“Is your dog going to eat me?” Gretchen blurts out.
The man peeks out from the doorway to stare at the dog, as if considering the question. When he looks at her again, he asks, “You an undercover pork chop by any chance?”
“Am I a... No. No, I’m a... human person.”
“Ah. Probably not, then.” He leans farther out of the doorway, causing Gretchen to take another step backward, and shouts, “Clyde! Get back to work, you bozo!” The fearsome giant cotton ball ignores the order and instead plops onto his side, tail thumpingagainst the ground. “Useless,” the man says to himself, rolling his eyes fondly. Then he turns back to Gretchen. “Sorry about that. So...”
“So?” she repeats.
“Can I help you with something?”
Gretchen shakes her head as if to clear it, but then realizes she’s inadvertently implied that no, he can’t help her, and quickly pivots into a nod. This is, she admits, not the smoothest first impression she’s ever made. “Yes, actually. I’m looking for Charles Waybill?”
The man tucks a hand into his jeans pocket, and the movement draws Gretchen’s attention to a large hole in the shoulder seam of his extremely ugly sage-green and neon-pink sweater, revealing a white cotton T-shirt underneath. “Yeah, that’s me,” he says. “I’m Charlie Waybill. What can I do for you?”
This man is, in no universe, anywhere close to seventy-eight. Gretchen estimates him to be in his early thirties, tops. “Oh. And you’re sure there are no other Charles Waybills living here?” She glances past him, as if she might catch a glimpse of an elderly man hiding inside the foyer.
His eyes narrow slightly, and Gretchen suspects she’s already misstepped. Maybe she’s grown a bit rusty. When was the last time she met someone new anywhere that wasn’t within the safety of her shop? All the better that she came out here, then. She’s gotten too comfortable over the years—as her father’s letter was surely meant to remind her—and that’s no good. Gotta keep sharp.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m fairly certain I’m the only Charles Waybill currently living here. What is this about?”
“Sorry, that was a stupid question. It’s only that... Well, I’m looking for Deborah Van Alst’s bridge partner? And—”
“Right. That’s me.”
Gretchen is aware of Mrs. Van Alst’s tendency to avoid nicknames (Yolanda once reported her going on an absolute diatribe at the salon while relaying how a nurse at the dermatologist’s office dared call herDeb). So her not mentioning that Charles is actually a Charlie isn’t what’s unexpected about this. It’s more that Gretchen’s public records search last night said this farm is owned by a septuagenarian Vietnam vet, not a handsome man with great hair and concerning taste in sweaters.
Also, who would ever guess that the person in front of her with his youth, beard, and broad shoulders would be a member of a bridge club? Bridge isn’t exactly a stereotypical pastime for millennials; Gretchen had to watch two YouTube videos and read the Wikipedia page to even figure out what it was, and still ended up with a lot more questions than answers.
“You know Deborah?” Charlie—and Gretchen has to admit that the diminutive definitely fits him better than the staid and formalCharles, whatever Mrs. Van Alst’s opinion on such things—tilts his head and flashes a polite, pleasant almost-smile. There’s suspicion lurking behind his eyes now, and her instincts bristle in response.
She takes a deep breath through her nose, trying not to let on that the way he’s looking down at her makes her want to run in the opposite direction. Maybe even hide in a bush for good measure. It’s been a long time since she felt so... nervous? Is that what this clammy-hand, chest-tight feeling is? She’s decidedly not a fan.
“Yes. My name is Gretchen. Gretchen Acorn. Mrs. Van Alst sent me here to help you sell Gilded Creek.”
“Gretchen... Acorn.” He says her name as if hesitantly tastingan ice cream flavor that’s a little bit out there—olive oil, or sweet corn, maybe. Something he isn’t sure will be to his taste, but he feels compelled to sample anyway. “You’re a real estate agent, then? Sorry, I’m already working with someone at Coldwell—”
“No, I’m a spirit medium. Mrs. Van Alst told me you’re having some...”—she finds herself incorporating that pause again—“paranormal activity around here and that it’s affecting your farm’s salability. She asked me to cleanse the property for you.”
Charlie’s sigh is audible. His chin drops so he’s staring down at his bare feet. Gretchen takes a surreptitious glance at them too. They’re several shades lighter than his tanned face, a little bony. Strangely handsome, she decides, though she isn’t sure when she developed personal criteria for judging the attractiveness of men’s feet. She forces herself to focus on the hole in Charlie’s sweater instead, keeping her face neutral. But inside, her blood is buzzing, as if all of her Eichorn ancestors are chanting a warning:danger, danger, danger. Sure enough, when Charlie’s eyes meet hers again, the suspicion that was there before has morphed into something colder and harder. No longer curious. Definitely unfriendly.
“Ah. Soyou’rethe charlatan,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
DANGER, DANGER, DANGER!
That quiet warning crescendos into a scream that bounces around her skull, and her heart races as if trying to get a head start on fleeing the scene. She’s able to keep the panic at bay enough to be vaguely surprised that it’s occurring at all. This isn’t the first time she’s been accused of being a fraud. Especially early on, when she first set out on her own and started playing around with mediumship, there were a few unhappy marks who began hurling accusations. But she was always able to keep her cool andsmooth those over. None of them triggered the fight-or-flight response coursing through her now. Flight isn’t a real option, though. Not without looking guilty as hell. So, she decides, fight it will have to be.
Gretchen raises her eyebrows. “Sorry, I’m thewhat?”
“Oh, I think you heard me just fine,” he says, voice full of venom.
“Why don’t you say it again? Just so I can be sure.”
But Charlie doesn’t repeat the word that sent her into a tailspin. Instead he says, “You’re the... the... bullshitter taking Deborah’s money, making her think she’s been talking to Rachel.”
Andthatmakes Gretchen’s heart do a weird little flip-flop. Because the way he’s described her is so close to how she views herself that she feels suddenly exposed. Like she’s standing naked on the porch in front of him. She should be frightened by how easily and quickly he’s seen right through her, seen to the very essence of what she does, but instead it makes her... perversely excited?He sees me.
Charlie presses his lips together and shakes his bowed head. “You should really be ashamed of yourself. Stealing from people when they’re grieving.”
