Abby kissed her plump cheeks and agreed. She moved the vase to a high shelf.

  Looking sheepish, Amy asked, “Am I in trouble?” Her blue eyes focused on the vase.

  Abby gave her a giant hug. “No, sweetie, not this time. But remember what we talked about? Pretty things are sometimes very old, and just touching them even a tiny bit can hurt them.”

  “And they can’t get fixed, either, right, Mommy?” Amy said, finishing for her.

  “Not always, but we were lucky this time. Let’s try to be very careful. Remember, we’re going to have a big Christmas house this year, and we want everything to look pretty.”

  “And sparkly, too, right?” Amy added. She reminded Abby of herself when she was little. Anything sparkly and shiny was always the best.

  “Lots and lots of sparkles. Now, I think it’s time for a break. What about you?” Abby asked as she scooped her daughter in her arms and twirled her around.

  Amy giggled. “Can we have apples with raisins and peanut butter?”

  “Absolutely,” said Abby as they entered the kitchen, where she found Chris busy slicing apples and filling little bowls with peanut butter and raisins. They really had this schedule thing down to an art.

  Jonathan was already seated at the table, waiting for his snack. Abby fluffed his blond curls, kissed his cheek, then placed Amy in the chair beside him.

  “You okay with them for a while? Charlotte is coming over so we can check for any last-minute decorating issues,” Abby said to Chris.

  “Absolutely. Nothing I’d rather be doing. Well, almost,” Chris said with a wink. “By the way, Sophie just called. Said she was stopping by to pick up whatever it was you ordered for her. She’s on her way over now.”

  “Good. I was hoping she’d stop over. You and I will talk later,” said Abby, returning the wink.

  Abby kissed the twins, who were busy dipping apple slices in peanut butter, then carefully sticking their raisins to the golden goo. “Be good for Daddy, okay?” she called out. She didn’t hear a response but wasn’t expecting one. Snack time was a very big deal in the Clay household.

  In the formal living room, she searched for the blown-glass candleholders she’d purchased for Sophie. Abby thought they would go perfectly with the silver theme Sophie had chosen this year. She found them tucked securely inside their box filled with protective bubble wrap, just as she’d left them when they were delivered. After discovering Amy’s little hands reaching for her own delicate candleholders, Abby had wanted to make sure her prying little fingers didn’t find their way inside this box. Amy was a very curious little girl. Just like I was at that age, Abby thought. Maybe she’ll be a reporter, a serious reporter. Reporting real news, not Hollywood fluff, like she had. Distracted by her thoughts, Abby jumped when she turned around to see Sophie framing the doorway. She placed a hand over her heart. “You scared the bejesus out of me!”

  “Sorry, Abs,” Sophie said. “You looked like you were deep in thought. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

  Abby gave her godmother the once-over. Dark jeans with a red silk blouse. With her chocolate-colored hair hanging loose, she could easily take ten years off her age and still be in her sixties. “You amaze me, but you know that,” she said.

  Sophie being Sophie, she rolled her eyes, but she grinned, showing her pearly whites. “Of course I know that. Remember, I’m psychic?”

  How could she not? Abby thought. Her abilities as an up-and-coming world-renowned psychic had changed all their lives. And mostly for the best. She hugged Sophie, then stepped back. “How could I forget? Those abilities saved my life, or did you forget?” Sophie’s skill as a psychic had led police to Abby’s location when she’d been kidnapped by that sick puppy she’d worked for at The Informer. Rag, aka Rodwell Archibald Godfrey. Idiot, she thought but tucked the memory away for another time.

  “My best work to date, if you want my opinion,” Sophie stated matter-of-factly.

  “Don’t forget those two missing kids. I think that’s your best work to date, if you want my opinion, and I know you don’t, but you’re getting it, anyway.”

  “You’re starting to sound exactly like your mother,” said Sophie.

  Abby laughed. “I’m taking that as a compliment. Mom is good people.”

  Sophie nodded. “Toots is the best, no doubt about that, but if you tell her I said so, I’ll have to kill you.”

