Chapter 20

Night is creeping against the windows when Saoirse wakes from a dreamless sleep. Emmit had left just before she’d succumbed to a nap—after spending the rest of the morning and all of the afternoon together in bed—with a promise he’d call her that evening. She raises her arms toward the ceiling and rolls her neck against the pillow, but freezes when the door to her bedroom opens with a squeak of hinges.

“Emmit?” It must be Emmit. She won’t let herself entertain the idea that it could be Aidan. Though, did Emmit lock the door when he left? Had she instructed him to? Stupid! She can’t get so distracted by this relationship that she forgets about Aidan and his resolve to find her.

Pluto noses the door all the way open and strides in, looking happier to see her than she deserves, and Saoirse breathes a sigh of relief. She hasn’t paid the cat nearly as much attention as she’d planned to only that morning.

“Come,” she says and pats the bed. Pluto jumps up, plops beside her, and purrs as she scratches his twitching ears. “Tonight, we will work on getting to know one another better. This bed has your name all over it. As does the armchair in the office. And the couch downstairs.”

Pluto purrs more deeply and shuts his eyes. Still scratching him with one hand, Saoirse reaches for her phone. There are five unread messages, all from Lucretia:

Heeeey.

Where you at?

Helloooo ... sorry to be a pain, but I’m dying to hear what went on yesterday.

You better be dead and writing poetry with Sarah for how long it’s been without answering me.

IF YOU’RE NOT DEAD I’M GOING TO KILL YOU MYSELF.

Saoirse thumbs the cursor into place at the bottom of the screen and quickly taps out a message:

I’m SO sorry. I owe you an explanation, to be certain. I’m not too keen on leaving Pluto alone again ... want to come over and I’ll tell you everything?

The response comes a moment later:

Sure. But I’m with Roberto and Mia. Lol. Can they come too?

Saoirse is surprised by the lack of aversion she feels at the thought of having additional company. She must be less depressed than usual, to be fine with more than one human encounter in a single day. Or wanting to distract myself from whether Emmit will call.

She writes:

Are you hungry? There’s a Thai place down the road I’ve been meaning to try. We can order take-out.

Lucretia responds:

Sounds great! See you in twenty.

Saoirse stands and checks herself in the mirror. She looks like she spent the day in bed. She looks hungover. She chugs a glass of water and forces herself into the shower. By the time she dresses and walks downstairs, she feels better. She scrolls through the Thai menu online but can’t focus. She’s too busy wondering how she’s going to tell her friends she spent the night—and the entire next day—with Emmit Powell.

Her phone buzzes, and she checks it, thinking it will be Lucretia telling her they’re here, until she remembers Lucretia doesn’t carry her phone with her. Emmit’s name, which he saved in her phone before leaving, parades across the screen.

A flutter of excitement turns her hands shaky. I cannot let myself get this flustered over a man I just met. The counterthought comes instantly: I’m allowed to. I deserve to have a little fun, to have a man fawn over me. No, to have a man treat me like an equal.

And that was it, when it came right down to it. Over the entirety of the twenty-four hours she and Emmit spent together, it wasn’t the lust with which he kissed her, the way he stared into her eyes, or the way he moaned her name in bed. It was that he listened. Cared about her ideas. Felt she had something worthwhile to write about. To say. For all his remarkable insight and brilliance, he felt her ideas were as worthwhile as his own.

And not subject to erasure as their connection to one another deepened.

The phone is still ringing, and she swipes to answer it, eyeing the door as if her friends might come bursting through without knocking.

“Hi.”

“Hi there,” Emmit says, and the sound of his voice is both familiar and surprising in a way that makes her body ache. “What are you doing?”

“I’m—” she pauses. Thinking about you? She can’t say that. “Just trying to decide what to have for dinner.”

“I could help with that decision,” he says, “if you wanted some company.”

A bolt of longing crackles through her. “That sounds amazing,” she says. “And I would have loved to see you, but I already have company. Or I’m about to.”

There’s a moment of silence. Emmit says quietly, “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.” Is there disappointment in his voice? Or something more? It can’t be jealousy. Can it?

“It’s those friends I was telling you about. Roberto, Lucretia, and Mia. We’re getting Thai food and hanging out.”

“Could you cancel?”

Saoirse hesitates. “I really can’t. Plus, only Lucretia and Robert have cell phones, and they don’t even carry them.”

“Of course, no worries.” His tone is understanding. She’s obviously imagined whatever negative emotion she thought she detected. “Thai food sounds fun.”

“I’d invite you to come by, but ...” Saoirse trails off, checking the door again. “I mean ... I don’t know.” She laughs lightly, hoping he understands what she’s getting at: they had sex for the first time last night ... it’s a little too soon to introduce him to her friends. “It might be kind of weird,” she adds, in case he still doesn’t get it.

“Of course.” He laughs too. “Absolutely. Totally weird. Well, have fun.”

“Yeah. Thanks. And Emmit?”

“Yes, Saoirse?”

“I had a really great time with you today. And last night. I certainly don’t want you to get in trouble with work or anything, but I’m glad you didn’t fly to Baltimore.” She pauses. “You didn’t get in trouble, did you?”

“Oh, god no. They said take all the time I need to get better.”

“From COVID,” Saoirse clarifies.

“From COVID.” Emmit chuckles. “I couldn’t exactly tell them what I was really stricken with, now could I?”

“And what’s that?”

“I think you know.”

They are both quiet for several seconds. Saoirse has to work to make sure her heavy breathing doesn’t get picked up by the phone’s speaker.

“I’m in Providence for the rest of the week now,” Emmit says. “Can I see you again?”

Yes! Right now! Just let me send Lucretia, Roberto, and Mia away. Or, at the very least, let me see you as soon as they leave! “Maybe Wednesday,” she says, going for breezy and noncommittal.

“How about tomorrow?” Emmit counters.

“Oh.” She pretends to think it over. “Okay. I can make tomorrow work.”

“What would you like to do?”

Saoirse hears footsteps on the stoop. A knock comes a moment later. “Shit.”

“Everything okay?”

“No. I mean, yes, but my friends just showed up.”

“I see. Well, how about you think on it. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do. I’ll pick you up at ten.”

“In the morning?”

“Is that all right?”

“So, a day date?”

“I was thinking a whole -day date. We’ll do something fun and Providencey, then get dinner in Federal Hill.”

The knocking on the door becomes a bang. “Saoirse! Hellooooo!” Lucretia singsongs from the stoop.

She covers the speaker and calls, “One second.” Then, to Emmit: “That sounds wonderful.”

“See you soon, then. Goodbye, Saoirse.”

“Goodbye, Emmit.” Saoirse ends the call.

When she opens the door, Roberto and Lucretia are crowded on the top step, Mia a few paces behind them. Saoirse stares at the place where there should be a pumpkin and laughs.

Roberto arches an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Come in.” