Lost Melody (19 page)

J
ILL DIDN’T WANT TO HIDE
the professional image she’d worked so hard to achieve beneath a coat, so at three o’clock she stepped onto the porch in her suit. A frigid harbor breeze ruffled her hair, and she forced herself not to shiver. At least there was no snow falling, and the sky was sunny.

Nana and her friends followed Jill outside and arranged themselves in a line behind her. When they realized that they, too, would appear on television, there had been a rush for Nana’s dressing table to refresh their makeup. Mrs. Tolliver had gone a little overboard with the powder and came close to resembling a white-faced mime, but Jill couldn’t spare any time worrying about that. She needed all her energy to battle the only case of stage fright she’d ever experienced in her life. Throwing up on camera certainly wouldn’t help her cause.

Eight or ten people mounted the porch steps to stand in front of her. Microphones were extended in her direction, and three men carrying large cameras on their shoulders arranged themselves to get a good angle. A familiar newscaster extended his hand.

“Ms. King, I’m Steven Welch with CBC.”

Jill shook his hand, but couldn’t force any words out. Her throat had become alarmingly tight.

“Belva Rhoades,” said the woman next to him. “CTV Halifax.”

Jill managed to smile and nod as she shook the hands of reporters from all of the area television stations and newspapers. When she recognized the man who’d written the front-page article in the local newspaper, she was pleased that she didn’t scowl.

“Thank you all for coming.” Her voice wobbled, and she flashed a nervous smile at them and the crowd gathered behind them. “We really weren’t expecting a turnout like this. I guess I’ll start out by telling you what’s happening, and then see if you have any questions.”

The reporters nodded, and as a group, backed down to stand on the second step, giving Jill a clear view of the mob in the front yard. William Akers and another police officer stood off to one side, their watchful stares fixed on the crowd. There had to be at least fifty people there. Some wore curious expressions, some anxious. A few were openly skeptical. Toward the front, she caught sight of the woman who had asked whether Halifax was far enough to take her children to safety. At least that explained how word got out around town. Nana had told them the television reporter would be here at three.

The papers in Jill’s hands shook visibly. If she’d suspected this kind of press coverage, she would have written out her speech word for word. As it was, she’d have to improvise.

“Nine days ago, I had a dream. A very vivid dream.”

“We can’t hear you,” someone at the back of the crowd shouted.

From the sidewalk came, “Talk louder!”

Jill projected her voice. “Nine days ago, I had a dream. I didn’t see many details, but when I woke I was left with the impression of a coming disaster. I couldn’t shake the impression that I needed to warn the people of Seaside Cove.” She cleared her throat. “At first, I ignored it. I figured it was just a bad dream.
A nightmare, actually. But it kept coming back, and I saw a few more details each time. Fire, and injured bodies. And death …”

The crowd remained silent as she recounted the events of the past week, how her certainty of the dream’s validity had grown until she knew she couldn’t ignore it. The expressions on the reporters’ faces directly in front of her ranged from professional courtesy to encouraging smiles. She didn’t dare look at the crowd.

As she talked, her confidence grew until finally the papers in her hand stopped trembling. “When I interrupted the meeting last Monday, I had barely slept for days. I realize now I must have looked like a raving fanatic, and I regret that.” She glanced at the three television cameras in succession. “I don’t regret my warning, though, because I feel more strongly than ever that there will be some sort of disaster in Seaside Cove on Tuesday morning. But I do regret that my erratic behavior may have caused some to discount my message. That’s why I wanted to talk to you again, so you can see that I’m rational, and I’m convinced that the warning of my dream is true.”

She paused to let her gaze sweep across the crowd. “I know this sounds insane. Like I’m acting on little more than a gut feeling. But I have to ask — how many of you have ever had a feeling you couldn’t ignore? A small, still voice urged you to do something. On impulse you made a phone call to a friend, then discovered she was going through a hard time and needed encouragement at exactly that moment. Or it’s four days until your next paycheck and your refrigerator is already starting to look empty. You feel the urge to look in the pocket of an old coat, and you find a twenty-dollar bill.” The next words clogged her throat for a minute, but she forced them out. “Or you choose a taxi over the subway even though it costs more, and the subway train you would have been on crashes.”

