Ghost Huntress Book 6: The Journey (19 page)

There’s a part of me that wants to be really bitter that Oliver just ditched our summer plans all for the sake of grooming Christian.  However, there’s nothing to be gained by holding a grudge.  Especially since Oliver was the one who brought Patrick and me together.  No words need to be spoken.  Oliver knows he screwed up.  But hey, he’s human.  We all are.  Mistakes happen along our journey.  It’s how we deal with them moving forward.

“As long as you cheer wicked loud for my friend, Becca,” I say with a smile.

Oliver hugs me.  “You got it.”  Then he says, “I want to go forward to Rome, as planned.  This time, the gallery reading will be you and Patrick.  You can shine.”

“And Jayne,” I add.  “She deserves the spotlight, as well.”

“Absolutely.  It’s a deal.”

Patrick shakes his hand and then I tug Jayne over to me and make her dance with me.  She giggles and stumbles a bit, but then the beat takes over and soon we’re grooving together.

“Thanks for saving me, Kendall.”

I wink at her.  “From now on, you save yourself.”

Andi slips back up with several freshly made crepes.  The aroma of ham, cheese, and butter crashing together in the air makes me drool.  I take one and Patrick and I share the warm treat, luxuriating in the tastes of our summer memories.

Oliver smiles at Andi and she hands a crepe to him.  “Whattaya say you and I slip over to the wine bar around the corner while the kids party it up here,” he asks her.

Andi raises a dark eye brow.  “Like a date?”

“Sure,” Oliver says.  “If your niece approves.”

I cock my head to the side with wonder.  I thought Oliver was gay.  Shows what kind of psychic I am, huh?  “Go have fun.  We’ll be good.  This goes until three a.m. and then we’ll head back to the hotel.”

“You sure?” Andi asks, as if I’m the adult who needs to grant permission.

Patrick says, “I’ll take good care of her.”

The spin off rages on and on.  We dance.  We sweat.  We cheer.  We party.  We scream.  And Becca wins the gold medal for her performance and a hefty prize money check.  Afterwards, everyone piles on the metro over to the first arrondissment to Café Costes that’s open late.  It’s trendy, hip, and chic, and we fit right into the scene.  We have amazing French onion soup and rich, decadent chocolate cake that makes me never want to eat again because nothing could possibly top this.

“I’m fried,” Taylor says.  “I’m going to sleep all day tomorrow.”

“Not me,” Celia says.  “There’s a Star Wars exhibit at the Cité de Science and L’industrie that I want to go to.”

“No way!” Jason pipes up.  “I’m totally going with you.”

She smiles brightly and they join hands again.

“My God, you two were made for each other,” I tease.

Patrick moves his hand into my hair and plays with one of my long curls.  “Speaking of people who were made for each other, can we slip away for a bit?”

A zizzle of excitement charges up my back.  Yes
.  A zizzle.

I excuse myself from the group with the promise that Jayne will head back with them and crash in my room.  The gang leaves and Patrick and I hop a cab.  Where in this city, I don’t know.

Before I know it, the cab lets us off in front of the Eiffel Tower.  The true symbol of this entire city.

“You know, Parisians hated this structure when it was first built,” I tell him.

“And now look at it.”

It’s completely lit up and shines before us.

“Come with me,” Patrick says.

“Isn’t it closed?”

A wide grin crosses Patrick’s handsome face.  “After what happened with Christian, Oliver owed me a favor.  He knows someone who knows someone who arranged this.  Come on.”

Remarkably, we step over to the elevator entrance and are met by Pierre, work works there.  He quietly slips us into the metal lift and zips us up to the top.  My breath leaves me the second we’re in the air and I can’t believe what’s happening.

Pierre points to the railing.  “Five minutes only.”

Patrick nods and leads me to the edge.

I breathe in the air and marvel at my surroundings.  Words fail me other than, “This is amazing!”

My boyfriend leans down and kisses me.  “You’re amazing, Kendall.”

“This is incredible.  I can’t believe we got a private visit like this.  You’re spoiling.”

He takes my hand.  “After all we’ve been through, I think you deserve a little spoiling me.”

I reach up and stroke his cheek and then lift up on my tiptoes and kiss him.  Here on the Eiffel Tower.  Overlooking Paris.  Whoa.

