Incredible Dreams (16 page)

Standing, she straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat, hoping to ward off any remaining insecurities.

Deep breaths seemed to calm her fears and recharge her energy. She crossed the room, coaching herself that she could get through this seemingly never-ending turmoil, and sashayed out into the hallway.

Familiarity, or maybe it was etiquette that guided her toward Jeannie, although she couldn’t help but scan the crowd in hopes of seeing Jack in some remote corner.

Again, no such luck.

She forced a practiced smile, settling her sights on Jeannie. George leapt to his feet when he saw her, reminding Izzy of a pop tart. Jeannie had made the suggestion, and Izzy could see George was all for it. Her lips stiffened into a hardened, forged smile, she fought the urge to run in the other direction. A pairing with George, more than anyone else, would infuriate Jack.

But neither George nor Jack was the issue. She was married, and not to either of them. She’d told her sister time and again she wasn’t interested in any more extra-marital affairs. Why wasn’t Jeannie listening?

She nodded at George, her greeting polite yet distant. There was no verbal “hello” as she sat down. After a second or two she reclaimed her gaze, guided her attention toward her sister and let it settle there. “Jeannie, what brings you all to the Cool Cat?” She didn’t try to disguise her annoyance with her sibling in front of the others.

Jeannie squirmed in her chair. Probably a reaction to Izzy’s tone freezing a glacial shell around her—and Izzy hoped it was making her uncomfortable.

“Well, I’ve been telling George and Paul about your beautiful voice and they expressed a wish to hear you sing.” Jeannie delivered her statement, her confidence flourishing. With her convincing powers of persuasion, she weaved her excuses into reasoning that was hard for anyone to reject.

Izzy’s stoic expression gave away none of the thoughts running through her head. Whether Jeannie knew it or not, George had already been introduced to Izzy’s
voice
.

“Actually,” George said, his eyes glued to Izzy, “I have had the pleasure. Pure heaven, I tell you.” His flirtatious grin almost succeeded in drawing her in but somehow she managed to repel its allure.

Going from one extreme to the other, now turned off by it, she laughed at his momentary seductive appeal and glanced away. Disapproval grumbled up her throat. She tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress it. Izzy pushed herself up from the table, wanting to get away from George and his unwanted gestures.

“Well, duty calls.” She lingered at the table for a moment, acknowledged each of them with a polite smile, then turned and walked away.

Jeannie watched Izzy disappear into the hallway. She let her attention linger on the corridor long after the girl was gone. Her
little sister
was not going to be as easy a mark as Jeannie had once thought. Assuring success would call for drastic measures.

She needed to get rid of Paul, her date, at least for a minute or two. A mysterious darkness clouded her vision. Her persuasive powers reached out and touched his mind. Once she knew she had him, she offered him a graceful smile.

Paul leaned toward her and caressed her shoulder. His fingertips trailed a sensuous path down her bare arm. “I’ll be back,” he whispered against her ear.

Jeannie’s gaze, both probing and precautious, followed him as he left. When Paul disappeared around the corner, she pushed him to the back of her mind and shifted in George’s direction to focus her attention on him. She had to do damage control, thanks to Izzy’s surliness. Jeannie didn’t understand it. Usually her suggestions worked so well.

But Isabelle Miller seemed to have a natural aversion to Jeannie and her persuasion.
Oh, well
. This may turn into a contest of wills, which Jeannie was certain she’d win easily. In the meantime, she’d keep issuing her suggestions, never relenting. Her persistence would pay off. Sooner or later, Izzy would crumble and succumb to her persuasion.

Steadfast persistence. That’s the main reason Jeannie had never failed. She didn’t know how to fail. And this time when she delivered the goods—Isabelle Miller’s soul right alongside Jack Baker’s—Satan would reward her handsomely.

Maybe he’d let her train her own recruits. Besides, nobody was better at “snatching”. She could write a book on the art of the steal. Given her own command, Jeannie’s troops would be unprecedented. Hers trainees would turn out to be the most successful snatchers ever, which could land her a seat on the throne beside Satan.