  “I’m shaking in my shoes,” Abby countered.

  “I’m sure. Now, show me those candleholders before I have to cast an evil spell on you,” Sophie teased.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Abby shot back.

  “No, you’re right. I wouldn’t and can’t, so you’re safe,” Sophie said.

  Abby located the box and carefully removed the antique candleholders, then, with extra care, handed them to Sophie. “So, what are your thoughts?” she asked expectantly, an air of excitement in her voice. The candleholders were a big find.

  Handblown in the early eighteenth century, the glass was delicate and light. Most likely crafted in Europe. The days of glassblowers of this caliber were long gone.

  “Good grief, but these are fine-looking doodads! This must have cost you a small fortune! I’ve been doing my research,” Sophie said in a serious tone. “This is too much, kiddo. You have to let me pay you for them.” She carefully replaced the candleholders inside their protective wrapping.

  Sophie remembered seeing candleholders similar to these at the Corning Museum of Glass in Corning, New York. The reason she had such a clear memory of her trip was that Walter had beaten the crap out of her, and she’d had to hide for a week before she was able to go back to work. A week upstate and her first venture crossing the border into Canada. Bastard. She hated him still to this very day. She felt sure he was providing enough fuel to keep hell aflame for many generations to come.

  Abby shook her head, her blond curls falling out of her haphazardly twisted ponytail atop her head. “Ain’t gonna happen, so just say thank you and be done with it. I’ve got tons of stuff to do before tonight. Plus, Charlotte is stopping over one last time to make sure everything is as it should be.”

  Sophie nodded. “I’ll relent. For now, but only because it’s Christmas.”

  Abby shook her head. She had known that Sophie would do something like this, and it was okay. However she chose to repay her, Abby would simply donate the funds to her mother’s new project. “Whatever you say, Soph. When I saw these on eBay, I knew you’d love them. Hard to believe they’re over two hundred years old, huh?”

  Sophie peered inside the box she held. “It is, and it scares me, if you want to know the truth. Most of the stuff Goebel and I used to refurbish the old place is reproductions. Having the real deal means I have to be careful.”

  “And what’s wrong with being careful? I’ve never known you to give a rat’s ass about things. Is it you or Mom who always says, ‘Things can always be replaced. People can’t’?”

  Sophie looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “Your mother. And these are very special. They’re a gift, and they’re from you.” Her brown eyes filled with tears. Careful not to let them spill over, she used the hem of her red silk blouse to blot her eyes.

  “OMG! I can’t believe you’re getting all sentimental on me! Wait until I tell Mavis and Ida. They’ll never believe me. Mom, too.”

  She sniffed, then darted a glance at her godchild. “Abby Clay, if you so much as mention my . . . my softheartedness to those old bats, I will . . . I will . . .”

  “You’ll what?” Abby interjected. “Send me to my room?”

  They both burst out laughing.

  Sophie swiped at her eyes while grabbing Abby in a hug. “This better stay between us, or I’ll think of something to tattle to Chris. Or your mother. Remember, I managed to keep a few secrets from your mom when you were a teenager.” Sophie and Abby were almost as close as mother and daughter. More than once, Abby had called Sophie for advice rather than going to her mother, simply because it’d been easier to tell her certain things she wasn’t ready to reveal to her mother.

  Abby had the grace to blush. “You promised, remember? And you also told me that you never break a promise.”

  “Yes, I recall promising you I would never tell ‘certain things.’ ” Sophie made air quotes with her free hand. “My mistake,” she added.

  About to come back with a snide remark, Abby bit her tongue when she saw Charlotte walking through the entrance, where she bumped into Sophie.

  “Excuse me. Is this a bad time?” Charlotte asked softly.

  Abby shook her head. “Of course not! I was expecting you. Sophie, this is my decorator, Charlotte.” She observed the young woman and her godmother and did not like what she saw.

  “Charlotte, is something wrong?” Abby asked before Sophie could acknowledge the introduction. And from the look on Sophie’s face, there was definitely something wrong with her. “What’s going on?” Abby asked the pair. “Have you two met before?”