Heavy silence met her words. She took a moment to collect her composure before continuing.

“Or maybe you’ve had a feeling like that, and ignored it. Just imagine this: What if you hadn’t? What if you’d acted? Just imagine.” She straightened and lifted her head high. “That’s what I’m doing. All I can do is what I feel is right. If there is something to my dream, then my warning may help save lives, lives of people I care about in Seaside Cove. If I’m wrong, well, at least I followed my conscience and no harm was done. So you see, I just had to deliver the message. You have to decide for yourselves if you believe me.”

That seemed like a perfect place to stop. Jill folded her papers. “The buses,” Nana hissed from behind. “Don’t forget the buses.”

“Oh, yes.” Jill switched to the second note, the one with Nana’s expressive scrawl. “The ladies standing behind me have been extremely supportive in helping to get this message out to the residents of the Cove. They’ve arranged for buses to evacuate those who have no other way to leave. If you’d like a ride out of the Cove, you should be at Harbor Square by seven thirty Tuesday morning. Space will be limited, so only bring what you can carry in your lap.”

A rumble rose from the crowd as people commented on that news.

Steven Welch from CBC asked a question, his voice pitched loud enough to be heard by most of the watchers. “Ms. King, have you had any other prophetic dreams?”

Jill shook her head. “Never. There’s nothing special about me at all.” The memory of the disabled child and her desperate mother surfaced. She looked directly at the CBC camera. “I have no special powers or anything like that.”

“Then how do you explain this dream?” The reporter from the
Metro News
asked.

“I can’t,” Jill answered without hesitation. “It’s never happened before, and I sincerely hope it never happens again.”

“I have an idea.” Mrs. Tolliver stepped up beside Jill, her eyes gleaming in her abnormally white face. The rest of the Sign Brigade buzzed like startled bees.

Jill swallowed a groan.
Please don’t pull out the Dream Dictionary for Dummies.

“I found something interesting on the Internet and haven’t had a chance to tell you, dear.” The elderly woman smiled up at Jill, then turned her attention to the reporters. “There’s evidence that people who’ve suffered a blow to the head sometimes develop psychic abilities. It has to do with using different parts of the brain that aren’t damaged.”

Jill struggled to keep her face impassive. Surely Mrs. Tolliver had not just told the reporters she had brain damage. Possible headlines erupted in her mind, none of them good.

“I don’t have an explanation,” Jill hurried to say before someone could ask Mrs. Tolliver a follow-up question. “All I know is that I believe something is going to happen on Tuesday.”

“You’re crazy!” The shout came from somewhere near the driveway.

“Yeah. She’s a real loon,” agreed someone on the opposite side of the yard.

The rumble of the crowd grew loud, with some shouting, “I believe her!” and others saying, “She’s a nut case.” The high-pitched warbling wail of a loon rose over their voices.

The television cameras swung away from her and swept over the crowd. Voices rose as arguments became heated. The reporters in front of her started shouting their questions to be
heard over the noise, but they all spoke at once and Jill couldn’t understand them. She cupped a hand around her ear and leaned toward them.

Something hit her shoulder, then landed with a wet splat on the wood in front of her feet. More startled than hurt, Jill looked down at an overripe tomato splattered on the porch. Juice stained her suit jacket, and a couple of seeds clung to the fabric. Another one whizzed by her head. It hit the house with a thud and exploded. Somebody was lobbing rotten fruit at her! The hovering police officers rushed into the crowd as the newspaper photographers’ cameras clicked with furious speed.

The front door opened, and Greg charged out of the house.

“That’s enough.” He didn’t shout, but his voice held an air of authority that projected to the back of the crowd. “Ms. King is through here. Leave, all of you.”

