Ghost a La Mode (35 page)

"Look straight ahead, Mother. Relax your mind and your eyes, release all your thoughts and concerns."

"Is this some sort of meditation exercise?"

"Just do as I say." Emma massaged her mother's temples, willing Elizabeth to see through her eyes. "Do you see anything at the end of the table?"

"No. Wait. Something's shimmering."

Emma looked toward the end of the table. Granny was there, coming into view. "Keep looking, but stay relaxed while you do."

"Oh my, Emma. Is that Granny?" Elizabeth's voice, though barely above a whisper, was filled with awe.

"Yes, Mother, it is."

"I can see her. I can really see her"

"We have another gift for you, Elizabeth," said the ghost.

Another flickering entity started taking shape next to Granny. A smaller image.

"Oh my!" Elizabeth's hand went to her mouth. "It's my Paulie. My dear son."

Emma looked at the ghost of her dead brother as he was when he died at the age of eleven. He was standing next to the spirit of Ish Reynolds, holding her hand.

"Yes, Mother, it's Paulie. He's come to visit, just this once."

The image of the young boy smiled and waved. "Hello, Mother."

Elizabeth slipped a shaking hand over one of Emma's hands as it rested on her face. She squeezed it.

"Thank you, Emma. Once was all I needed."

the end

WHILE THE CHARACTERS IN Ghost a la Mode are fictional, Julian, California, is a very real place. Located in the mountains an hour north of San Diego and about a three-hour drive from Los Angeles, this sleepy tourist destination is a reminder of the colorful history of California's gold rush days in Southern California.

Readers who visit Julian will be able to follow Emma Whitecastle's steps throughout the town, as I have made every attempt to portray it as it really is today, right down to the pay toilets located behind city hall. See firsthand the Rong Branch Restaurant and Saloon, the Old Julian Drug Store, and the Pioneer Museum. Sit in the park where Emma first encountered the ghost of Garrett Bell, and rest on one of the benches nestled among the graves in the Pioneer Cemetery.

There is, however, one character in the book who is not fictional: Albert Robinson. Albert Robinson was a freed slave who came to Julian after the Civil War. Together, he and his wife, Margaret, started a restaurant and built the Hotel Robinson, which is now the charming Julian Hotel, and it is reported that the ghost of Mr. Robinson does indeed haunt the hotel, especially guest room 10.

Read on fora sneak peek at the second book in the

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

THE WOMAN FROLICKING IN the waves was underdressed for November, even for a ghost. Emma Whitecastle watched as the curvaceous, bikini-clad spirit dashed in and out of the waves, as carefree and untouched by the morning cold as a porpoise. Emma, on the other hand, had pulled her jacket together and zipped it up close under her chin. Then she hovered over the cup of hot coffee she'd picked up from a bakery around the corner. She'd had a restless night, tossing and turning most of it, so just after five thirty she dressed quietly in jeans, a sweater, warm socks, and sneakers, and headed for the beach to watch the sunrise, leaving behind a sleeping Phillip Bowers in their hotel room.

It was Thanksgiving weekend. Emma's college-age daughter, Kelly, hadn't come home for the short holiday, opting instead to spend it at a friend's home in Connecticut. Emma's parents were on a cruise through the Panama Canal. Phil's boys were with their mother, and his aunt Susan and uncle Glen were visiting their daughter. That left Phil and Emma to fend for themselves over the four-day holiday. It had been Phil's idea to go away to Catalina. Emma had been to the vacation spot located just twentysix miles off the coast of Southern California many times while married to Grant Whitecastle, the bad boy of TV talk-show hosts. During those times, she'd either stayed in the finest island hotels like the former Wrigley Mansion, now known as the Inn on Mt. Ada, or on the yachts of Grant's show-biz friends. When Phil first proposed the trip, he'd booked them at the Hotel Metropole, but Emma didn't want to stay anywhere she'd stayed with Grant. As Phil ticked off the list of the finest island hotels, Emma had said no to each.

Phil had been frustrated. "You can't go through life avoiding everywhere the two of you traveled. If you do, we'll never go anywhere."

He'd been right, of course. But he hadn't been right about why she felt the way she did.

"Are you sure you're over him?" Phil had asked, the vein in his neck tight like a cord, bracing him for news he didn't want to hear.