  Of course they had. Charlotte worked for Blanche Harding, and Blanche Harding worked for Abby’s mother and Phil, her latest stepfather. Sophie had probably encountered Charlotte during one of her many trips between Abby’s house and her mother’s. Charlotte Simonson was model material. Tall and willowy, she had creamy, latte-colored skin that glistened with a thin sheen of sweat. She wore her chocolate-brown hair in a loose braid that trailed down to her waist. Dressed in simple khaki slacks and a light blue blouse, she managed to look extremely professional, until one saw that her greenish gold eyes were watery with unshed tears.

  Abby gave Sophie a sharp look. “What’s going on here?”

  Sophie continued to stare at Charlotte, while Charlotte appeared to be on the verge of some sort of emotional breakdown.

  Sophie finally gathered herself. “I’m sorry, Abby. I just remembered something. I have to go.” Clutching the box tightly against her chest, Sophie disappeared from the living room as fast as she’d entered.

  Abby, in a mini-stupor, was at a loss for words. What the heck had she just witnessed? Yes, Sophie could be rude, but this was inexcusable. She hadn’t even acknowledged her introduction, and if she’d met Charlotte previously, she hadn’t acknowledged that, either.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Clay. I didn’t mean to run off your guest.” Charlotte spoke softly.

  “Of course you didn’t. And that’s Sophie. One of the three godmothers I told you about.” During the time they’d spent together, Abby and Charlotte had become quite friendly. Abby guessed her to be in her late thirties. She had three young children and a husband stationed in Afghanistan. Though Abby had never met her family, Charlotte spoke of them often enough that Abby felt as though she knew them.

  “Sophie acts strange sometimes,” Abby said as a way to explain her godmother’s weird behavior. That was putting it mildly, but she kept these thoughts to herself.

  Chapter 2

  Sophie stomped on the accelerator like she was at the starting line in a NASCAR race. Her hands were shaking and were slick with fear-induced sweat as she steered her way down the winding lane leading to the main road. A million thoughts swirled around in her head like a thick fog that hadn’t decided exactly where to settle. She hadn’t felt this way since discovering that the former mistress of the home that belonged to her and Goebel had been murdered. She remembered it as if it had happened only yesterday.

  She’d woken up from a sound sleep, thinking she’d had a terrible nightmare, when further investigation proved she’d experienced another episode of clairsentience, which allowed her to see through the eyes of another by touching an item belonging exclusively to that person. Sophie had felt as though the woman in her dream had been trying to send a message. After many sleepless nights and a thorough investigation into the history of their home, she’d uncovered a murder that had taken place almost a century ago.

  For the past two months, Sophie had been so involved in preparing for the start of the holiday parade of homes that she hadn’t really focused on anything requiring her to use her psychic abilities. And for once, there had been no need, and of that she was glad. Her mind needed a rest. And now this. She entered through the new wrought-iron gates Goebel had installed last week, then parked in the front of the house. Clicking the key to the OFF position, Sophie leaned back in the seat, her head reclining against the headrest. Closing her eyes, she immediately captured the image of the woman Abby called Charlotte.

  Sadness. Sorrow. Loneliness. Fear. All these emotions assaulted her at once. There was loss in the woman’s life, a deep personal loss, though it wasn’t recent. She tried to focus in order to determine exactly why this was coming to her as a personal loss, but nothing jarred her. Nothing to explain the sadness. Sophie took a deep breath and slowly released it. Sometimes when she had trouble focusing, deep breathing helped to stabilize her thought processes.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to pull up an image of the girl as she had appeared in Abby’s formal living room. Pretty. Upset. She’d been very sad, but try as she might, Sophie couldn’t put her finger, or in this case, her brain, on exactly what was causing her to be so sad. Hating that the girl was sad during the holidays, worried that she might try to harm herself, as many did during the Christmas season, she decided that once she went inside, she would meditate in her special room. Sometimes she had to really work at this psychic stuff. And today, it seemed, was going to be one of those days.

