Page 76 of Old Flames

Another shower and she got to work. She wrapped up the line edits and considered her editor’s thoughtful suggestions on ways to improve the ending. It was good enough, she reasoned. If she kept poking at it, like a soufflé, it would collapse. Though she knew good enough wasn’t nearly enough, not for a rabid fandom. If dissatisfied, they’d come for her.

Jules slammed the laptop shut, stretched, killed time leafing through a magazine and practiced winged eyeliner in the bathroom mirror. She washed her hands and was mindlessly working a dollop of lotion into her damp skin when she stopped and joined her open palms. She studied the unbroken line from edge to edge. What had Mallory called it?

A simian line.

A spiritual mission.

A destiny.

If that were the case, if she were truly on a mission of some kind, it might help to get some guidance. She looked up the address of the crystal shop, grabbed her bag, and took off. She no longer had any trouble timing her outings. The house had a pulse, and it quickened whenever Leo was in it. When he wasn’t around, the air fell flat.

Mallory wasn’t at Cut Crystals. Jules circled the displays and wandered the aisles in search of the surly teen. Finally, she approached the woman at the register, a brunette her own age who sat nursing a cup of tea.

“Hi,” Jules said. “I was hoping to speak with Mallory.”

“She’s at the square.”

Ha ha! Mallory Square. Jules wasn’t in the mood for jokes.

The woman at the register apologized. “It’s a family joke. Mallory is my sister. It’s her day off. She’s probably getting a tattoo or something.”

At closer examination, Jules caught the resemblance. The same arched brows, pointed chin, and perceptive blue eyes.

“Right,” Jules said, only because she didn’t know what to say.

“You look familiar,” Mallory’s sister said. “Have we met?”

“I’m an author. You might’ve caught the lecture series.”

“Actually, it’s the other way around. You attended my lecture on the ghost tour. I’m Elvira.”

“You’re Elvira?” Jules repeated.

“Minus the wig and theatrical makeup,” she replied. “I’m Beverly.”

“Nice to meet you again. I’m Jules.”

“Did you enjoy the tour?” she asked. “It looked like you guys were shaken up near the end.”

That was an understatement. Jules blinked and the emotions of that Friday night came roaring back. “Was it meant to go that deep?” she asked.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Beverly said. “Once I learned that a group of famous horror writers had booked the tour, I made it my mission to showcase authentic ghost stories, not the deranged clowns y’all like to write about.”

Jules was stirred to defend her fellow writers and friends. “First of all, we’re not all horror writers. Second, not all horror writers write about deranged clowns or possessed dolls, though some of us do, and that’s fine. It’s a plot device.”

“Real life is horrible,” Beverly countered. “And the spirit world has enough intrigue that you don’t need to make stuff up.”

“You believe everything you said on that tour?” Jules asked.

“Absolutely. Every story is based on our city’s oral history. All anyone wants to hear about is Hemingway sightings, and I get it. That’s what sells tickets, but it doesn’t even scratch the surface. I thought your group could handle it.”

“Apparently not.”

“Why are you looking for Mallory? Did you book a card reading?”

How was Jules to explain to this smart, perceptive woman that she, equally smart and perceptive, was turning to her teenage sister for spiritual guidance?

“She read my palms the last time we were here, but I was in a rush,” Jules said. “I had some downtime today, so I figured . . .”