Chapter Three
A TALL ITALIAN-LOOKING MAN in a finely tailored suit stands outside of a shiny black limo holding a sign that reads MOOREHEAD.
"Is this seriously for me?" I squeak out. I've never ridden in a limo in my life!
"You are Miss Moorehead?"
Trying to make light of it all, I say, "The one and only."
He drops the sign to the hood of the car and swiftly moves to take my suitcase from me. I let him tug it out of my hand; my Spidey senses tell me he's not some vagrant posing in a designer suit just to steal my week's worth of clothing and vitamins.
"Welcome to California. I am Sergio and I am here to drive you to the Rose Briar Inn." He grabs the handle of the limo's rear door, opens it, and waves his hand as if to present the limo to me. I poke my head inside and then slip into the seat.
Whoa. Someone pinch me 'cause I think I'm dreaming.
From the looks of this luxury whip, Oliver Bates knows how to pamper his guests, that's for sure. This retreat must have set Mom and Dad back a pretty penny, with amenities like this.
Sergio closes the door behind me and I hear him stashing my bag in the trunk. I let out a long whistle as I take in my surroundings. Not exactly Mom's twelve-year-old Volvo. The leather interior smells earthy and expensive. I squiggle my butt around to get comfortable and relax into the cushion. A plush red carpet spreads out under my feet. To the left, the bench seat curves around, enough room to hold at least ten people. On the right is a wet bar and a small television. A silver bucket of ice holds designer-label bottles of water; a crystal glass is poised on each side. Next to that is a ginormous basket with apples, grapes, oranges, and granola bars of all flavors.
Sergio rolls down the dividing window between the two of us and flashes a perfectly capped white grin at me. "Are you ready to go now, Miss Moorehead?"
"Umm, sure."
Are you kidding me? I get this limo all to myself? Celia's never going to believe this. I snap a few pics with my cell phone camera just to prove it to her later.
Before I know it, we're maneuvering out of the airport and buzzing up Route 41. Traffic is remarkably light—considering all the horror stories you hear about California highways—so I stretch my legs out and take in the scenery of Fresno that's flying by outside the tinted windows.
The TV blinks awake and I see Oliver Bates from Ethereal Evidence smiling at me. "Welcome to the Enlightened Youth Retreat," he says. "I'm Oliver Bates, your host for the next week. I'm a psychic/medium/sensitive and I'm here to teach you all I know about your higher self and being in touch with the earth elements and the powers you can harness from the metaphysical realm." He continues on to discuss the itinerary for the week ahead, but I sort of tune out as I stare at the screen. Oliver has sunglasses perched on dark brown hair, and his nearly black eyes shine. His hand reaches up to twist his jet-black mustache, much like he does on TV when he's getting the psychic messages from beyond that help him assist police with cold-case homicides and finding missing persons. I can't believe I'm actually going to meet him. I've never met anyone famous before. Unless you count the time that I saw Michael Jordan going into the Chicago Tribune Tower on Michigan Avenue when I was eight years old.
As Oliver continues his welcoming video, I reach over and pour myself a sparkly-dancing glass of San Pellegrino and take a long, enjoyable sip as we speed toward my destination.
Now I'm not so jealous of Celia in Chicago at the Fairmont.
"We're here, Miss Moorehead."
Sergio's accent breaks into the haze of my sleepiness. I sit up in time to hear the tires of the limo crunching over the gravelly driveway of the Rose Briar Inn. I pull my hands through my hair and then rub the back of my index finger under my eyes to wipe away the sleep. Man, winging it to the Wrong Coast totally kicked my rear heinie. I hope I didn't drool or snore or anything like that.
I gather my purse and backpack, and when Sergio opens the door, I scoot out into the ultra-bright California sunshine. He has my suitcase and leads me up the stone pathway to the enormous covered veranda of the manor house. He puts down my bag and leaves. In my peripherals, I see a tabby cat scurry into the bushes, followed by a calico one. I climb the three rock stairs up to the porch and stand next to where Sergio has left my bag.
Yip! Yip! Yip!
Down by my feet is a yappy orange and white dog. His pink tongue lolls to the side as he looks up at me with his remarkably large eyes.
"Hey, boy!" I say, squatting down to his level. His bushy tail waves back and forth like nobody's business and he twists and turns in excitement. I reach for his collar and read Speedy. "Well, hey there, Speedy. Aren't you precious?"
