sex, after dinner and after a few drinks, when they were both lazy and utterly relaxed.
But now she was glad that he had pushed her. It was out in the open, her spooky little incident, and by the time he got home the Big Deal would be no big deal at all. Oliver took things in his stride, he was quick to adjust. Calm, cool, sensible. He would try to convince her that it had just been her imagination. She wasnât buying that, and she hoped they wouldnât argue about it.
Carrie came to the shelf where her opal sat. Her father had found it on one of his excursions into the Australian interior. It was a stunning piece, the size of a dinner dish and roughly the same shape. A thin layer of dazzling blue opal in the middle of barren brown rock. She called it the Lake on the Moon.
A good man. Once in a great while, when he was pleased about something and feeling mellow, he might have a cigar with a glass of fine brandy. Otherwise, he didnât drink or smoke. But his heart had given out when he was a spry fifty-five. God, it still hurt to remember. Michael Brewster, her father.
Growing up, Carrie had glimpsed snatches of Kuala Lumpur, New Delhi, Karachi, Dublin and (smelling of another low political move) Lagos. And then Harare, Zimbabwe. And finally, London. But by then Carrie was an adult. And along came Oliver.
It amazed her how quickly she had adjusted to that ghostly incident. When Carrie had walked through the door the next morning, she felt a tremor of fearful anticipation, but she was determined not to surrender to it. She was back home. It was her home, and everything would be all right. Somehow.
And it wasnât a minute later when she suddenly found herself visualizing the image of her father again, and she could see in her mind one of the words he had spoken. Oliver.
Carrie dusted the opal carefully, Lake on the Moon. She did the rest of the living room, threw some clothes in the hamper and neatened up the kitchen. She put on the kettle to make a cup of tea, and scanned the Times while waiting for the water to boil. Nothing grabbed her attention.
It was so tantalizing, to think of communicating with someone who was dead. Reason told her it was so unlikely. Where was the other side, anyway? Even as a child Carrie had found unconvincing the idea of heaven and hell. It was equally difficult to believe in limbo where certain unhappy spirits were trapped after death, appearing at times to the living. Was she supposed to think that her father had been languishing somewhere out there, for the last six years, before suddenly visiting her?
She made a small pot of Palm Court tea and placed it on the table in the nook, letting it steep. Carrie had been brought up nominally as a Catholic, but her parents had never been diligent practitioners. She had been taught the basics, received all the childhood sacraments, and had absorbed a little Church lore. It was something of a hit-or-miss education; she had never had the faith crammed into her head. And that was perhaps unfortunate. Carrie might now have a much clearer understanding of the â mythology concerning death and an afterlife.
In her widowhood, Carrieâs mother had become more involved with the Church. She was a regular attender for the first time in ages. No doubt there was comfort in it, for those in need, along with social contact. But Carrie would never discuss it with her mother. Religion, death, Daddy. It wouldnât be comfortable, and it probably wouldnât do either of them any good. Carrie did have a brother, Jim, a few years younger, but he was a Marine, away on embassy duty in Buenos Aires. They werenât that close.
The music finished, but she couldnât be bothered to get up and put something else on. The tea was ready. She sipped it and set the cup back in the saucer. As Carrie looked up, and sat back against the bench-seat, she saw her father sitting directly across the table from her, three feet away.
She clapped a hand
But now she was glad that he had pushed her. It was out in the open, her spooky little incident, and by the time he got home the Big Deal would be no big deal at all. Oliver took things in his stride, he was quick to adjust. Calm, cool, sensible. He would try to convince her that it had just been her imagination. She wasnât buying that, and she hoped they wouldnât argue about it.
Carrie came to the shelf where her opal sat. Her father had found it on one of his excursions into the Australian interior. It was a stunning piece, the size of a dinner dish and roughly the same shape. A thin layer of dazzling blue opal in the middle of barren brown rock. She called it the Lake on the Moon.
A good man. Once in a great while, when he was pleased about something and feeling mellow, he might have a cigar with a glass of fine brandy. Otherwise, he didnât drink or smoke. But his heart had given out when he was a spry fifty-five. God, it still hurt to remember. Michael Brewster, her father.
Growing up, Carrie had glimpsed snatches of Kuala Lumpur, New Delhi, Karachi, Dublin and (smelling of another low political move) Lagos. And then Harare, Zimbabwe. And finally, London. But by then Carrie was an adult. And along came Oliver.
It amazed her how quickly she had adjusted to that ghostly incident. When Carrie had walked through the door the next morning, she felt a tremor of fearful anticipation, but she was determined not to surrender to it. She was back home. It was her home, and everything would be all right. Somehow.
And it wasnât a minute later when she suddenly found herself visualizing the image of her father again, and she could see in her mind one of the words he had spoken. Oliver.
Carrie dusted the opal carefully, Lake on the Moon. She did the rest of the living room, threw some clothes in the hamper and neatened up the kitchen. She put on the kettle to make a cup of tea, and scanned the Times while waiting for the water to boil. Nothing grabbed her attention.
It was so tantalizing, to think of communicating with someone who was dead. Reason told her it was so unlikely. Where was the other side, anyway? Even as a child Carrie had found unconvincing the idea of heaven and hell. It was equally difficult to believe in limbo where certain unhappy spirits were trapped after death, appearing at times to the living. Was she supposed to think that her father had been languishing somewhere out there, for the last six years, before suddenly visiting her?
She made a small pot of Palm Court tea and placed it on the table in the nook, letting it steep. Carrie had been brought up nominally as a Catholic, but her parents had never been diligent practitioners. She had been taught the basics, received all the childhood sacraments, and had absorbed a little Church lore. It was something of a hit-or-miss education; she had never had the faith crammed into her head. And that was perhaps unfortunate. Carrie might now have a much clearer understanding of the â mythology concerning death and an afterlife.
In her widowhood, Carrieâs mother had become more involved with the Church. She was a regular attender for the first time in ages. No doubt there was comfort in it, for those in need, along with social contact. But Carrie would never discuss it with her mother. Religion, death, Daddy. It wouldnât be comfortable, and it probably wouldnât do either of them any good. Carrie did have a brother, Jim, a few years younger, but he was a Marine, away on embassy duty in Buenos Aires. They werenât that close.
The music finished, but she couldnât be bothered to get up and put something else on. The tea was ready. She sipped it and set the cup back in the saucer. As Carrie looked up, and sat back against the bench-seat, she saw her father sitting directly across the table from her, three feet away.
She clapped a hand
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