“What about your career?” I asked CeeCee, trying to change the subject. “At least you’ve got your dream job. Not many new college grads can say that.”
CeeCee snorted. “Oh, right. I’m finally full time at the paper, and they’ve stuck me on the police beat. Do you know what that’s like around here? Some old lady over on Sandy Point Way says this is the third day in a row tourists have taken pictures of the front of her house. She called the cops because tourists keep stopping in front of her beachfront bungalow to take photos of it! What does she expect them to do, not look at it? It’s her own fault, for living in such a freaking adorable house.”
“Be careful what you wish for, CeeCee,” I said. “You don’t want juicier crimes around here to report on, believe me. Speaking of the paper, I was wondering if you’d mind—”
“Oh, no,” CeeCee interrupted with a groan. “Not again.”
“—searching the archives,” I went on. “I tried to do it myself, but—”
“—the search function on the paper’s online edition only lists obituaries by last names,” she finished for me in a bored voice. “And you only have the first name. Or wait, let me guess: You don’t know what year the person died.”
“Um . . . both?”
“Really, Suze? Because I have nothing better to do all day?”
“CeeCee, I wouldn’t ask, if it weren’t really, really important. Her first name is Lucia, and I’m pretty sure she died in the state of California in the past ten years.”
“Oh, that narrows it down,” CeeCee said, sarcastically.
“She’s six to ten years old, tops. And I think she liked horseback riding, if that helps.”
CeeCee stared. “Wait . . . she’s a kid? Oh, Suze, I didn’t know. That’s terrible.”
I’d never explained my gift to CeeCee. Over the years, however, she—and my youngest stepbrother, David—had caught on. It had made my job a little easier, though the ludicrous story Father Dominic made up to explain Jesse’s sudden appearance in Carmel—that he was a “young Jesuit student who’d transferred to the mission from Mexico, then lost his yearning to go into the priesthood” after meeting me—nearly blew my credibility.
My mom and Andy fell for it, though, hook, line, and sinker. It’s amazing what people will believe if they want to enough.
“I know,” I said. “It’s so sad. Don’t you want to help now, Cee? Especially knowing you might keep the restless soul of a child from wandering aimlessly between life and death for centuries. And maybe even get to meet the man of your dreams, Mr. Lance Arthur Walters.”
CeeCee slammed down the lid of her laptop.
“Excuse me, but I thought I made it abundantly clear that I am not attracted to Kelly Prescott’s husband. What does he even have to do with any of this?”
I realized I’d just violated my mediator-NCDP confidentiality. “Uh . . . nothing. Sorry. I’ve had way too much caffeine. How’s Adam anyway? Have you heard from him lately?” I always used my most soothing tone, the way we’d been instructed to in our counseling practicum (part of our required core, worth three whole units), when bringing up CeeCee’s on-again, off-again boyfriend.
“Adam?” CeeCee laughed bitterly before folding her arms and slumping down in her chair. “Whatever. We hooked up a few times over the summer, and he said he was going to try to stay in touch, but that things were going to be super busy for him at school this year. And yeah, I get that he just made Law Review, and yeah, I’m happy for him. But it’s like he’s forgotten I exist. He never returns my texts or even likes my status updates anymore.”
She looked as sad-eyed as a puppy in one of those late-night commercials asking for donations for starving and abandoned animals.
“Well, he’s a jerk,” I said loyally, even though Adam was my friend, too, and there are always two sides to the story. “Screw him. But honestly, Cee, you can’t expect a guy to like all your status updates. Come on. If we held everyone to that standard, there’d be no hookups ever in the history of mankind. You know Adam. He adores you—”
CeeCee shook her head at me sadly. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. You found the perfect guy. You and Jesse don’t have a problem in the world.”
“Uh,” I said. Where to begin? “That is so far from true, CeeCee, I can’t even—”
Fortunately, at that moment, my cell phone chimed.
“I have to take this,” I said, getting up from my seat. I’d hoped it was the blogger, Shahbaz, since I’d given him my cell number in my e-mail, but it was someone almost as important. “It’s my mom. But hold that thought, CeeCee. I want to talk about this. Your feelings matter to me. They really do.”
CeeCee rolled her eyes and reopened her laptop. “You think I can’t tell when you’re using your stupid thera-speak on me? Say hi to Mrs. S from me anyway.”