Things I can’t explain.”
A sudden electric silence on the telephone. “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry. I know those… things. I have them living in my house. You be careful. Those things can be difficult on the soul.”
“Folks are going to miss her,” the pretty woman said in the here and now, her smile going melancholy. “Most of us played in her garden at one time or another.”
Tucker remembered his own time there, stalking imaginary lions in the jungle of domesticated flowers that ran riot over what must have been ten acres of property. All of the people wearing strange clothes, walking through the benches and over the lawn. He was pretty sure he was the only one who had those memories, though. He’d eventually figured that seeing ghosts was part and parcel of the whole empathic gig. It had taken having a lot of “imaginary friends” until he’d been about thirteen and figured it out, but whatever. His parents had only visited Ruth a handful of times when he was a kid, but she’d always had cookies—the good kind, with chocolate. None of that persimmon crap either.
Ruth had been sweet—if eccentric. He’d always had the feeling that she had a particular ghost of her own to keep her company, but if so she hadn’t mentioned his name.
“I didn’t know the garden was a whole-town thing,” he said. A town the size of Foresthill probably had a lot of close-knit traditions.
“Well, my grade school class anyway,” the girl said with a shrug.
The skinny high school kid with spots and an outsized nose who was waiting the few tables in the place came up to them. “Hiya, Miz Fisher. Can I get you anything?”
She smiled again, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. “A diet soda, Jordan.” She gave one of those courtesy smiles to Tucker. “Ruth Henderson’s nephew seems to have taken care of my meal.”
Jordan nodded, gazing at “Miz Fisher” with nothing short of adoration. “I’ll get you the soda for free,” he said, like he was desperate for her approval. “It’s not every day your English teacher just strolls in on your watch in the middle of July.”
Poor Miz Fisher. Her courtesy smile crumbled, and what was left made Tucker’s heart wobble. There was a reason he hadn’t quit on life after his second attempt to ignore his empathic gift had backfired so horribly. This woman was part of it.
“Former English teacher,” she reminded Jordan gently. “Remember? They had to cut the staff this year.”
Jordan’s smile disappeared. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “Sorry, Miz Fisher. I’ll go get your soda.” He wandered away, the dispirited droop of his shoulders telling Tucker everything he needed to know about how much this woman—homegrown by the sound of things—had been appreciated by her community.
“Lost your job?” Tucker prompted. “Miz Fisher?”
“Dakota,” she said, taking another fry. “Dakota Fisher. And yeah.”
Tucker knew that wasn’t all there was to the story. He cut her hamburger into bites and handed her a fork. He might not have known squat about this town, but he was on his own turf now.
BY THE time they left the restaurant, he knew how much Dakota loved teaching. By the time they got to her tiny cottage and got their clothes off, he knew how much she loved her hometown and her parents and the kids she’d grown up with. And helping people.
By the time they fell asleep, sated and naked, she knew what she had to do. It wasn’t what Tucker would have predicted, not at all, but it was right for her.
That’s what Tucker did—what was right for other people. Because the results of doing what was right for him were too awful to face again.
WHEN THE simple white-walled room was still gray with predawn chill, he opened his eyes and blinked.
Damie?
No. It couldn’t be.
But the young man sitting cross-legged on the foot of Dakota Fisher’s bed looked like Damien Columbus. Dark blond hair, freckles, full lips, green eyes—so many superficial details were there that Tucker could be forgiven for the quick gasp of breath.
He blinked hard, then got hold of himself and took in the nuances.
No—this person had a slightly more delicate jaw, a pointier chin, and his eyes were… well, Tucker had never seen eyes the actual shade of bottle glass outside of contacts and anime cartoons.
And whereas Damie had worn skinny jeans and tank tops—looking as twinky as possible for a guy who’d professed to be straight until… don’t go there, Tucker—this guy was wearing basic 501s