Rose Bellington's cherubic face wreathed in smile lines
and the glow in her pale blue eyes caused Cassie to step
back to avoid a hug. Rose looked like a sweet old lady and
marriage had mellowed Cassie—but it hadn't melted the
prickly barrier that protected her heart. Giving free
access to anyone with a smile was one way to get it
shattered into tiny pieces that people could grind under
their heels.
Rose's head tilted, her face getting a
you–poor–thing pucker.
As if being careful with your heart was something bad.
"I hope you like tea." Rose ushered her in. She wore
black slacks and a loose short–sleeved top the same
pale coral color as her hair. Faded red mixing with the
gray formed a nimbus about her face, making her look like
an elderly angel. Not a skinny one. She had a dumpling face
and figure. Like Mrs. Santa, she didn't appear to be afraid
of a few cookies.
Cassie agreed she did like tea and in a couple moments
was sitting on the edge of a gold chair with a hard cushion
that made her glad she came with her own padding.
"Tell me about your ghost," she said, taking a steaming
cup of tea from Rose.
Rose sighed and perched on the matching sofa across from
her. "I guess I'll have to."
"You don't have to." Cassie lifted her cup halfway to
her mouth. "But don't expect me to return the advance."
"If only it was that easy." Rose leaned forward, her
hands on her lap. "I suppose you wouldn't lie for me."
"I could but I don't know you." Cassie sipped the
fragrant jasmine tea while Rose looked hopefully at her. "I
don't know your story."
Rose's lower lip trembled. "They're saying I'm demented
but I'm not. I don't want to leave my home and go into a
nursing home. No one should have the right to force me."
Cassie set her tea cup on the table to her left. "It
sounds as if you don't need a ghost therapist. You need a
lawyer." Forget the advance after all. She could afford to
return it. She hadn't married Luke for his money, but it
was a nice perk. One benefit to marrying a former rock star
turned successful songwriter.
"I gave Donny power of attorney over my money." Rose's
shoulders slumped and her wrinkles drooped. "My medical
power of attorney, too. After Lavinia on the first floor
broke her hip, her son had a horrible time getting the
doctors to listen to him. He ended up hiring a lawyer and
taking them to court." She twisted her hands in her lap. "I
thought I was being smart. I didn't think Donny would do
this to me."
Cassie shifted on the hard cushion and gazed at the
impressionism paintings on the wall. She'd seen similar in
art museums. Then she took in the rich furnishings, the
Aubusson carpet that covered most of the mellow wood floor,
and the view of Lake Michigan across the street from the
North Lake Drive condo building.
Nothing flashy. The woodwork that she guessed once
glowed was now dull. The carpet and the furniture looked
worn in spots. Despite this—or perhaps because of
it—everything discreetly murmured "Money."
When money was in the mix, anything could happen. Wives
could turn against husbands. Brothers against sisters.
Grandkids against grandmothers.
The doorbell rang, a strong bong that demanded, "Listen
to me!"
"Oh dear." Rose got up. "That must be him. I'll be right
back."
Cassie noticed the hitch in her step. Arthritis, she
guessed. As soon as Rose headed down the hall, Cassie
glanced around the room.
"Are you there?" she asked softly. "Or is Rose imagining
you?"
The air reverberated in the far corner. As started to
stand, footsteps came from the hall. Three pairs, along
with the deep tones of a man's voice and the lighter tones
of a woman's. Not Rose's. Younger and faster, with a
tinkling laugh. The kind that the pretty, flirty girls used.
The reverberations stopped, the air stilled. As if an
invisible person held its breath.
Silently groaning, Cassie plopped back onto the chair.
Apparently she was going to have to talk to live people
with an agenda. She'd much rather talk to the
dead—though they usually had an agenda, too.