“I want to give you something.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring box.  I almost gag on the intake of breath.  Holy crap…we’re too young to…

“It’s a promise ring,” he tells me and shows me the silver Irish claddagh ring—two hands clasping a heart in the middle with a crown on top.  “You wear it here on your right hand with the heart facing toward your body.  This means that someone has captured your heart.”

“You certainly have, Patrick Lynn.”

He swallows hard and I know what he’s about to say.  He doesn’t recite it in my head, but proclaims it here to me, out loud, on top of this amazing symbol of Paris.

“I love you, Kendall.  So much.”

Awww!

Tears paint my eyes and I say, “I love you, too, Patrick.”

And then we kiss.  A perfect, end-of-the-move, romantic, sweep-me-off-my-feet, epic kiss that makes me fall deeper in love with him.  His love literally takes me sky high.

When we come up for air, he says, “I hate to leave Paris, but Rome awaits us.”

“I can’t wait.”

“And then there’s just one more thing we need to do to make the summer complete.”

I screw up my face a little at his forwardness and assumption.  “Look, Patrick, I’m not ready to go all the way, yet.”

He laughs really hard at me.  “God, Kendall.  Get your mind out of the gutter.  I’m not talking about sex.”  Then he grows serious.  “No… we’re going to complete the journey and get you your answers.”

“Where are we going?”

“
Strada Provinciale 42,
” he whispers.

Oliver pulled off the biggest coup of all time.  Even bigger that the three a.m. elevator ride to the top of the Eiffel Tower.

In Rome, Patrick, Jayne, and I conduct a gallery reading to a standing room only crowd on the rooftop deck of the Hotel Colosseum, followed by a ghost hunt at the Coliseum where the gladiators used to battle.  Holy cow…what an experience!  Let’s just say, we got EVPs from a couple of emperors, the cries of some tortured victims, and even the roar of a lion.  I had to beg off the long, pleading story of one gladiator spirit who wanted to tell me all of his experiences.  Perhaps another time.

I have a train to catch.

“Hurry up, you two,” my aunt says.

I give Jayne my e-mail and promise to stay in touch.

I hug Celia, Taylor, and, yes, even Jason.  He and I are just fine.

“Good luck,” Celia says to me.  “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

I squeeze her hand and glance over at Patrick.  “I already have.”  Then my eyes shift to Jason.  “As have you.”

She blushes, which is ridonkulously endearing.  “Enjoy Naples!  See you back in Radisson.”

“Kendall!  Now!” Andi screams out.

We make it to the train station and board our Eurostar headed north from Rome up toward the Switzerland border to seek out the villa from my dreams and visions.  This time, Patrick and I share a compartment and I sleep soundly in his arms while we chug along overnight for about seven hours to our destination.

Aunt Andi secures a white Renault Megane Cabrio convertible rental car—that Patrick has to drive because it’s a stick shift and my aunt doesn’t know how to drive it—and we head off in search of the address from my vision in the luxurious Italian village on the edge of Lake Como.

“This is it,” I say, completely recognizing the soft yellow villa with the red roof top. “
Strada Provinciale 42.
”

I sit in the passenger seat, frozen to the leather.

“Well?” Patrick asks.

I gulp down the lump of trepidation that’s formed in my throat.  “Umm…”

Aunt Andi rubs my shoulders from behind.  “It’ll be fine.  You’ve come this far.”

“Yeah, but can I take those last few steps?”

Patrick takes my hand.  “I’ll be right there with you.”

Carefully, I open the car door and step out.  With one foot slowly landing in front of the other, I walk up the cobblestone path.  Patrick follows two steps behind me.  The front door to the villa is open.

“Hello?”

No answer.

“Try it in Italian,” Patrick suggests.

“Right.”  I think for a second to what the guy at the rental car company had said.  I’ve got it.  “
Buon giorno!”

Still nothing.

Patrick shoos me ahead with the wave of his hands.

Instead of walking through the house—which even though I’ve done it in my dream, it would be presumptuous and rude to actually do it now—I peel off to the right and follow the garden path around the house.  Rosemary bushes sing out their woodsy scent, mixing with thyme, basil, and juniper all growing nearby.  I pick a twig of sage from the next plant and twirl the soft leaf in my fingers.  It reminds me of Thanksgiving and family.

A family that has infinitely extended for me recently.

And now, I take another step.

“You can do it, babe,” Patrick encourages.

