Emily's Ghost Read Free

inconspicuous,
but that wasn't easy, either. When the lawyer type next to her
jumped up for his stop, he took off with her hat, which had got
caught in the open zipper of his briefcase.
    If I believed in omens, I
would not be comforted by this, she thought grimly, tucking the
remaining flowers back into the hatband.
    Still, by the time she
found herself face-to-face with the senator's secretary, she'd got
back her sense of outrage and with it, her confidence. It seemed
completely clear to her that both the senator and his aide were gullible at best
and unfit for their jobs at worst.
    The secretary -- a nice,
normal, middle-aged woman dressed sensibly in a linen suit -- was
kind but firm. "Miss, ah, Bowditch, is it? I'm sorry, do you have
an appointment with Mr. Whitewood?"
    This was the tricky part:
getting in. "No, I don't," Emily replied candidly, "but I
feel absolutely certain that he'll want to hear me." Emily gave the
secretary a significant look.
    The secretary gave her a
significant look back. "Can you tell me the nature of your
visit?"
    "No-o-o, I'm afraid I
can't," Emily answered meaningfully.
    "I see. Well, Mr.
Whitewood hasn't come in yet. Perhaps if you take a seat ... I'll
see what I can do. But I believe Mr. Whitewood is full up with
meetings today."
    Emily moved away to the
reception area. The secretary took down a black binder and began
scanning the page. Emily was set to spend the whole day waiting if
she had to; but she hoped that the secretary was finding a blank
slot in the calendar before noon. After about twenty minutes Jim
Whitewood came in; Emily recognized him instantly from the photo
in Etheric . He
was impeccably groomed, a little slick, maybe even opportunistic,
she thought. He looked more Wall Street than Federal Office
Building.
    She gave him a mysterious
smile as he hurried past her into his office. The secretary
followed. In less than a minute Emily was being ushered in, and it
wasn't even nine o'clock.
    Whitewood introduced
himself and offered Emily a seat. "I understand you have something
to tell me?"
    "Well, not tell , exactly. It's more
something I have to ... offer you."
    Whitewood gave her the
briefest of glances, taking in the rounded curve of her shoulders;
the cut of her bodice; the hat.
    "Really."
    Emily blushed deeply. "I
mean, not offer, exactly. That was probably the wrong word." Ah,
what the hell, she thought. In for a penny, in for a buck. She
stood up, swept her hat from her head, and glided across the room,
coming to rest near an enormous potted Schefflera. She was going to
play this for all it was worth.
    She turned to face the
senator's aide and said in a throaty voice, "I understand that you
extend a welcome to those with ... extraordinary
perceptions."
    "And you are such a
person?" he asked noncommittally.
    "I am."
    "How do you
know?"
    She lifted a shoulder.
"How does one ever know? There are only so many events that can be
attributed to coincidence, only so many dreams that turn out to be
prophetic -- "
    "You're a channel,
then?"
    "Yes." Ohboy. No turning
back now.
    "Physical or
mental?"
    "Physical. No,
mental."
    "I see."
    "Thoughts ... words ...
images. Feelings ." Emily had twisted a flower loose from her hatband and was
pulling at it absent-mindedly; a soft rain of turquoise petals
began fluttering to the floor.
    "Full trance?"
    "Light."
    "I see."
    He spun his chair towards
an impressive view of downtown Boston, then slowly spun it back
again. "You've worked with a teacher?"
    "To be honest," she said,
feeling her way carefully, "I was hoping you could recommend
someone. Someone with experience in training channels, someone you
knew and trusted --"
    "Please wait here, Miss
Bowditch," the aide said suddenly.
    He left the office and
Emily dropped into a pillowed settee. So far so good. It amazed her
that absolutely anyone could come in off the street, ask to spend
time with an aide to a United States senator, and then talk utter
nonsense with him. What a waste of a national