now, too. “I’d like to fix the attic up into an office. Would that be something you’d be able to do?”
Bobbie beamed. “Honey, I have the feeling this is the start of a beautiful friendship.”
They knocked together the paper cups of Diet Coke.
Chapter 4
The full moon glowed in a cloudless night, giving off almost enough light to make it seem like midday. He trudged through the dunes, looking from side to side. Her note had said she’d be here, but there was no sign of her anywhere.
“She’s playing you for a fool,” went through his mind, and he kicked at the yellow sand in frustration. Why would she meet him? What did he have to offer her other than his love? He was crazy to think she would actually come. It had been a trick, something for her to laugh about with her friends later—the dumb fisherman she’d duped into meeting her at the dunes, who probably waited all night in vain for her to appear. But he couldn’t just take the chance and leave. What if he was wrong, and he missed a chance to see her? To talk to her? To look into her beautiful eyes and hold her in his arms, maybe even kiss her?
No, that was too much to hope for. A girl like her, who could have her choice of men, would never share a kiss with the likes of him. Which was exactly why she wasn’t here. He was a fool to think—
“Hello,” she said as she stepped around into sight. “I didn’t think you would really come.” Her face was smiling.
He gave out a sigh of relief, and gave her his warmest smile. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to come.”
“It wasn’t easy to get out of the house. They’re watching me like a hawk.” She made a face. “No one can know I’m meeting you.” She stepped forward and took his hand. Hers was moist with sweat, and he brought it to his lips and kissed it. She smiled up at him, and put her arms around him, clinging to him. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand it.”
“We’re together now, that’s all that matters.”
“If he finds out, he’ll kill us both.” She tilted her head back. “I’m frightened, Samuel. Really and truly frightened. There’s something—” She broke off, her eyes wide. “Did you hear that?”
He had heard it, and the goose bumps rose on his arms. Someone was coming.
“We’ve got to hide!” she whispered, her head turning from side to side frantically. But they were out in the open, on the beach—anyone coming through the dunes would see them clearly.
She broke away from him and started to run back through the dunes without waiting for him. With a sigh, he started after her—
—and then he heard an earsplitting scream.
A clap of thunder woke Chris with a start.
He sat up in bed, sweating. Rain pelted against his bedroom window, which rattled in the wind. His heart was pounding. The clock on his nightstand showed just past eight—an hour before his alarm was set to go off. “Just a dream,” he said out loud, “just a dream.”
He took several deep breaths. His heart rate was slowing down. He got up, stretched, and walked into the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, he tried to remember the dream he’d been having. The vestige of fear he’d felt was starting to drain away as his mind cleared. It hadn’t been as bad as the trampoline dream, but he’d just as soon not have it again.
It’s her fault, he thought as he washed his face. All that nonsense about being possessed—she’s a nutcase for sure.
He hadn’t seen her since. He knew he should just forget about her, but somehow he couldn’t get her out of his mind. You’re being a dork, she said she didn’t want to go out with you, and why would you want to go out with a nutcase anyway? Do you think a nutcase is the only kind of girl who’d go out with you?
He’d spent the rest of the day doing mundane things—helping his father trim the rosebushes, taking out the garbage, cleaning the house—but try as he might, he couldn’t forget the look on Jessie’s face when she’d said those crazy things to him.
After dinner, he went to his room and watched MTV for the rest of the night—they were running a Road Rules marathon—but still he couldn’t get her out of his head. The look in her eyes was so haunting. Finally he signed on to the Internet and did a search for “possession.” As he clicked through the Web sites, he only became more and more convinced she had to be crazy. Demonic possession was just like werewolves, witches, vampires, and ghosts—remnants of a superstitious past when science wasn’t evolved enough to explain the unusual. Finally, he’d given up and gone to bed.
He’d gone back to the library the next day and checked out one of her father’s books—Philip Kaye’s Missing Pieces. So famous they’d actually stuck his name in the title. He took it down to the beach and sat directly on the sand as he started reading it. The protagonist was a teenaged boy who lived at a boarding school and saw ghosts. Chris kept reading, paying no attention to the time. Philip Kaye was a good writer—the young hero reminded him a lot of some of the kids at More Prep. Five hours passed while Chris read, hooked into the story—and his mother had been furious when he got home with the book under his arm.
“Where have you been?” she demanded. “I was worried sick!” She liked to track his every movement. “You know you’re supposed to call if you’re going to be late.” Her lips were compressed tightly, the lines in her forehead prominent.
“I lost sense of time,” he replied. “I was reading, down at the beach. I don’t see what the big deal is.”
Her mouth opened and closed a few times; then she grabbed the book out from under his arm and examined the jacket. “You were reading this?” Her eyes narrowed. “This is trash, Chris!” She handed him back the book. “How many times have I told you not to read this kind of garbage?”
He stuck out his jaw. “I liked it. Besides, Philip Kaye lives here. I got it from the library.”
She shook her head. “Go to your room and stay there. We’ll talk about this tomorrow when I’m not so angry.” That was one of her rules of good parenting. Arguments were counterproductive and did no one any good. If someone was angry in the Muir family, discussions were to be tabled until everyone had calmed down and could talk rationally.
The following morning, when Chris came down to breakfast, his mother had sat down with him at the table and told him, in a calm, reasonable voice, why he shouldn’t read those kinds of books. He knew what was required—he shut his mind off and didn’t listen to anything other than her vocal inflections, taking her cues to nod and agree when called for.
It was the same old lecture, anyway, the one he always got when he was late, whether it was five minutes or an hour. Kids disappear all the time, Chris, so when you don’t come home when we’re expecting you, we fear the worst. Yes, I know you’re a big boy and you think you can take care of yourself, but that’s probably what all those kids on the milk cartons thought, too. Do you understand me? We gave you a cell phone so you could call us from anywhere, at any time, so we wouldn’t worry. And when you have it turned off and we can’t reach you, well, of course we expect the absolute worst. We don’t want to have to go down to the police morgue and identify your body sometime. You know we worry—do you enjoy making us worry?
And on and on it would go, until she finally wound down. Finally, Chris mumbled an apology and slipped out of the house to the gym. As he went through his workout, he wondered, for maybe the thousandth time that summer, why his parents couldn’t be more normal.
That night, when he was getting ready for bed, his mother stuck her head in his bedroom door. “Your father and I are going into Boston tomorrow, and probably will just stay the night there. Do you want to come in with us?”
Her face was slathered with some green gunk that was supposed to keep her skin young and wrinkle-free; her long blond hair (he suspected she dyed it) was pulled back