Emily's Ghost Read Free Page B

expression was still bland, but the light in his eyes
seemed to have gone out.
    "That, I take it, is the
gist of the exposé you'd like to write about me?"
    "Do you deny that you
wrote the NSF a letter urging that they spend more on interstellar
communication and psychic research?" She whipped out her steno pad,
ready to take down his "No comment."
    Instead he said quietly,
"Do you really believe that a silver filling and the Arecibo
Radiotelescope are on a par with one another?"
    "Yes or no, Senator. Did
you send the letter?" she demanded crisply, Bic pen
poised.
    "Oh, for --" He shook his
head, exasperated, and said, "This Palmist getup and so-called
search for a master to teach you -- is this all with your paper's
sanction?"
    Her eyes were slightly
lowered. "Yes."
    "I don't believe
it."
    "Well they didn't tell
me not to do
it."
    "Ah." He glanced at his
watch again and made an impatient sound. "Look, I've got a plane to
catch. If you wanted to know how I feel about psi, why didn't you
just ask me?" He waved his hand up and down over her clothes. "Why
put yourself through all this embarrassment?"
    "I am not embarrassed,"
she said, embarrassed. "But I do know one thing: among all the
cabinet members, congressmen, senators and ambassadors who
fervently believe in psychic phenomena, only a handful have come
out of the closet. And you're not one of them," she said, not quite
truthfully.
    "I've never tried to hide
my beliefs; they're a matter of public record."
    "Public record! Every once
in a while you throw a bone to some obscure little magazine
like Etheric , and
that's supposed to update the voters. Why not come clean in
the Journal ,
Senator? That's what real people read around here."
    What am I doing? she thought wildly. I'm
standing here trading punches with a United States Senator! In her seven years as a reporter Emily had gone
after landlords and lawyers, developers and diet centers -- but
never had she taken on someone with so much power, so much
prestige.
    "All right," the senator
said after a moment.
    "Pardon me?"
    "I said, 'all right,' Miss
Bowditch. You have your wish. See Mrs. Cusack and she'll set up a
time. I'm afraid it can't be right away."
    "Pardon me?"
    He flashed her a sudden,
good-natured grin -- and a heck of a vote-getter it was -- and
said, "There's an old Chinese curse: 'May your most fervent wish
come true'." Then he glanced at his Rolex again and said, "My car's
waiting; I have to run. You have a good day, Miss
Bowditch."
    He left Emily in a state
bordering on shock.
    So. The way to land an
exclusive interview with an important man on a controversial
subject was to wear a dumb hat. A slow, wicked, utterly jubilant
smile transformed her face.
    " I knew that."
    ****
    When Emily popped out of
the senator's office, it was still only mid-morning; the day, which
Emily had asked to take as a vacation day, was still very much her
own. She was in a jump-for-joy mood and wanted to share it with
someone, so she called her friend Cara.
    Cara Miles was the Pisces
to her Virgo, a woman she'd met one summer in New Hampshire where
Cara had retreated to do some painting -- "and/or," she'd said,
"get in touch with my inner self." In every way they were cheerful
opposites. Emily was a small-town girl from a big blue-collar
family; Cara was a Boston-bred Only Child whose forebears
apparently owned the Mayflower. Emily had worked nights and
weekends to put herself through community college; Cara was a
Vassar girl. Emily had scrimped and saved for years and only just
managed to close on a one-bedroom condo in an iffy neighborhood of
Boston; Cara owned -- free and clear -- a four-level townhouse in
the Back Bay. Emily paid her taxes; Cara paid her accountant. Emily
favored shirts and jeans. Cara draped herself in hand-printed silk.
Emily trekked. Cara flowed.
    But they both loved New
Hampshire, and to shop. Emily had taken Cara around to every
antique shop in the Manchester area, and to a few attics that
weren't in the