Remembrance (The Mediator #7) (39 page)

“Okay,” she said finally, reaching up to twist the horse pendant. “I’m glad, I guess.” She was gazing out across the pool, toward the Pacific.

“Uh . . . glad? That your dad loves you? Of course he loves you, Becca.”

She looked at me. “No. I mean I’m glad he’s dead.” Then she tensed up, biting her lip in dismay. “Wait . . . that’s wrong, isn’t it? It’s wrong to be glad someone’s dead.”

I had to repress a smile. “I don’t think so. Not if you’re glad he’ll never hurt anyone again. I’d sure be glad if I were you.”

“Oh. Okay.” Her shoulders relaxed. “Because I don’t want to be a bad person. For a really long time, that’s how I’ve thought of myself.”

“Yeah,” I said. “About that. I gave your dad the name of someone I think you should go talk to if you start wanting to hurt yourself again. Or maybe just in general. She’s very good to go to for advice.”

The look of relief was replaced with one of anxiety. “Why can’t I just keep talking to you, like this?”

“I already told you, Becca, I’m not a licensed therapist.”

“Oh, right. You’re just a mediator. You only help ghosts.”

“Right. But I’m happy to talk to you anytime you want . . . as a friend.”

“Maybe you could give me some pointers.” She indicated her phone, which she’d thrown on the chaise longue. “I was just playing your game.”

It took me a couple of seconds to realize what she meant. “
Ghost Mediator?
I told you, that game is completely—”

“Stupid, I know.” She rolled her eyes, smiling, but then the smile faded a little. “How’s . . . how’s Lucia doing? I haven’t—is she around right now?” She glanced furtively over her shoulder. “I wanted to say . . . I wanted to ask if you could tell her I’m trying—
really
trying this time—to live for the both of us. I’m actually going to try to have fun.”

There was something sweetly pathetic about a sixteen-year-old girl assuring me that she was going to try to have fun. I had to hide my smile behind my hand, pretending I was scratching my nose.

“Becca, I think that’s a great idea.”

Encouraged, she went on, “I got invited to a party tonight at Sean Park’s house—it’s not a
real
party, a bunch of us are going to have a
Ghost Mediator
ultimate showdown—but I said I’d go, and Kelly said she’d drive me. She’s going to take me to the mall later this afternoon to buy a new outfit, and we’re going to get our nails done.”

This time I didn’t bother hiding my reaction. “She
is
?”

“Yeah. She got really excited about it. She knows a lot about clothes and girlie stuff, and said anytime I need help, to just come to her.”

I was stunned, even though I knew I shouldn’t have been. Of course Kelly was finally bonding with Becca. For one thing, Becca had finally expressed an interest in something that interested Kelly, as well—fashion and beauty products. And for another, Becca was no longer haunted by her ghostly guardian whose presence Kelly might actually have been able to sense. Kelly wasn’t stupid. She’d managed to snag Becca’s father, after all.

“You know,” Becca went on, thoughtfully, “it’s really weird, but ever since I talked to you, and you told me ghosts are real and that Lucia has been watching over me, I don’t feel . . . I guess I don’t feel afraid anymore. Even before you told me he—Jimmy—was dead, I’d decided to go to Sean’s party. Would you tell Lucia that, please, Ms. Simon? Not only that I’m going to have fun for the both of us, but that I don’t feel afraid anymore?”

The sun poured down across the turquoise water in the pool, casting golden flickers of light across the travertine tiles of the pool deck and the undersides of the palm fronds above our heads. I couldn’t see Lucia—I knew she’d moved on last night, and was happy wherever she was now.

But it
almost
felt as if she were there . . . enough so that I was inspired to take Becca’s hand and do my best imitation—I’m ashamed to say—of the lady from the ghost mediator TV show.

“She knows, Becca. She already knows. And she says thank you. Oh, wait . . .” I gazed at a point just left of Becca’s shoulder, near an outdoor kitchen that included a state-of-the-art grill and wet bar. “It’s hard to hear because she’s starting to fade. Lucia is . . . yes. It’s true. She’s stepping toward the light.”

“Oh!” Becca pressed a hand to her mouth. “Is Nana Anna there with her? Lucia loved her grandmother so much.”

“Um, yes. Nana Anna is calling to her. It’s time for Lucia to go to Nana Anna.”