The possible scenario sent excitement charging through Jeannie. That kind of recognition was as good as an otherworldly orgasm—something far too intense for mere mortals.

She turned to George, folding her arms across the table. “Doesn’t my sister look pretty?” She batted her eyes at him, still marveling at how easily that always worked.

He shrugged a minor response of agreement. His lack of enthusiasm alarmed Jeannie. She studied him, seeking answers without saying a word.

George willingly gave them. “She doesn’t appear to be interested in me.”

“Of course she’s interested in you.” Jeannie slipped her hand underneath the table, resting it on George’s knee. “She’s just worried about being discreet. That’s all.” She dared to inch her way up his thigh.

A haughty chuckle poured from George’s mouth. He wrapped his hand over hers, leading the way. “Convince me.” His determination bore into her calm demeanor, but it didn’t get the best of her.

If he wanted convincing, Jeannie was prepared to do just that. Right here. Right now. But first, she had to get rid of Paul. And after that, she had to slip the incident past Izzy. Asking her to share might be pushing her luck.

Upon Paul’s return, Jeannie easily and silently persuaded him of an ensuing headache. As his pain increased, Paul excused himself, importuning George to see Jeannie home. Getting rid of him had taken little effort.

H
ours later, after ensuring that George stayed on the line, Jeannie made her way home. She treaded quietly up the stairs. Careful not to make too much noise, she eased the door open. The knob felt cold and clammy against her hand, sending a chill shuddering up her arm. She tiptoed across the room, slipped her shoes off and crept toward Izzy’s small, twin-sized bed.

“Izzy?” she murmured, holding her shoes at her side.

Nothing.

She hesitated, hunched over and glimpsed into Izzy’s face. Should she call her name again? Relenting, she spoke just above a whisper, “Izzy.”

Still nothing.

Good
. Chances were she was sleeping soundly. Jeannie couldn’t decide if she wanted Izzy awake or asleep. Although she had use for both. Since she appeared to be crashed, Jeannie decided to replant suggestions, promoting a sexual relationship between Izzy and George, into Izzy’s mind again.

Deciding to use telepathy as her means of communication, Jeannie smoothed her dress and sat down on the bed next to Izzy.

George
. She closed her eyes to gather the immense power she needed for projection. Her mind turned into a sponge, sucking energy from every possible outlet. Once her soul was consumed with the power, she fluttered her eyes open, wanting to look at Izzy now.
You want George. You want to flaunt him in Jack Baker’s face
.

Izzy began to stir.
Whoa
. Jeannie stiffened, leaning back. This was worse than she thought. She exhaled blowing her frustration out, and Izzy opened her eyes.

Izzy yawned and cleared her throat. “When’d you get in?” She repositioned her pillow, batted her eyes, and as each second passed, she looked more and more awake.

“Just now.” Jeannie let her shoes fall from her hands. They hit the floor with a thud. She ignored it, propping her feet up on the bed rails. “I’m going away for the weekend...up the coast.”

“Really?” Izzy’s gaze, curious and guarded, studied her for a moment. “Where exactly? And with whom?”

“Paul.” Jeannie’s half-answer was intentional. It helped her contain the erratic smile and hold it inside. She couldn’t celebrate—not at this time—even if this was her most brilliant ploy yet. Izzy would never see it coming. But for now, she had to play the dutiful sister. “You be okay here while I’m gone?” she asked, reinforcing that role.

Izzy laughed. “I’m a big girl, Jeannie. I think I can take care of myself for a few days.”

“Well, I wasn’t sure if I should leave you, what with the amnesia and all.” Her false concern for Izzy oozed out with her words.

“Jeannie...I have amnesia, but I’m not helpless,” Izzy countered, animosity rising in her tone. She exhaled, blowing it out. “Go...have your weekend of illicit fun.” She laughed, easing the tension.

Well, all right
. Jeannie’s expression remained stoic. Mortal sex was a good distraction, but couldn’t compare to sex in the afterlife, or, sitting on the throne next to Satan.

