George
I tapped my fingers on the charcoal countertop of the front desk at Kern and Dalton Agency as an unfamiliar receptionist informed Mr. Kern of my arrival. While I waited, I replayed the interaction with Charlotte before I’d left the hotel. I’d been fully prepared to make her promise not to go to see Click without me, and I was relieved it hadn’t been necessary after she showed no signs of moving from the bed before I returned. Once we’d finally fallen asleep, she’d actually slept soundly for once, but she still wasn’t getting enough. I silently prayed she’d still be asleep, and I’d have to wake her up again, when I returned to the hotel.
“Mr. Kern will see you now, the petite blonde said, bringing me back to the moment. “Turn right at the end of the hall, then it’s the last door on the left.” I didn’t bother to tell her I’d been here before and knew where to go. The anxiety for what I was about to do returned as I followed the familiar path to Martin Kern’s corner office.
“George,” he said cheerfully from his office door as I approached. “Looks like you’ve been running a marathon.” The overly friendly smile he included with the comment seemed more obnoxious than welcoming.
I snorted derisively at the stark contrast in our appearances as I glanced between his custom-tailored ensemble, complete with red power tie, and my sweat-soaked running clothes. “Charlotte’s not a runner, and I run everyday. It made the most sense to combine the two so I could do this without her,” I explained.
“Well, regardless, it’s good to see you,” he said with a chuckle as he held his hand out to me.
“You too, Martin.” I wiped my sweaty hand on my shorts before shaking his, forcing myself to smile back. Martin wasn’t one of my favorite people in the world, but he was doing me a favor, and I needed to play nice. He stepped back and motioned for me to enter his office. I’d taken two steps in when my eyes landed on something along the wall, stopping me dead in my tracks.
“Isn’t it fantastic?” he exclaimed, his hand gripping my shoulder eagerly, motioning to the promotional photo of Charlotte hanging on his office wall as he continued. “It was set to be the promo image for the third season, but…” His sentence trailed off, disappointment in his tone. “Guess it wasn’t meant to be,” he concluded. “She looks damn hot though, huh?”
The myriad of reasons I disliked Martin barreled to the forefront of my mind as I stared at the life-sized photo, my wife’s face buried under tons of makeup and obviously airbrushed; extensions added to make her hair longer and fuller; her cleavage billowing over the top of her shirt. It was Charlotte, but not the real Charlotte—not my Charlotte. There was so much more to Charlotte than this sexed-up version of her.
“No, we missed this,” I murmured, barely managing to hide my disdain for him. This portrayal of her was one of the main reasons Charlotte had dropped the show. Martin and the producers had been pushing her to look sexier and edgier. Their primary argument being it was necessary to keep viewers interested. As if her incredible gift of talking to the dead wasn’t reason enough for people to watch the show. I turned away from the picture and shook it off, more grateful than ever she’d decided she’d had enough.
“Have a seat,” he said, moving to the seating area and motioning to a leather sofa facing the floor to ceiling windows that presented a perfect view of Manhattan. He indicated a laptop on the coffee table, “We’re set to connect with her in a few minutes.”
I nodded and slipped my jacket off, tossing it on the couch arm before taking a seat. “I really appreciate you setting this up, Martin.” It was true. Even if a part of me wanted to throat-punch him, I was still grateful he’d taken the time.
Martin sat beside me and fiddled with the computer while I tried to assure myself, for the millionth time, I was doing the right thing. I had no idea how Charlotte would take this. “Had she heard of Charlotte before you contacted her?” I asked as I rubbed my quads, my anxiety making me antsy.
“No,” he answered bluntly. “She doesn’t exactly keep up with television outside of her own show.”
“So how’d you get her to agree?”
“Turns out her agent wants to move to the United States. Told her we might be looking to add a new team member to the agency.” I raised my brows, surprised he’d go to such lengths.
The Skype screen popped up and the sound of a phone ringing sounded over the speaker. Martin cut a look to me over his shoulder. “Charlotte really has no idea you’re doing this?” he asked. I shook my head as a woman with round green eyes and a nose stud appeared on the screen. Her hair was jet black with short, choppy bangs. “Well, it’s too late now,” he said out of the side of his mouth before pasting on a bright smile.
“Marlena,” he beamed brightly. “Thank you so much for agreeing to this video chat today.”
“‘Ello?” Marlena said in a thick British accent, squinting as if that would help her hear better.
Martin frowned as he tinkered with the laptop. “Can you hear me?”
“I can’t hear you,” she stated loudly and moved closer to the screen.
“Marlena?”
“‘Ello? Mr. Kern?” Leaning back, she smacked the side of the computer, jolting the image on our screen. Geez, this woman was a handful.
“Eh, I don’t think that will help,” Martin said as he winced.
“Oh bloody hell,” she grumbled. She turned and hollered off screen, “Nick! Can you come in here and fix this freaking thing?” then muttered under her breath, “I bloody hate computers.”
A pudgy man with glasses and a goatee appeared and fumbled with her computer. “You had the speaker volume muted,” he said patiently as he straightened her laptop. Marlena laughed as she stroked the man’s arm. “I’d be lost without you, Nick.”
“Can you hear me now, Marlena?” Martin asked, and she turned her face back to the screen.
“Ah, Mr. Kern. Sorry about that. Technical difficulties, or some rubbish about the volume.”
“Well, I appreciate your time, and I know Mr. McDermott here does as well,” Martin said as he shifted the laptop toward me. She waved her hand dismissively as she leaned back, revealing more of her upper body. The fitted black t-shirt she wore, an image of Johnny Cash flipping the bird on it, failed to hide the fact she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Clearing my throat, I introduced myself. “Hello there,” I said awkwardly, forcing myself to look at the camera and not the screen. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me today. I’m told if anyone can help us, or rather help my wife, it would be you.”
She sat forward a bit, her green eyes shifting ever so subtly as she scanned my face. She chewed at one of her nails for a brief moment before saying, “Forty-two.”
Martin looked at me, then back to her. “I’m sorry?”
She ignored him and kept her stare fixed on me. “What does the number forty-two mean to you?”
I froze, somewhat shocked. I’d been told she had psychic abilities, but I hadn’t been prepared for her to come right out with it. I glanced uneasily at Martin. Forty-two was the exact number of months I’ve been clean, but I didn’t really want Martin to know that about me. Before I could muster a response, she quirked her mouth and said, “Another time, love,” then to my relief, changed the subject, “My agent says your wife can speak to the dead?”
“Well, yes. Souls caught in limbo,” I clarified.
Again, she peered through the screen at me, assessing me. “She doesn’t know you’ve contacted me.” It wasn’t a question, and she said it more like she was speaking to herself than to me. I couldn’t tell from her tone if she thought it was a mistake that I’d contacted her without speaking to Charlotte first.
“No.” I cleared my throat again, doubt forming about my decision to reach out to Marlena at all. Maybe I should have told Charlotte first. Shit. This was a bad idea.
“A gift like that, pretty cool,” she went on, either unaware of my hesitation, or more than likely, choosing to ignore it.
I frowned, not knowing how to respond. It was and it wasn’t, but that was a conversation for another time. Instead, I elaborated more. “She tries to help them sort their unfinished business so they can cross over.” I’ve been explaining Charlotte’s gift to skeptics for so long, it felt strange to not get the usual reaction from Marlena. It was actually nice to skip the extended explanation for once.
“Well, Mr. McDermott…”
“Please,” I interrupted, “call me George.”
“Alright, George. What is it you think I can do to help your wife?”
Inhaling a deep breath, I scratched my head, searching for where to begin.