I round the corner of the house and am aghast that the actual scenery perfectly matches that of my dream.  I’m on a deck or balcony that overlooks the majestic, blue mountains and calm, glassy lake.  Sitting at the outdoor glass table is an older woman in a light blue maxi dress.  She’s sipping a coffee and dallying with a pen that’s she’s using to fill out a crossword puzzle.  Her hair is short and so gray it’s almost white.  She stopped trying to color it seven years ago and just accepted the color.

For a moment, I stand there quietly and study her.  The angle of her nose.  The slope of her cheek.  The point of her chin.  It’s familiar to me.

I laugh softly at the knowledge and this seems to get her attention.

She turns and slowly stands up.  Our eyes meet up and sync in a harmonious moment where words need not be spoken.  I’m psychic after all and, who knows, maybe it was passed down to me from my mother’s side of the family.  When the woman’s crossword puzzle book falls to the wooden floor and she nearly knocks over the table, I know that she…knows.

I swallow hard again, trying to find my voice and get past this silly knot in my throat.

“They said you lived in Wisconsin.  At least, that’s where I saw you in my first visions.”

The woman doesn’t blink.  “We lived in the north woods of Wisconsin for years.  Got tired of the winters.”

“I was then shown that you were here in Italy.  I had to find you,” I say.  Looking about, I’m absolutely flabbergasted.  I’ve had psychic visions and predictions before, but never something this crisp, this clear, this…real.  “This place is exactly as I pictured it. 
You’re
just as I pictured you.”

Anna Wynn Faulkner smiles at me.  “You look just like her.  My Emily.”

Ahh…she knows.

Just then, an elderly man steps out onto the balcony and drops his coffee cup.  The hot, black liquid spills out in dark puddle at his feet.  “Sweet Jesus!  Emily?”

“John!  Look at that mess you’ve made,” Anna says.

He looks to his wife.  “It can’t be.”

I take a deep breath.  “No, sir, I’m Kendall.”

Anna steps forward and takes my hand.  “This isn’t Emily, John.  But it’s her daughter.  Our granddaughter.”

I smile broadly.  “Yes, ma’am.  I’m Emily’s daughter.  You’re my grandparents.  I dreamed about you.”

She puts her hand on my face, trembling, but lovingly warm and soft.

“I dreamed about you, too.  Many times.”  Then she begins to cry.  “Many, many times.”

Then I’m enveloped in tender embraces from all around me that do not question, doubt, or quibble.

Pure acceptance.

And love.

Definitely love.

Suddenly, I’m home.

Chapter One

“Chai!  Come on, Squirt.  We’ve got to get going, the car’s waiting,” Claire-Ann shouts up the stairs of our massive penthouse loft that overlooks South Beach and the Atlantic Ocean.

I cringe and keep brushing the knot out of my dark brown hair.  Hair that’s way too long for its own good.  Claire-Ann won’t dare let me cut it; no way, no how.

“Why does she always call you ‘Squirt?’” my best friend, Katy Kingston, asks from my bed.  She’s sprawled out painting her nails with my
Club
Monaco
Nail
Lacquer Duo of Froth and Wave.  I picked it up at the photo shoot yesterday afternoon for Fendi Casa Designs, a local Miami Beach furniture designer.  I was lying on this sand-colored satin couch with my hand draped over my face.  To hide my slightly crooked schnoz, no doubt.

I reach for my bottle of Tommy Girl and spritz a stream on my neck and chest.  To hell with that crap about spray, delay, and walk away crap.  If I pay good money for perfume, it’s going
on
me.  It’s this thing I have for smells.  Or rather, my fear that
I’ll
smell.  Shower time prior to an evening out is a ritual in itself for me.  Deodorant soap like Lever, Dial, or Irish Spring, followed by a luffaing with Avon Brown Sugar body scrub.  Then there’s the whole lather, rinse, repeat, condition with the Biolage Energizing Shampoo and Detangling Solution Conditioner I buy religiously.  Once I’m out of the shower, it’s time for clear gel stick deodorant, followed by a good blast of Secret spray, a generous spread of Avon’s African shea butter lotion and Aveda foot relief.  I also overdo it on the facial moisturization so as to not have to resort to face lifts when I’m in my late forties (like my mother.)  First, a layer of Clinique’s Skin Texture lotion, followed by their Moisture Surge and a good dabbling around with the Daily Eye Benefits.  Am I the walking poster child for Sephora or what?

But back to Katy’s question instead of cataloging the products spread out before me.  “Claire-Ann calls me ‘Squirt’ in reference to my conception.”