CHAPTER 19

FEELING RELIEF over Jeannie’s trip was bad—even if it was for just the weekend—but Izzy didn’t care. She was thrilled for the chance to be alone again. But, why would anybody rather be alone? No matter what, her subconscious seemed to prefer seclusion.

Watching Jeannie and Paul drive away, something told Izzy she should be concerned about her sister running off on such an open and illicit weekend romp. She pushed her anxiety aside, too happy to see them go, and waved goodbye.

Screw Jeannie’s reputation.

The car turned the corner and disappeared. Shivering, Izzy snuggled into the shawl draped around her shoulders. She strode through the front gate and on into the yard. A troubled sky with dark and menacing clouds blocked out the sun.

It looks like rain
. She gave the inclement weather nothing more than a second’s notice. A passing thought. She didn’t care. It could rain all day, all weekend for that matter.

Izzy hurried up the meandering pathway, sprinted up the front steps and made a bee-line for the porch swing. Using gentle foot action, she propelled herself back and forth and plotted her weekend of solitude.

She envisioned a long, hot bubble bath before going to the Cool Cat later that night.
Hm
... With a newfound determination, she hurried upstairs and searched the small apartment to see if she could find any bath oils.

She found nothing. Perhaps she’d buy some while doing a bit of shopping tomorrow, saving the bubble bath for later. For now, she settled on a shower.

T
he idea of a bubble bath stayed with Izzy throughout the night and well into the next morning. Deciding not to fight it, she dressed in a midnight-blue silk and wool-blend suit. She pinned her hair back, dusted on some powder and eye shadow and painted on some red lipstick. She grabbed her purse and all but skipped out of the apartment and down the stairs. Izzy breezed past Dottie before the elderly landlady could delay her outing.

Taking advantage of the fair weather and warm temperatures, she walked the few blocks to Woolworth’s. Izzy was mildly hungry and the store’s lunch counter became the first stop on her unwritten agenda.

After dining on a burger and fries, she shopped the five and dime for items to make the bubble bath a reality. Izzy found nothing that could remotely be considered a bath oil, much less a satisfactory substitute. Epsom Salts was the only thing that came close, and she didn’t want to go there. Instead, she went in search of a salesperson.

Or “clerk” as the store’s manager was quick to inform as he pointed in the direction of a chirpy blonde behind the perfume counter.

Izzy approached her and put on what she intended as a friendly, polite smile. “Good afternoon. I was wondering if the store carries bath oils or any kind of bubble bath products.” She paused, and the girl gave her a wry, baffled look. “I’m in desperate need of a Calgon moment.” She giggled anxiously, unsure of where that came from, and looked to the girl for an answer.

“A Calgon moment?” The clerk repeated Izzy’s words. Her confused expression said it all. She didn’t have a clue about Calgon, much less ‘
the moment
’. Then again, neither did Izzy. A look washed over the girl’s face, one that said she prided herself on always having all the answers. “You could check Marshall Field’s,” she suggested, pointing a knowing finger off to the right. “They might have what you’re looking for.”

They might. But somehow she doubted it. They might be more upscale, which wouldn’t take much to rise a step or two above a five and dime, but still, she got the feeling that no one was going to know or understand what she was talking about.

Hell, not even she understood.

These seemingly strange thoughts that kept popping into her head was frustrating. And the fact that no one else knew what she was talking about didn’t help. Still, she had the good sense not to openly draw attention to herself.

“Thanks, I’ll try there,” Izzy said, as if it were the natural thing to do. She turned on a heel and walked away.

She wandered through the store, appearing to browse the retailer’s goods. The façade, a pretense of shopping, was effective in hiding the inner turmoil brewing inside her thoughts.

Was she crazy?

So far, two different and seemingly dead people had appeared to her on two separate occasions—people that no one else saw. One had even talked to her and told her how he died.

To make matters worse, when she tried to touch the self-proclaimed ghost, to expose his ruse, her hand had slipped right through his body.

She talked about things that no one else knew anything about—like movies and music. And yet, she had no real memory of the odd things that popped into her head. It was enough to make a girl worry about her sanity.

There was only one thing that could help. Izzy wanted comfort food and she’d been ecstatic to have found some at Woolworth’s. Tootsie Rolls.

