Under the Skin (17 page)

Phillip’s eyes were closed again and he was quiet for so long that I thought he’d gone to sleep. Then his eyes opened.

“Did your sister tell you that she’s also been in touch with Arturo recently—that he’s back in the States?”

I was amazed. “No, she didn’t mention it,” I had to admit. On reflection, I realized that the time she called about Brice had been a kind of anomaly. For the most part Gloria had never told me much of anything about her life. Probably because I’d always made it silently clear that I disapproved of both her lifestyle and her taste in men.

Miss Birdie’s words popped into my mind:
A sister’s a
comfort and a treasure in good times … and she’ll always look out for you when times is bad
.

A comfort and a treasure—I’d been neither. And though taking Gloria in when she needed refuge might count as looking out for her in bad times, I’d done it in such an ungracious, unpleasant way that it was small wonder my sister had escaped to Hot Springs at the first opportunity.

Phillip’s head moved in my lap and his mouth opened slightly. His breathing became regular and I knew he was asleep.

Sighing, I closed my eyes again. The day had brought far more self-knowledge than I felt able to deal with. I’d managed to right things with Phillip—or so I hoped. But now—could I learn to be the kind of sister Miss Birdie was talking about?

I resolved that when I went to Hot Springs next week to attend the—I could hardly allow myself even to
think
the words—
Exploration of the Other Side
workshop with Giles of Glastonbury, I would go with an open mind—and a closed mouth. My eyes would not roll; I would not smirk. I would be a loving support to my sister; my actions would be my apology and a new beginning for our relationship.

Tell you what—self-knowledge sucks.

Thursday, May 24

I
don’t know what I’d been expecting—some Merlin-like figure with a blowing cloak and a wizard’s staff, maybe—but Giles of Glastonbury certainly wasn’t it.

I’d just arrived for my long weekend with Gloria at the Mountain Magnolia and was extricating my suitcase from the backseat when a car pulled in next to mine. The window slid down and a mild, slightly rabbit-like face blinked at me.

“Hello—are we meant to park here? I’m staying for the weekend.”

“I’m not sure,” I told him. “I just arrived myself. Are you taking part in the … the workshop?”

“Well, sort of.” He cut his ignition and climbed out, then stood studying the house and stretching as though stiff from long hours on the road. He didn’t look like someone interested in spirit communication. He looked like—oh, an optician, maybe … or an accountant.

My interest piqued, I did a quick covert assessment of the newcomer. Fiftyish, at a guess, of medium height, medium weight, close-cropped sandy hair, he was completely ordinary, from his clothes—brown trousers, tan polo shirt—to his car—beige rental.

Clasping his hands behind his neck, he swiveled his
head from side to side then backward and forward, keeping his eyes fixed on the building before us.

I followed his gaze. The inn, built as a private residence just after the Civil War, had been rescued from dilapidation by its current owners. Set amid beautiful landscaping, it was an impressive piece of restoration, from the five-way paint job—siding a muted light green, accents and ornamental trim in dark green, mauve, mustard, and white—to the arched windows, balcony, and tower topped by a trumpeting angel as weather vane. Scattered over the looming roofline, elegantly shaped lightning rods that incorporated glass balls added a vaguely steam-punkish note. I had to admit it looked like a congenial place—for the living or the departed.

“A lot of sadness there.” The words were half muttered—I didn’t think he meant them for me. But suddenly he brought his neck-stretching exercise to a close and held out his hand.

“So sorry—I’m Giles Mellish—the chap running the workshop. Are you a Seeker—one of the participants?”

I stared at him, openmouthed. Of course the English accent should have been a tip-off. But I’d been expecting someone, well, a bit more exotic-looking. This mild-mannered nonentity, Giles of Glastonbury? Where was the Arthurian aura? Where were the mists of Avalon?

I closed my mouth and took his offered hand. “My sister’s a participant—Gloria … Gloria Hawkins. I’m Elizabeth Goodweather. I’ll be … sitting in. Gloria wanted me with her. But I’m not exactly …”

My sentence dangled as I struggled to define my role and I resorted to a noncommittal shrug.