Greg’s arm circled Jill’s shoulders. Shaken, she allowed herself to be turned and guided toward the door. Though she had promised to answer questions from the reporters, she had no idea how to maintain a professional image while dodging tomatoes. As she and Greg made their escape, Nana and the other ladies stepped forward to form a barrier between her and the reporters, who rushed up the stairs shouting questions. Greg closed the front door as Nana’s angry voice threatened to have everyone thrown in jail for trespassing.

Greg led her into the living room, where she collapsed into one of the wing chairs. A cheery fire snapped in the fireplace, its carefully crafted atmosphere gone to waste.

She bowed her head and covered her face with her hands. “That was terrible. I’ve made things worse, haven’t I?”

Greg dropped onto his haunches beside her chair, a comforting hand on her leg. “Not necessarily. You were calm and
articulate. I think you accomplished what you wanted to do.”

She peeked at him between her fingers. “But I didn’t convince you, did I?”

His gaze dropped away from hers. She bit her disappointment back and leaned forward to wrap him in a hug.

“Thank you for being here, and for rescuing me.”

“Always. That’s my job.”

His breath warmed her ear while his words warmed her heart.

Greg stayed with Jill and Ruth all afternoon. Though the bulk of the crowd had wandered away when the media left, a few lingered, apparently in hopes that Jill would make another appearance. Whether they were merely curious or had more hostile intentions, Greg didn’t know, but he didn’t want to risk leaving the two women alone.

Ruth’s phone had begun to ring within minutes of the fiasco with the tomatoes, and Jill’s cell phone not long afterward. They fielded a few genuine questions, but when one caller’s comments became insulting, Jill looked so distraught that he suggested they stop answering. Ruth unplugged the house line and confiscated Jill’s cell. When Greg received a call from a number he didn’t recognize, he turned his phone off too.

At five o’clock, they set the television in Jill’s apartment to record CBT’s
Live at 5
program and gathered downstairs in Ruth’s living room to watch CBC. Greg sat next to Jill on the couch. She appeared outwardly calm, but he felt her leg trembling when the show’s music began. He reached for her hand and twined his fingers in hers.

A nervous smile flickered on her face. “I feel like we should make popcorn or something.”

“I hope Myrtle remembered to turn her recorder on channel seven.” Perched on the other side of Jill, Ruth didn’t take her eyes off the screen.

The first few stories were about a minor earthquake in Quebec City, and the latest accusations in an ongoing dispute between two high-profile MPs concerning accusations before the ethics commission. Beside Greg, Jill crossed one leg over the other and began to bounce her foot with nervous energy. He started to voice a soothing comment, but the words stuck in his throat. Were Dad and Mom watching too? He knew they were. They never missed the news. He kept his mouth shut so Jill wouldn’t hear a hint of rattled nerves in his voice.

Nobody spoke through the commercial break. When the news show returned, Steven Welch’s face filled the screen.

“Can people predict the future? That question has sparked heated debate among the residents of the small community of Seaside Cove.”

“This is it.” Ruth pointed the remote control at the television and cranked up the volume.

Jill took her finger from her mouth where she’d been chewing a nail and leaned forward. Her grip on Greg’s hand tightened.

“On Thursday we told you about Jillian Elizabeth King, a former concert pianist who interrupted a local political meeting last week with a prediction of disaster. Today, Ms. King held a press conference in front of her home in Seaside Cove to convince people that she is not, as she put it, a ‘raving fanatic.’”

Greg winced. The nearly imperceptible smirk on Welsh’s face clearly indicated he thought differently. The scene switched to a shot of Jill standing on the porch, a line of elderly ladies behind her.
Wind buffeted the microphone, but her words rose clearly over the noise. Greg hadn’t been able to hear everything from inside the house, so he listened with the trained ear of a trial lawyer hearing a testimony. She spoke calmly and convincingly. The only indication of nerves he saw was the trembling of the paper in her hands, but to an untrained eye that might be attributed to the wind.