The Counseling (3 page)

He winks at me again. "You're a good kid, Kendall. Don't forget that."

Richie stands, walks down the aisle of the plane, and ... disappears. I gasp at what I witness. It never fails to stir my emotions when a ghost moves into the light and becomes a free spirit. Three more salty tears escape my eyes and I push them aside into my hair. I also let a sigh of relief leave my lungs in a pent-up breath. Worry coats me in an unfashionable garb. If only all of the spirits I connect with could be as amenable and affable as Richie. But there are bad elements out there. Entities that are bitter and hateful ... and hurtful. Those are the ones I can't deal with anymore. How can I know, though, going into it? I hope Oliver Bates and his counselors have an answer for me on how to live my life moving forward. Being psychic is the hand of cards I've been dealt and I have to deal with it. Bad card pun aside.

I let out another long sigh and then I feel a set of eyes on me. The older man across the aisle is glaring at me like I'm a complete idiot. His harsh, overgrown brows are knitted together and he presses his lips into a grimace.

"Young lady, is there something wrong with you?" he asks, obviously referring to my convo with no one that he could see.

"Mister," I say with my mouth hitched to the side, "you have
no
idea."

When my plane touches down in Fresno, I have my emotions in check. At least for the moment. The two-hour crash nap—shouldn't really say
crash
when I'm on an airplane—did me a world of good. I stretch my limbs, rub my eyes, and sit up straight as I wait to deplane. California. West Coast. A different environment. My spring break has officially begun; here I go. The attention now is on this retreat and rediscovering who Kendall Moorehead is and who she needs to be.

Ack ... why am I referring to myself in the third person?

Following a quick potty stop and a call home to let them know I landed safely, I dash through the terminal to baggage claim to get my gray Kenneth Cole bag off the belt. As the conglomeration of suitcases passes by, I take a quick glance through the itinerary I printed from my confirmation e-mail for the retreat. According to the info, a sedan will be picking me up outside of baggage claim and driving me to the Rose Briar Inn. It sounds so lovely and peaceful.

With an adroit heft of my exactly-fifty-pound bag, I pull the handle, drag the rolly beast behind me, and search for the exit for ground transportation. I wonder if the sedan driver will be holding a sign that reads
KENDALL MOOREHEAD
. How cool would
that
be? Like I'm some sort of celebrity showing up for a reality show or—

Oooph!

What the...?

I nearly bust my ass in the middle of the airport but catch myself on my hands before I hit the ground. Phew! I look under me and see that I've fallen over a guitar case that's been left in the walkway. What kind of idiot leaves a guitar out where people can trip over it? The black case is covered in stickers from several cities that the owner must have traveled to, as well as indications of his or her taste in music. I see decals for the Beatles, Rolling Stones, the Doors, Jimmy Buffett, Hall and Oates, Bon Jovi, and Nine Inch Nails. Man, this person is old school when it comes to music.

"Watch where you're going, okay?"

My head snaps up and I snarl, "I wouldn't have to watch where I'm going if you hadn't left your guitar in the middle of the freakin' floor!"

The guy just sits there. A knit cap is over his hair and headphones encircle his neck. His eyes are covered by dark sunglasses and I can't make out any touch of emotion on his face. I get up and my mental fingers stretch to connect with whatever this guy's glitch is, but he's completely unreadable to me. It's like my radar is blocked.

He shifts his long, baggy-jeaned legs and puts his headphones back in place, mumbling something under his breath.

"Ex
cuse
me?"

"I said, the guitar is personally autographed and a collector's item."

Hands on hips, I cop a 'tude back at him. "Then take better care of it."
Jackass.
With that, I turn and walk off.

The sound of the case shuffling against the floor touches my ears, but I also hear him say "Nice language" in a snarky tone. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" he calls.

OMG! He totally heard that? I said it in my head! How did he catch it? Yikes! I put the pedal to the metal and power out of the baggage area, away from him and my wicked embarrassment. Making one last turn, I see him delve into a
Popular Mechanics
magazine as if I were never there.

There's something familiar about him ... only ... not. Must be my psychic energies suffering from jet lag.

I burst into the bright California sunshine and search for the sedan or a sign with my name on it. Thank God I'll never have to run into Mr. Attitude
ever
again.

A
TALL
I
TALIAN-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?"