“No, you’re the skeptical one, aren’t you?” He bobbed his head and smiled. “
You’ll
not be caught up in any otherworldly codswallop, not you.” The words were perfectly friendly but he kept a firm grip on my
hand and stared into my eyes in a most disconcerting manner.

His eyes—what color were they? Gray or brown or neither? They gave nothing away but seemed to be taking in everything. The moment—and it was no more—ended and the eyes released me, just as Giles Mellish released my hand.

“The time may come,” he continued in a matter-of-fact tone, as if advising me on new reading glasses or my tax return, “when you’ll realize that you too are a Seeker. Oh, yes, most definitely.”

“Lizzy!”

There was a cry from the house and I looked up to see Gloria hurrying down the walkway.

“I’m so glad you didn’t back out.” She hugged me and went on at top speed, totally ignoring the inconspicuous man who had moved to open his car trunk.

“The medium—Giles of Glastonbury—is going to be here soon! The innkeeper told me they’d had a call from him and he was just outside Hot Springs. I swear I’m so excited I could wet my pants! I wonder what we call him? At some of the workshops I’ve done, we called the leader ‘Master’ or ‘Sensei’ or—”

“Just Giles would be fine.”

Setting his suitcase on the ground, Giles of Glastonbury advanced on my sister with a quiet smile and outstretched hand. For a moment I thought she was going to curtsy but she recovered herself.

“It’s wonderful to meet you at last. Nigel told me how you …”

Her voice trailed off as the psychic began the eye-lock treatment I had so recently experienced.

It takes a lot to render my sister speechless. Giles accomplished it with one look. I began almost to look forward to the coming workshop.

At last, as he had done with me, the psychic released
Gloria’s hand. “My dear,” he said, “I hope to bring you good news tomorrow—good news and heart’s ease.”

Then, reverting to the everyday, he picked up his suitcase.

“Ladies, a pleasure to meet you. I’ve had a long drive and am ready for a bit of a rest. I believe an introductory session is scheduled for this evening at eight-thirty. So until then.”

And with a polite nod, he made his unremarkable way up the walk and into the inn.

Still silent, Glory watched him go. She seemed to be holding her breath. As Giles of Glastonbury disappeared through the front door, she turned to me with a happy exhalation.

“
Well!
Did you hear what he said? Good news and heart’s ease. Oh, I knew this was going to be just what I need. Do you know, Lizzy, when he was looking into my eyes, there was the strongest feeling of connection … that he was seeing right into my soul. Nigel was right: I’m sure this man is very spiritually gifted. Didn’t you feel it?”

Her eyes were wide and expectant. I grabbed my suitcase and the carrier bag full of reading material I had so optimistically packed.
Loving support
, I reminded myself.
Open mind, closed mouth—that’s your mantra, Elizabeth. Do this for your sister
.

Besides … I
had
felt … something. I was ready to believe that there was considerably more to the mild Mr. Mellish than met the eye.

“I believe you’re right.” I smiled at her, seeing again something of the little sister I remembered from so long ago. “Yes, this is going to be an interesting weekend. I’m glad you asked me.”

I’d heard of the Mountain Magnolia, of course, but this was my first time to see it in person and I was definitely
impressed. As Gloria hustled me inside, through the hall and up the stairs, I caught glimpses of medallioned ceilings, Oriental rugs, shining white crown molding, period furnishings …

“You’re in the Sycamore Room.” Gloria brandished a large key and opened a door. “This was the only room still available—it’s a little small, but the wallpaper reminded me of the room you always stayed in at Gramma’s. I hope you like it.” There was a wistful tone in her voice and I remembered how when she was little she had begged to be allowed to stay at Gramma’s like I so often did.

“It’s lovely,” I assured her. “I know I’ll like sleeping here.” I studied the wallpaper—rich cream with a small green pattern repeated on it. “You know, it could be the exact same pattern that Gramma had.”

Gloria gave a satisfied nod and gestured at my suitcase. “You go on and get unpacked, then come to my room—just down the hall—the Rose Room. We’ll have a glass of wine so you can relax and then maybe we’ll take a walk before dinner, okay?”

Without waiting for my answer, she darted at me, brushed a fleeting kiss against my cheek and whispered, “Thank you so much for coming, Sissy.”

And was gone before I could answer.

