He laughed. “Go ahead, check. Telepathy's more commonplace than most people realize, but I'm not going to get into a fight over it, because you'll believe what you want to believe. We all do. All I'm saying is that telepathy is the most likely reason why ghosts are sometimes seen, heard, or sensed by several people at once. And the experiment I'm suggesting will provide evidence of that.”
“You say this experiment has already been done?”
“More than once. And it's time someone created another ghost and looked into the implications a little further.”
They did so for the rest of lunch, by which time Joanna knew that she had what she was looking for. It took less than twenty minutes to type up her notes for Taylor Freestone and take them into his office that afternoon. He held the few pages limply in his hand as though the effort tired him, then dropped them as he finished reading.
“Go for it,” he said languidly.
Joanna walked out with a sense of triumph. “Go for it” was as close as Taylor Freestone ever came to foaming at the mouth with enthusiasm.
7
Looking back, she saw that her elation at Taylor Freestone's reaction was more than just professional. She now had an opportunity to go on seeing Sam without the formalities of dating and all that that involved. She was surprised when she realized how much she wanted to go on seeing him. Thinking about it, she had to admit that he was certainly one of the more interesting men she'd met, and he wore well the longer she spent with him. She came to see very quickly that he wasn't just an act, a piece of cleverly polished performance art, sustainable for an evening or two, until the routine became stale and repetition set in. What made Sam interesting was his interest in everything. When he spoke it was a process of discovery-as much for him as for his listener. He never taught or lectured. Even when speaking of things with which he was familiar, he would put them together in new ways and find patterns that he hadn't noticed before. He was, on the whole, exhilarating company. And he made her laugh often.
There's a weakness somewhere, she found herself thinking one day when she got home. There always is, there has to be. In the end it'll show, something obvious that I should have seen all along.
Then she stopped herself, ashamed of the distrustful nature that such a thought revealed. That wasn't, she knew, the way she really was.
Nearing thirty, Joanna had behind her a love life that she liked to call “mature”-which she defined as having more good memories than bad, her only regrets being not things she'd done but some of the things she hadn't. She wasn't yet consciously thinking of any kind of permanent relationship. She'd tried that once-a live-in affair that had lasted three years, until he'd met somebody else. They had parted without bitterness. She came to realize very quickly that she had liked Richard more than she had loved him, and had secretly rejoiced to have her freedom back.
That had been eighteen months ago. Since then she had been alone, except for a brief but romantic liaison with a French diplomat at the UN who turned out to be rather more married than he'd led her to believe. For the past six months she'd missed him more than she'd cared to admit, so her interest in Sam brought her, at the very least, the assurance that she was over Jean-Pierre.
Yet she knew no more about Sam now than she had after their first lunch together. She had no idea whether he'd ever been married or whether he was still married, though there was no evidence of any family life either in his conversation or in the odds and ends, postcards and snapshots, scattered about his untidy office. She had broached the question obliquely once by asking him whether he had any children, but had received only a simple “No” in reply. On one occasion he'd let slip that he'd been at Princeton, but she knew nothing about his family or even where he'd been born.
The idea crossed her mind that she could always formally interview him and find out everything she wanted to know. After all, if she was writing a story about his work she would have to write something about the man. But she dismissed the possibility at once, annoyed to find herself in such a state of mind that she would even consider such devious strategies.
She hadn't been prepared for this at all.
The phone rang just after seven and brought her groggily out of a deep sleep. It was her mother, full of apologies for calling so early but making the excuse that she'd tried three times in the last two days and always got her machine. She hadn't left a message because there wasn't anything special. She just wanted to talk.
Joanna could tell that something was wrong. Or at least that there was something on her mother's mind. She asked her what it was.
There was a hesitation at the other end of the line, followed by an uncharacteristic awkwardness in her mother's voice as she said, “Darling, I know it's silly, but I've had the most terrible dream about you three nights running. Are you all right?”
Joanna assured her that she was perfectly all right, and asked her to describe her dream.
“There's really not much to it, and it makes no kind of sense that I can figure out. All I know is that it's night, and it's raining very heavily outside, and I'm here alone waiting for your father to get back from work. Then something happens-I don't know what-but suddenly you're outside banging on the door trying to get in, but I won't let you. For some reason I'm terrified and have to keep you out. You're screaming and I'm hiding somewhere, terrified, and I can hear this pounding rain the whole time and…it's awful.”
Her mother's voice broke slightly, but she pulled herself together and said, “I'm sorry. I told you it was ridiculous. But I've had it three times now, and it's got me really worried.”
Again Joanna promised her that there was nothing to worry about, but the fact that her mother was so upset bothered her. Despite the fact that Joanna was an only child, Elizabeth Cross had never been an anxious or overprotective mother. This kind of thing was totally unlike her.
“It doesn't make any sense to me either, Mom. But there has to be some reason for the dreams we have. Have you told Dad about it?”
“Each time I have it I wake him up, moaning and crying out. He doesn't know what to make of it either.”
They were both silent a moment. Joanna could feel that her mother was feeling better just for having spoken to her. “You know what, Mom?” she said, trying to lighten the mood a little. “It sounds to me like you're hiding something from me, something you don't want me to see and feel bad about. Have you done something outrageous to your hair, or what?”
Her mother managed a brief laugh, slightly forced. “I've looked at it every which way, and I can't figure it out. Why would I ever feel about my own daughter that I can't have this person in the house? What could you have done?”
“Jesus, Mom, I hate to think. But whatever it is, I haven't done it.”
Another pause. Then Elizabeth Cross said, “Maybe I feel somehow that you're hiding something from me, and I'm, you know, resisting whatever cover-up you're giving me.”
“I'm not giving you any cover-up.”
“You're not working on some story like that last one, are you?”
Joanna's mother, for some reason, had been deeply uneasy about Joanna's involvement with the phony psychics at Camp Starburst. She hadn't known until after the event that her daughter had been in there alone, undercover. “Those kind of people are evil and dangerous,” she'd said. “I'm shocked that the magazine let you do that. Call me superstitious if you like, but I think that kind of thing is best left alone.”
“I'm working on a story about a psychologist at the University of Manhattan,” Joanna said, uneasily conscious of not telling quite the whole truth, but knowing it was wiser for the moment to withhold further details.
They talked awhile longer as Joanna got out of bed and went through the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. Gradually their conversation took on its usual half-joking, half-serious tone as Elizabeth's fears receded. “Any movement in your love life?” she asked after a while. “Not that I'd want to seem like I was prying, of course.”
“Oh, Mom, nobody would ever accuse you of prying.”
It was a running gag between them, one that allowed either to “cut to the chase” whenever they saw fit.
