and parked in the lot by the Cassadaga Hotel, a two story, mustard-colored stucco. It dated back almost a century. On one side of its enclosed front porch hung a copper-colored awning with the hotel’s name. The other one announced the Lost in Time Café , a name that captured the atmosphere. A side veranda, furnished with aging wrought iron tables and chairs, faced the bookstore.
Cassadaga’s early twentieth century homes were tucked among small lakes and pines and along wandering, often unpaved roads.
Brandy checked her watch—almost 5:00 P.M. The faint October sunlight was fading. Outside she caught the sweet scent of newly mowed grass. At a desk in the hotel she stared at New Age books, crystals, prisms, post cards, and signs advertising the services of hotel mediums. Those who advertised tarot cards, were not certified by the spiritualist campground association. It did not endorse cards or fortune telling. They did not believe in a predestined future or in the supernatural. To them, survival after death was a natural process.
The dimly lit lobby consisted of a few small tables and straight chairs, a television set, a couch, and comfortable, well-worn armchairs. Brandy found her room mid-way down a narrow hallway. She laid her bag on the four-poster bed and took in her surroundings: sink, wardrobe, bedside table, thin but serviceable carpet. The adjoining bath had a claw-footed tub. Not the Ritz, but clean. She decided to leave the precious brooch and prayer book in her suitcase. She would not need them until morning.
Cassadaga had no restaurant—not even a Wendy’s or McDonald’s or grocery store. At a snack dispenser she managed to crank out cheese crackers, an apple, and a soft drink. In the lobby she finished her meager dinner before taking a walk around the nearby streets, past frame houses with steep, pitched roofs, more native to New England than Florida.
Back in her room, she left a call for 7:00 A.M. and looked over her notes again, preparing for her first experience with a medium.
* * *
Brandy awoke before the phone rang. She took a quick shower, and having no idea what was appropriate to wear to a reading, pulled on linen slacks and a tailored white blouse. She lifted the prayer book and jewelry box out of her suitcase and slipped them carefully into her canvas bag. The hotel served a continental breakfast of pastries, cereal, and coffee, and she ate with an eye on her watch.
Soon her little car was threading its way past the Temple, around a small, circular lake, and up a sloping hillside. On either side of the road stood more tall, frame houses with roofs peaked like witches’ hats. Almost all bore inconspicuous signs alerting passersby to the medium within. A few minutes before 8:30, she parked in the driveway of a white house with green trim and a front bay window. Dormers jutted from its steep red roof. It sat far back on the lot, behind three towering cabbage palms. The lawn, like others in the neighborhood, was environmentally friendly. Not unkempt, but a little ragged. She had noticed few flowering shrubs in the town. These residents were not the meticulous gardeners of Micanopy.
The weather still had not lifted. A light rain fell, and Brandy pulled on a windbreaker before she trotted up the porch steps and rang the bell. Although she’d seen Adele Marco’s photograph on her website, she was not prepared for the medium’s appearance when she opened the door. It was not that she didn’t have the jet-black plaits or the petite figure—she did. But she gave an impression of softness and warmth that the picture did not capture. She wore a simple cotton housedress and sandals. Brandy judged she could be anywhere between forty and sixty.
“You must be the mysterious ‘B,’” Ms. Marco said, smiling. Brandy’s evasiveness did not seem to annoy or surprise her, but Brandy flushed. She supposed mediums got this reaction all the time—people wanting to stump them, to prove them
Cassadaga’s early twentieth century homes were tucked among small lakes and pines and along wandering, often unpaved roads.
Brandy checked her watch—almost 5:00 P.M. The faint October sunlight was fading. Outside she caught the sweet scent of newly mowed grass. At a desk in the hotel she stared at New Age books, crystals, prisms, post cards, and signs advertising the services of hotel mediums. Those who advertised tarot cards, were not certified by the spiritualist campground association. It did not endorse cards or fortune telling. They did not believe in a predestined future or in the supernatural. To them, survival after death was a natural process.
The dimly lit lobby consisted of a few small tables and straight chairs, a television set, a couch, and comfortable, well-worn armchairs. Brandy found her room mid-way down a narrow hallway. She laid her bag on the four-poster bed and took in her surroundings: sink, wardrobe, bedside table, thin but serviceable carpet. The adjoining bath had a claw-footed tub. Not the Ritz, but clean. She decided to leave the precious brooch and prayer book in her suitcase. She would not need them until morning.
Cassadaga had no restaurant—not even a Wendy’s or McDonald’s or grocery store. At a snack dispenser she managed to crank out cheese crackers, an apple, and a soft drink. In the lobby she finished her meager dinner before taking a walk around the nearby streets, past frame houses with steep, pitched roofs, more native to New England than Florida.
Back in her room, she left a call for 7:00 A.M. and looked over her notes again, preparing for her first experience with a medium.
* * *
Brandy awoke before the phone rang. She took a quick shower, and having no idea what was appropriate to wear to a reading, pulled on linen slacks and a tailored white blouse. She lifted the prayer book and jewelry box out of her suitcase and slipped them carefully into her canvas bag. The hotel served a continental breakfast of pastries, cereal, and coffee, and she ate with an eye on her watch.
Soon her little car was threading its way past the Temple, around a small, circular lake, and up a sloping hillside. On either side of the road stood more tall, frame houses with roofs peaked like witches’ hats. Almost all bore inconspicuous signs alerting passersby to the medium within. A few minutes before 8:30, she parked in the driveway of a white house with green trim and a front bay window. Dormers jutted from its steep red roof. It sat far back on the lot, behind three towering cabbage palms. The lawn, like others in the neighborhood, was environmentally friendly. Not unkempt, but a little ragged. She had noticed few flowering shrubs in the town. These residents were not the meticulous gardeners of Micanopy.
The weather still had not lifted. A light rain fell, and Brandy pulled on a windbreaker before she trotted up the porch steps and rang the bell. Although she’d seen Adele Marco’s photograph on her website, she was not prepared for the medium’s appearance when she opened the door. It was not that she didn’t have the jet-black plaits or the petite figure—she did. But she gave an impression of softness and warmth that the picture did not capture. She wore a simple cotton housedress and sandals. Brandy judged she could be anywhere between forty and sixty.
“You must be the mysterious ‘B,’” Ms. Marco said, smiling. Brandy’s evasiveness did not seem to annoy or surprise her, but Brandy flushed. She supposed mediums got this reaction all the time—people wanting to stump them, to prove them
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