While she had no clear-cut memories before Jack, the sight of the candy sparked some internal cue that sent her senses reeling.

The chocolate melted in her mouth. She savored the taste, texture and scent of the succulent morsel. The entire experience of eating a piece of candy delighted her senses. God! It was so good. And so familiar.

Izzy lost count of the number of pieces she ate on the walk home. Good thing she’d purchased a couple of generous handfuls. She rounded the corner of Fifth and Elm and popped another mini-morsel into her mouth. She rolled up the brim of the paper bag and tucked it inside her purse as the boarding house came into view.

Dottie, Izzy’s landlady, met her at the door. The woman’s face looked pale, pasty and washed-out. The fear in Dottie’s eyes grabbed hold of Izzy.

“What’s wrong?” Izzy asked.

“It’s your sister.” Dottie snatched Izzy by the wrist and dragged her inside. “There’s been a car accident. She’s in a hospital up near Santa Barbara.”

“What?” Izzy paused. Reality swirled around her senses but it didn’t quite catch on.

“You must go to her.” Dottie latched onto Izzy’s upper arms and led her toward a table near the entrance. The landlady held onto her with one hand and rifled through a drawer with the other, pulling out a set of keys. “Here.” She shoved them into Izzy’s hand.

Izzy wrapped her fingers around the cool metal keys and studied Dottie’s face for some clarification. All Izzy could do was shake her head.

“Take my car.” The landlady pushed her toward the door.

“But what if I need to stay overnight?” Izzy braced herself against the doorway.

“You stay there as long as you need...until you can bring Jeannie home.”

“I’ll probably need a suitcase.” Izzy used every argument that popped in her head as a means of stalling and putting off the inevitable.

“Of course.” Dottie changed directions, urging Izzy upstairs. “No time to waste. You must go now. Hurry.” Dottie swatted Izzy’s backside as she trotted up the stairs.

Feeling like a scolded child, Izzy raced around the room and threw random articles of clothing into a primitive suitcase she found under the bed. She’d thought the locks were too large and hard to manage. Again, she was faced with something that seemed foreign and really dated.

Izzy ordered her thoughts to center on her sister’s welfare instead of the odd suitcase. That was what she was supposed to do, wasn’t it?

O
perating Dottie’s car turned out to be quite the task. When did driving become such a chore? Izzy was fairly certain she knew how to drive, but controlling this big old boat was another matter. In the rural environs she gathered the courage to increase the speed a little—to thirty miles an hour.

Where in the hell were the speed limit signs anyway? She hadn’t seen a single one in town, and now that she’d driven for almost an hour out in the country, she still hadn’t seen sign one.

The steering wheel jerked in her hands and the car banged and clanked. Izzy let off the gas, somehow knowing what was wrong. Flat tire.

“Damn it,” she muttered through gritted teeth and navigated the car to the shoulder of the road.

What else can go wrong today?
Don’t ask
, breezed through her thoughts as she stepped outside the vehicle.

She checked the driver’s side tires, first the front and then the back. Both were fine. She strolled around the car, knowing what she’d find—the front passenger’s side was as flat as a day-old opened can of soda.

Can of soda? Izzy shook the odd thought out of her mind. She had more urgent things to worry about. Like a flat tire.

“This sucks.” She charged back to the driver’s side, where she dipped inside and grabbed the keys from the ignition. She climbed out, slammed the door and stormed toward the back of the car. The key slid into the lock easily and the trunk popped open slightly. She had to put some muscle into it to pry it open further.

“What the...?” She glimpsed inside the trunk but it appeared empty.

Izzy leaned in, half her body disappearing inside the humongous compartment. She examined the edges, looking for a way to open the obviously secret section that she hoped was hiding a spare and a jack.

When she finally uncovered what she was looking for, the tire was heavy and she struggled to lug it from its hiding place. The jack was bulky and hard to handle and just plain weird.

After several tries, and ominous failures, Izzy tossed the jack to the ground and plopped down against the side of the car. Frustrated, she sighed, studying the black grease and smut covering her hands and forearms. She searched for a clean spot, finding a small one on the back of her right forearm and used it to swab her forehead.