Emma's divorce from Grant Whitecastle had been finalized at the end of last year. Technically, she'd become a single woman on January first, just eleven months ago. She and Grant had been separated about a year and a half prior to that, and the marriage had been on the rocks almost from the time he'd hit it big with his tacky, tabloid-style talk show. Even before they'd been formally separated, Grant had impregnated Carolyn Bryant, his B-movie, party-girl mistress. Grant had married Carolyn on the first weekend in the new year in a splashy wedding attended by much of Hollywood. Photos of the bride and groom and their toddler son, Oscar, had assaulted Emma from every supermarket checkout. And that's how Emma knew she was over Grant Whitecastle. The photos elicited nothing from her except pity for Grant, for the life he'd thrown away in his quest for fame and his lust for a sleazy wannabe out to grab any man with a big name and a bigger bank account. He'd lost her, damaged the bond between him and Kelly, even lost the respect of his own parents. He'd pretty much flipped them all the bird-in public.

In spite of her protests, Kelly had attended her father's wedding, reporting back that even though it looked like Hollywood had turned out for the circus event, it was more out of deepseated support and respect for Grant's parents, George and Celeste Whitecastle. George Whitecastle was a multi-award-winning director and producer who counted Clint Eastwood and George Lucas among his closest friends. George's parents, both now dead, had been Hollywood legends. Celeste had been a famous starlet known for her beauty and grace. She'd even been dubbed the next Grace Kelly. But like the late Princess of Monaco, Celeste had given up her budding career for love and family. Emma knew that Kelly's summation was probably correct, that most of the A-list guests at the wedding had been there for George and Celeste. Even though Emma was no longer married to Grant, she was still on the fringe of show business, now having her own talk show on television, and gossip managed to filter down to her. Grant Whitecastle was respected for his runaway ratings, not for himself. The minute those ratings dipped, he'd be kicked aside like a pair of old, worn sneakers, just as he had kicked Emma aside.

No, Emma was over Grant Whitecastle. She'd stopped loving him long before the divorce was final. What she tried to explain to Phil was that she wanted to make new and happier memories with him. Many of her past stays on Catalina had not been happy ones. Even on the small island, Grant had managed to cat around, and many of those luxury hotel rooms had been the scenes of arguments and despair.

It was Tracy Bass, a professor at UCLA and Emma's best friend, who had suggested the Pavilion Lodge, citing it as the best value and location on the island. And it was. Though not luxurious, the hotel was lovely and comfortable and just footsteps from the beach. It suited Emma just fine. And it suited Phil Bowers, who, though a very successful attorney and rancher, was as unpretentious as a pair of worn jeans.

Emma took an appreciative sip of her coffee and studied the ghost playing in the surf. She'd first seen the spirit yesterday. It had been Thanksgiving morning, their first morning on the island. After enjoying coffee and a continental breakfast at the hotel, she and Phil had gone for a morning stroll to explore the beachfront shop windows while the village of Avalon was first stirring. The ghost of the young woman had been sitting on one of the tiled benches, her eyes closed, her pretty face turned toward the slowrising morning sun as if soaking up rays at high noon in July. As they had passed by, the ghost had opened her eyes and looked at Emma with a frank curiosity as solid as the bench on which she sat. She said nothing, but several steps later, when Emma looked over her shoulder, the ghost was still staring after them.

Catalina supposedly has many ghosts in residence, the most famous being that of Natalie Wood. The actress had drowned while yachting off of Two Harbors, the other main town on the island. The accident had occurred over Thanksgiving weekend in 1981, and since then people claim to have seen the ghost of the popular movie star walking the beach. While on the island, Emma hoped to do some research into the local spirits and legends for a seg ment on Catalina on her weekly television talk show on paranormal theories and activities. Catalina had a rich paranormal history dating back to its original Indian inhabitants, and it included colorful stories about the Chicago Cubs baseball team, who used the island as its spring training camp for nearly thirty years, and the heyday of Hollywood, when movie stars like Clark Gable and Errol Flynn used it as a playground.

Emma Whitecastle was fairly new to the world of spirits and ghosts, only discovering her ability to see and speak with them last year, when the ghost of her great-great-great-grandmother, Ish Reynolds, better known as Granny Apples, had come to her for help to prove her innocence in the death of her husband, Jacob. At first skeptical, Emma reluctantly helped Granny and embraced her ability to see and communicate with the dead. It was during her investigation into Granny's death that she'd met Phil Bowers. On a reference from Milo Ravenscroft, the clairvoyant who had mentored Emma, she was offered a chance to host the talk show, the Whitecastle name no doubt giving as much, if not more, weight to the producer's decision about hiring her as her abilities.