“Is Taffy there, too?”

I hesitated. “Who’s Taffy?”

“Her horse.”

Crap. I’d forgotten about the horse. “Yes. Taffy, too. Lucia is surrounded by and filled with love, especially her love for you, a little of which will stay with you always.”

Oh, God, this was so corny. How did the Ghost Mediator live with herself?

But then again, it wasn’t
entirely
untrue. And it was clearly helping Becca. There were tears of happiness trembling at the corners of her eyes. Shows like
Ghost Mediator
brought people joy, which was a good thing (though the fact that the star charged for her services off camera still made me furious, since of course she was a total fake).

“Lucia will always be with you, in your—”

Suddenly the warm wind gave a particularly strong gust, rustling through the palm fronds overhead and causing the surface of the pool to ripple. It lifted Becca’s ponytail and blinded me for a moment by sending a thick dark wave of my own hair across my eyes.

When I’d brushed it aside, I could see that all the flickers of light reflected from the surface of the pool had shifted, and instead of dancing on the pool deck or the undersides of the palm fronds, they’d centered on Becca, glimmering across her face and legs and arms, like dozens of golden butterflies coming to rest their wings on her . . .

Or hundreds of flickering candle flames, sweetly circling her head like Saint Lucia’s crown.

But that was impossible. What was going on?

“Oh!” Becca cried, raising her arms to gaze at the dazzling light show. “It’s Lucia! I see her. I can
feel
her! Ms. Simon, she’s here!”

Becca was right. Someone was there.

But it couldn’t have been Lucia, since Lucia had crossed over the night before. It was someone else—someone with paranormal powers every bit as strong as Lucia’s—someone who wanted to give Becca the kind of celestial farewell that her friend would have, if she’d still been around.

Someone who smelled suspiciously of smoke from a wood fire, suede, vanilla, hospital soap, and just a tiniest hint of cigarettes.

Jesse.

treinta y cuatro

“
Who’s here?” Kelly appeared from around the corner of the outdoor kitchen, carrying a tray with the lemonade pitcher and her magazine on it. “It’s only me. What’s wrong with you two?”

The lights vanished just as suddenly as they’d appeared, the wind dying, the surface of the pool going still. Above our heads, the palm fronds ceased to rustle, and the only sound that could be heard was the rumble of the Pacific and the rattle of the ice in the pitcher as Kelly approached.

But I could tell from the joyous smile on Becca’s face that that split second of warm, sunny contact had been enough. She would remember it for the rest of her life.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Becca said to Kelly, still smiling. “We were talking about a friend of mine. Weren’t we, Ms. Simon?”

“Yes,” I said, hastily gathering my bag and standing up. The distinctive Jesse scent vanished, and all I could smell was the ocean and the crisp sharp scent of the chlorine from the Walterses’s pool. Where was he? Nearby, obviously. “A good friend. Well, it’s been nice visiting with you, Becca, but I have to go now.”

“Do you really?” Becca asked, disappointed. “Can’t you stay for lunch?”

“No, she can’t,” Kelly said. She set the tray of lemonade in the exact spot on the chaise longue where I’d been sitting so that she could ensure I wouldn’t rejoin them, then lowered herself onto the chaise beside it. “Debbie’s here. I’m sure you’ll want to say good-bye to her on your way out.”

“Debbie?” It took me a second to figure out who she meant.

“Yes, your
sister-in-law
?” Kelly gave me a dirty look. “Surely you remember her. She and I are taking Becca to the mall to get a new dress and a mani-pedi because she’s got a party tonight. Don’t you, Becca?”

Becca glanced at her stepmother. “Yeah, I do. I mean, I do have a party. I didn’t know Mrs. Ackerman was coming over—”

“Well, she’s here. We’re having lunch first on the veranda. I’d invite Ms. Simon but Paolo didn’t prepare a large enough salmon. I’m sure
Susan
will understand.”

“Oh, I do.” I was already turning to go, thankful for the heads-up. Debbie was the last person I wanted to run into, especially if Jesse was somewhere on the premises. “I’ll see you guys later.”

“Bye, Ms. Simon!” I heard Becca calling after me. “And thank you!”

I waved over my shoulder as I hurried down the side steps to the driveway, not even glancing back.