Wallowing in self-pity didn’t appeal to Izzy. She pushed herself up and returned to the trunk in search of something to clean her hands.

She found a rag lying in the corner and used it to scour her hands and arms, but turned them more red than clean. Accomplishing nothing more than blending the smudges together, she tossed the rag back into the trunk, swiveled around and settled against the car. She folded her arms. Which way led to the nearest civilization?

She heard the approaching automobile before she saw it rounding the curve. Panic only had a second or two to resonate before recognition chased it down the road in the other direction.

George. For once, she was glad to see him. Izzy pushed off the car and waved. The vehicle slowed, stopping behind Dottie’s sedan. Izzy tucked her fingertips into the back pockets of her jeans, Levi’s she’d bought in the men’s department at Marshall Field’s.

George emerged from his car with a big smile spread across his face. “Having car trouble?” His gaze darted back and forth between Izzy and the crippled automobile.

“Flat tire.” Izzy struggled to stifle the helpless laughter building inside.

“Well then, it’s a good thing I came along.” He pranced toward her like a peacock trying to attract a mate. “I guess your daddy never taught you how to change a flat, huh?”

“I couldn’t figure out how to use the jack.” Vulnerability and frustration knotted inside her. Maybe he was right. Maybe no one had ever thought that she, a girl, needed to know how to change a tire. She learned a valuable lesson at that moment—when and if she ever had children, her sons would not be the only ones taught self-sufficiency.

George picked up the pieces of the jack off the ground, reassembled them effortlessly and jacked up the car. She developed a newfound respect for his muscular arms, they handled the job of changing the tire with ease.

Heat rose in her cheeks and Izzy didn’t like it. What the heck? He was a handsome guy. She didn’t dispute that. But he wasn’t her type. Disco wasn’t her thing either, but she didn’t mind listening to it occasionally.

What the hell is disco
? She blew out an audible grunt and perched her hands on her hips.

George glanced over his shoulder, giving her a quick once over as he tightened the last bolts securing the tire in place. “Everything okay?”

“Thanks to you. What are you doing out here anyway?” she asked as he stood up.

“I’ve been ordered to Montecito, to check on Paul North.” He paused a moment, sorrow saddening his eyes. “I heard your sister was with him. I’m really sorry about that.”

A touch of guilt washed over Izzy but failed to saturate her in remorse. Damn, what kind of person was she? George was showing more compassion and concern for Jeannie.

Izzy couldn’t help the way she felt. She was going to Jeannie because of an obligatory sensation nagging at her, not because she was afraid of losing her sister. No matter what anyone said or did, Jeannie was a stranger. One Izzy felt no connection with.

“So, ah, since we’re headed the same way...mind if I follow you?” She felt a little nervous under his examining eye.

“Why don’t you come with me and I’ll have someone come get Mrs. Barton’s car and take it back to her.” He suggested politely enough, but Izzy didn’t trust him.

Izzy knew it was a bad idea, but she didn’t relish the thought of being stuck in the middle of nowhere any longer. “You sure?” She questioned herself as well as George.

“We don’t have any more spares for this car.” He gestured to her landlady’s automobile. “It would be irresponsible of me to let you drive it any farther. Besides, you’ve got more important things to worry about right now.”

Izzy knew he wasn’t talking about Jack Baker. Still, that’s the only thing that had taken up residence in her mind.

G
eorge tried to limit his sneak peeks to quick glances at Izzy. He didn’t quite understand her. Not only was she beautiful, but she was such a sweet girl. Her promiscuity and blatant disregard for her husband tainted this otherwise perfect woman.

Her flaw didn’t affect or bother him one way or another. Married women were the safest kind. George liked that he didn’t have to worry about the morning after, spurned lovers, talking his way out of uncomfortable situations. Married gals were always eager to skip out before dawn to preserve their reputation. And that suited him fine.

George intended to add Izzy to his long line of conquests. He marveled at the prospect of comparing the two sisters’ carnal knowledge. He liked the idea of labeling one better than the other.