Sissy
—that was the first word Gloria had spoken, even before
Mama
, so family legend went. I’d been three when she was born, delighted to have a real live baby doll to play with. And as soon as she could walk, she had toddled after me, a willing pawn in whatever game I might devise.

When did things change—was it when I went to school? Or was it when Papa left and I turned to Gramma for comfort?

I looked again at the familiar wallpaper and felt tears welling up, missing Gramma, missing Papa, missing the
little sisters that Glory and I had been.
It’s not too late. I’ve been given another chance … with Gloria, at least. But I’ll have to take it in baby steps—we’ve grown so far apart and have so little in common—if we ever did
.

The wallpaper pattern swam and blurred in my vision and I turned to unpack my bag and hang my few garments worthy of the attention in the closet. Including the gorgeous silk kimono—this was surely the perfect venue for its debut. I trailed my fingers along its silky surface, marveling again at the shimmering colors.

As I crossed in front of the window to set my reading material on the nightstand, I felt a cold draft and wondered if an unseen air conditioner had just kicked on. Beyond the window was a sycamore tree and a row of gray-green pines
—nothing like the view from my bedroom at home
, I thought but something about the scene held me there. Was that a child, just slipping behind the big tree?

I watched a moment longer without seeing anything more of the elusive form, then recalled that Gloria was waiting for me.

“This is where the old hotel was—actually,
hotels
. There were several back in the 1800s—one after another because they kept burning down. And there was a nine-hole golf course
here
and a little lake over there.”

We were standing on the grounds of the Hot Springs Spa. I knew the history of the succession of grand hotels, the wealthy visitors who’d flocked there, at first by stagecoach, jolting along the Buncombe Turnpike, and later by train, to soak in the healing waters. But Gloria was enjoying the role of tour guide so I nodded and said, “Oh, really?” and “What about that!” and “How amazing!” as she related the history of the spa.

“The old bathhouse is still there but they don’t let people near it—it’s pretty much a ruin. Swan, she’s the
masseuse I’ve been going to, told me that the marble tubs are still there—some of them six feet deep! Now, instead of a bathhouse, they have modern Jacuzzi hot tubs that they fill fresh from the springs—I’ve signed us up for a soak and a massage on Saturday.”

The champagne we had sipped in Gloria’s room had done a thorough job of relaxing me after my supposedly
exhausting
half-hour drive from the farm to the inn. It had also mellowed me out to an astonishing degree, making it easy for me to fall in with Gloria’s plans. But as she chattered of exfoliation with Dead Sea salts and botanical mud wraps with crushed flower petals and hot-stone therapy with smooth, mineral-water-warmed basalt stones, I held up a finger to interrupt her rapturous descriptions.

“What about the workshop with Giles of Glastonbury? When does that happen? If we’re going to be lolling about in mud wraps—”

“Not a problem.” An airy wave dismissed my objections. “The workshop sessions are from nine to eleven in the morning and three to six in the afternoon. And then after dinner there’s another session. There’s plenty of time in the middle of the day for us to have a little ‘me time.’ ”

Me time
is one of those phrases that, especially when uttered by a woman of leisure, make me want to get up on a soapbox and start ranting about the terrible lot of women in various Third World countries, not to mention that of poor women in our own US of A. But such were the calming powers of half a bottle of champagne (
real
champagne, I’d noticed), as well as my resolution to behave, that I merely smiled meekly and said that a visit to the spa would be lovely.

As we wandered about the grassy field where a grand hotel once stood, my eye was caught by a little clump of trees that seemed to be growing around and, in one case,
out of an unusual grouping of shoulder-high boulders. Closer examination revealed narrow pathways into the formation ending at an open center. Wild ferns and grasses clustered about the outer edges of the rocks and thick mosses covered some of the shaded surfaces. The paths and the center were clear except for some litter of dead twigs and fallen leaves.

Nor was there any of the litter I might have expected. This looked like the sort of place that would be a magnet for children—a playhouse or fort, depending on the kids in question.

“Do you know anything about this place, Glory?” She had followed me into the center of the formation where she stood, keeping her distance from the rocks and looking uncomfortable as I peered about, trying to determine what made this place so fascinating to me.