  With the utmost caution, she took the box containing the candleholders, grabbed her purse, and went inside.

  “Hello,” she called out. Having parked in the front of the house, she wasn’t sure if Goebel was home. He always parked behind the house. “Goebel? You home?” she called, her words sounding empty and hollow in the big old house. When she didn’t get a response, she walked to the back of the house and peered out the kitchen window. His car was gone. She was home alone. Not wanting to but not sure when she’d have another opportunity to be alone, she raced upstairs to her séance room, still clutching the box.

  Carefully, she put the box on the shelf that held her candles, books, and all the other items connected to her psychic world. She closed the drapes, as she found the semidarkness much more conducive when trying to relax and put herself in a semi-trance. She sat in her usual chair at the wooden table, placed her hands on top, and closed her eyes. Inhaling, then exhaling, she slowly began to relax. Centering on the young woman, hoping to use her psychic energy to discern why the woman felt so lost and so sad, she took another deep breath, freeing herself from the daily details of her everyday life.

  The image came so fast, it startled her. A large number five. In bright red font. Yes, it was font now. She remembered this from using the computers at Dogs Displaced by Disaster, the organization Abby and Chris had started a couple of years ago. The number grew smaller and smaller, then nothing. She tried calming herself by taking more deep breaths. Focusing on the number five, she visualized the number in the bright red lettering, but her mind was as empty as a paper bag. She tried once more and then again and came up with nothing.

  She could only wonder what the number meant, assuming it meant anything at all. She had studied numerology, but only briefly. Glancing at the bookshelf, she saw that she had several books on the topic, most of them unread. Figuring she hadn’t made a connection psychically, she would look at the numbers. Maybe the meaning of number five would jolt her subconscious.

  Taking the first numerology book she saw off the shelf, she thumbed through the pages until a paragraph caught her attention. The number five indicates loss and conflict and, many times, instability. The number five also signifies change and challenges. Sophie closed the book and placed it back on the shelf. While she wasn’t going to place any bets that the girl suffered from any of these possible problems, she wouldn’t rule them out, either, even though nothing indicated that anything significant would lead her in the direction in which she might come up with a specific reason for having experienced those jumbled feelings upon meeting the girl. Not that this was new to her—it had happened numerous times—but more often than not, her visions were followed by an answer.

  “Sophie?”

  “Upstairs,” she yelled.

  She heard a quick succession of thuds coming up the staircase. Walking across the room, she yanked the drapes open. The late afternoon sun dipped behind a scattering of alabaster clouds. The silky green leaves on the old Southern magnolia tree flittered in a breezy dance, and the grayish brown limbs, gnarled like old arthritic fingers, swayed back and forth. A cold front is coming in, she thought as she stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her.

  “Oh, crap,” Sophie said, jumping away from the door.

  “Did I catch you doing something you shouldn’t?” Goebel asked before draping an arm loosely around her waist.

  “If only. No, you just startled me. I heard you coming upstairs, but I wasn’t really paying attention.” Lame but true, she thought as her husband guided her downstairs.

  “My feelings are hurt,” Goebel teased. “I’m going to make a pot of that pumpkin-spice coffee you like so much. Then you can tell me what’s wrong.”

  Damn, she thought! He knew her almost as well as she knew herself.

  In the kitchen, Goebel pulled out her chair and motioned for her to sit while he made coffee. His moves were confident, efficient. A man who knew his way around a kitchen. Sophie smiled. She’d truly married a prince, but she’d keep these thoughts to herself. Couldn’t risk spoiling him any more than he already was.

  Wiping his hands on a kitchen towel, Goebel leaned against the counter while the coffee brewed. “I’m thinking about getting one of those newfangled coffee machines that make one cup at a time.”

  “What’s wrong with the one we have?”

  “Nothing. Just time for a change, is all. Now, before you distract me, tell me what’s bugging you. You didn’t look so hot coming out of your séance room.”

  The coffeemaker gurgled, gave a hiss of steam, then stopped. “Coffee first,” she said, nodding toward the coffeemaker.

 

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