Debbie, I was certain, would enter through the house, not the yard. There was no chance I’d run into her and have to make awkward small talk. Fortunately I’d driven Jake’s BMW, so she might not even have recognized it in the driveway—at least not as readily as she would the dilapidated Land Rover, about which she—and her father—constantly complained. Why wouldn’t I allow the Mercedes King to sell me a nice E-Class sedan? Leases started at only $579 a month.

I peered over the security gate leading from the pool to the Walterses’s sprawling front yard, which sloped all the way down to a thick stone wall to 17-Mile Drive and from there, the sea.

There was definitely a male figure leaning against a car by the beach, across the street from the stone columns leading to Casa di Walters.

I couldn’t tell, at that distance, who it was, but the car I recognized by sight. It was a Land Rover.
My
Land Rover.

My heart somersaulted inside my chest.

The steps from the pool down to the driveway were quite steep and zigzagged a bit, and I was taking them at something of a clip so I didn’t even see that there was someone coming up them until I nearly collided into him—or her, as it turned out.

“Jesus!” Debbie yelled. “Watch it! Oh, Suze. What are
you
doing here?”

“Oh, hi.” Debbie was wearing a long yellow maxi dress and clutching a large turquoise beach bag and hat. She looked great, and, from the smug expression on her face, she knew it. “Sorry, I didn’t see you. I was just . . . I came by to see Becca’s dad about some issues she’s been having at school.”

“Wow.” Debbie’s tone was flat. “I guess the Mission Academy offers special services to
some
of their students, the ones with fathers who are huge donors. If my dad coughed up a hundred thousand donation, would my girls get special home visits, too?”

“I did pay your girls a home visit this week, Debbie, remember? No hundred thousand donation necessary.”

“Right.” She snorted. “That was for some class you’re taking. Don’t pretend like it was because you or anyone else at that school cares about the girls.”

I reached out and grabbed her arm before she could move past me on the stairs.

“Actually, Debbie, I do care about your girls.”

I was anxious to get down to Jesse, but I knew I had to attend to this little matter first. It was another one of Paul’s messes I felt obligated to clean up.

“That test I conducted at your house showed that your girls are gifted—really gifted, Debbie. And I was wondering if you’d be interested in enrolling them in this new program I heard about through the school I go to.”

Debbie stopped trying to continue up the stairs and lowered her sunglasses so she could stare at me over their gold frames, intrigued. There was nothing most parents loved hearing more than the word
gifted
, especially when applied to their own child.

“It’s really exclusive—and very expensive,” I went on quickly. Debbie had to lean in to hear me above the pound of the surf. “But I think I can get the girls a scholarship, so it would be free.”

Lord help me if she ever found out
I
was the program.

But Debbie’s interest sharpened perceptibly at the other magic word. “
Free?
Are you sure?”

I nodded. “Positive.”

“What test was it that showed that the girls are gifted? I mean, their father and I have always thought they’re gifted, but Sister Monica and especially that cow Sister Ernestine seem to think the opposite.”

“Their father? You mean Brad.” I studied her reaction carefully.

“Of course I mean Brad, Suze.” She whipped off her sunglasses to squint at me in the strong sunlight. “Who else would I mean? What is wrong with you? Have you been sampling Jake’s wares? You know you should lay off that stuff, especially if you’re going to be driving.”

She wasn’t bluffing. Debbie truly believed that Brad was the father of her children, and that I, as usual, was the one with the problem.

And who was I to disabuse her of that notion? Wasn’t it better for everyone that she—and Brad—go on believing this? I thought so, at least for now. Baby steps. One secret at a time.

“It’s a new test,” I said with a shrug. “Sometimes highly creative and intelligent children can be a challenge, especially to educators who are already overburdened with so many other students. But I think this program could really help the girls. It’s after school.”

“Wow.” She smiled, slipping her sunglasses back into place. Smiling, Debbie actually looked like a nice person. “That sounds really great, Suze. You know, I’ve been thinking for a while about going back to school myself. But it’s been so hard with the girls and all.”

“Well,” I said with a smile. “Maybe now you’ll have the time. There’s only one small problem.”

The smile disappeared. “What’s that?”

“In order for the girls to qualify for the scholarship, you’ll have to show proof that they’ve at least started their vaccinations. This program doesn’t allow for medical
or
religious exemptions from immunizations. Something about wanting to stop the spread of disease to unvaccinated newborns and those with compromised immune systems?”