. “You mean, you actually have seen—”
“Not seen, exactly.”
“Oh, my….” Bill sat back on his heels. “Dimity?”
I gave a barely perceptible nod.
“So the Harrises were telling the truth.” He pulled the ottoman over and sat on it, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. “I thought they might be. When you first stepped into the cottage, I… I don’t know how to explain it, but I sensed something. That’s why I let you go on ahead without me. I felt like an intruder.” He shook his head. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
“No,” I said. I let the journal fall shut in my lap. “I felt it, too. But I—I thought it was the central heating.”
“That’s what comes of being such a practical sort of person,” said Bill. He brushed away a tear that had rolled down my cheek. “Tell me about it?”
Struggling to keep my voice level, I introduced him to Reginald. “I’ve had him since I was a kid, Bill, since I was really little, you know? I’d recognize him anywhere. But last year a burglar left him in pieces all over my apartment. I brought him to England in a shoebox and now—” I gulped for air.