A lick of my hand confirms that he knows he is indeed special.
"Awww ... doosk at the pwecious baby. What kind of doggy are you, Sir Speedy?"
"He's a papillon," I hear from above. A woman in her forties wipes her hands on the front of her flowery apron and approaches me with her hand stretched out. "He's my attack dog. He harasses you with licks and puppy kisses. Isn't that right?"
Yip! Yip!
I stand up from my puppy petting and stretch out my hand to the woman in front of me. "I'm Kendall Moorehead. Here for the retreat. Is this where I check in?" I ask politely.
"Of course it is, hon. That's what I'm here for." Her blue eyes sparkle and I sense nothing but warmth and friendliness from her. "I'm Chris La'Coston. Manager, night clerk, housekeeper, chef, you name it." She pats her short golden hair in pride and motions for me to tag along inside with her.
I grab my suitcase and follow Mrs. La'Coston into the foyer of the massive building and take in my surroundings. I see through a doorway into a large sitting room filled with antique Victorian furniture; there are plump, cushiony couches in an adjoining living room. A roaring fire is going in the fireplace in the sitting room, yet the room isn't unbearably hot. This is not your typical bed-and-breakfast. It's like a bed-and-breakfast on steroids. Along the back wall of the sitting room are massive windows and french doors leading out to a balcony. Through the sparkly windows, I can see down to a conglomeration of small cabins, all built into the mountain, and a yard that overlooks the foothills of the Sierra Nevadas. It's times like this that I wish I were a writer and could pen an amazing tome dedicated to the nature and beauty surrounding me. Sadly, all I can say is this place is frickin' awesome.
"Now, which one are you again?" Mrs. La'Coston asks.
"I'm Kendall Moorehead," I repeat.
A phone rings in the distance. "Well, welcome to Rose Briar, Kendall. Let me just grab that call and I'll get you to your room. Glenn's out helping some of the others get settled."
Without having to be told, I know that Glenn is her husband and he helps her run the inn.
I nod and turn my gaze toward the rising green mountains that literally glisten in the sunlight. Either that or Chris La'Coston has some secret cleaning formula that makes the windows crystal clear. Everything is spotless here and the air is so fresh and clean, I get the feeling it must be what rain tastes like.
"Score!" I hear someone shout and I follow the sound through the french doors and out onto the back deck. An expansive green umbrella shades a glass-topped table with black tiles spread all over it. A young boy sits in one of the wide wicker chairs entertaining himself with a set of dominoes.
I drop my purse and backpack onto the settee outside the door and quietly watch him as he works. The tiles all face down and are scattered about like they don't care. The boy's hand hovers over them as he concentrates with his eyes closed, softly muttering numbers.
"Two sixes," he says softly. Then he flips over the tile and, sure enough, he nailed it!
"Way to go!" I say, unable to hold in my cheering.
He jumps slightly when he hears me. When he spins around, I see he can't be more than thirteen, if that. "Oh, didn't know you were there."
"Sorry," I say. "Didn't mean to freak you out."
His eyes shift to the dominoes and then back to me. "I'm sorta jittery these days."
"I know how that is," I say with a sigh. I'm not going to be the only freak ... errr ... gifted one here this week. "Hey, I'm Kendall."
Sitting tall, the boy says, "Evan Christian Vanderpoel, from Long Beach, California."
That's an awfully big-sounding name for such a little guy, but I don't dare say that out loud. When he frowns at me a bit, I sense he must have read my thoughts. Ah, well ... gotta watch that this week.
"Wanna sit?" he asks.
I pull out the chair next to him and plop down.
Chris La'Coston joins us, announcing her presence with a long sigh. "There now, where were we? Oh, right. We need to get you kids your rooms. One sec!" She rotates on a heel and disappears again.
"I can't imagine running this entire place," I note.
"Me either, but then I never woulda imagined myself at a place like this at all," he says.
I swallow hard. "How long since ... your awakening?"
He shrugs like it's no big deal. "I guess I sorta always knew stuff I shouldn't. It helps me with my schoolwork and tests, but it freaks my mom out. She thinks I've got ADHD or something like that 'cause my mind's all over the place. It's hard to concentrate on any one thing. I've got a bunch of pills the doctor gave me."
I sigh along with him. "My mom didn't take my awakening very well at first, either. I had to do the whole visiting-of-the-shrink thing, complete with blood tests and brain scans. Fortunately, I've avoided medication so far."
He crooks a smile my way. "So have I. I fake taking my pills. Flush a lot of them."
"You go, Evan Christian!"
Speedy joins us on the veranda, waving his fluffy white tail like a flag of surrender. He barks and growls and starts nipping at my new friend's feet. I can see that Evan Christian is a bit uncomfortable with the high-spirited dog, so I invite Speedy to hop up onto my lap. He does willingly, rubbing his bottom against me and flipping over for a tummy rub. I oblige, watching his back left paw shake in delight.
Chris returns with a set of old-fashioned skeleton keys hanging off a long golden cord. "Now, Speedy, don't you bother these teenagers."
"It's no problem," I say, continuing to rub. Speedy flips back over and growls at the mistress of the manor.
She claps her hands at him and says, "Don't you go getting hinky on me, Speedy."
Speedy hops out of my lap and with a derisive grunt trots off to who knows where.
"Come on along," Chris says, waving keys in the air. We follow around the west side of the large inn to a set of cabins lined up. She unlocks the french door and swings it inside. "This here's your room, Evan Christian."
I wait patiently on the path while she flips on lights and escorts him in. There are roses of various colors crawling up a large trellis on the side of the building. Pinks and yellows mix cheerfully with reds and whites. Prickly briars dance around the lovely flowers, a warning not to pick the blooms but just enjoy their beauty and splendor. I breathe in deeply, appreciating the back-to-nature feel of the inn, the majestic mountains providing a scenic backdrop. Oliver Bates couldn't have picked a more magical place to hold his retreat and I'm totally grateful that Mom and Dad sent me here to regroup.
"Okay, now, Kendall. Let's get you settled, sweetheart," Chris says with a wide smile.
We traverse the stone path around to the right, past fenced-in porches and more curtained french doors. The dazzling California sun cuts a guiding light across the ground, leading to cabin 14, where I know Chris will be putting me.
Sure enough, at the door with the glistening gold 14, Chris La'Coston takes the skeleton key and slips it into the lock with a knowing click.
"All you girls will be staying here on the east side," she tells me.
I gasp when I see into the room. Deep mauves and creams accent the lacy décor of the suite. Two double beds sit to the left of the front door, adorned with hand-sewn quilts and mounds of fluffy pillows. To the right, three steps up, is a small kitchenette. An antique rocking chair sits in the corner next to a wooden coat rack and a chest of drawers. My eyes grow wide when I look to the bathroom area to see not only the essentials of modern facilities, but also a curtained Jacuzzi tub.
"Wow," I manage to get out. "This place is amazing. And my own whirlpool?"
Chris smiles. "Oliver likes for his guests to feel at home."
I don't exactly have my own hot tub at home, but what Oliver Bates doesn't know won't hurt him.
"You get settled in and rest up. I'm sure the time change is affecting you some. When everyone gets here, we'll have a nice cookout so you can all get acquainted," Chris says.
When the door closes behind her, I spin around and around in the room and then flop backwards on the closest bed. I sink into the downy softness and it's like being on a cloud, wrapped in angel's wings. Could this mattress be any more comfortable? Can I take it home with me at the end of the week?
"Ahhhhhh," I say to no one and snuggle in, thinking a little more Nappy McNapperton might not be a bad idea after all, to get used to the Pacific time zone.
However, someone doesn't want me to slip into la-la land yet.
Can you help me? whispers out to me.
No. I don't want to hear any more voices today. The guy on the plane totally exhausted me.
Help me...
The weight of anxiety presses against my chest and it's difficult to breathe. I squeeze my eyes shut tight, hoping to block out whatever—or whoever—is speaking to me.
Nope. Not gonna answer. If I pay it no mind, maybe it'll go away.
My ears begin to ring like church bells on a Sunday morning. I do my best to tamp down not only the familiar headache that comes with my psychic visions but the anxiousness churning through my veins. Is this a good spirit or a bad spirit? Does it want to hurt me? Is it begging for help only so it can lure me in and try to harm me?
I start to pick up the place-memory essence of entities that have been here in the past. Are these spirits of the living or the deceased? I have no way to discern that at the moment, nor do I want to.
Grabbing my MP3 player, I loop my headphones on, crank up a Beyoncé remix, and turn the volume to maximum. I press into the mattress, and with an extra tightening of my eyes, I roll on my side and curl up in a ball. The spirits will have to find someone else to help them for now. Not going there.
Not yet.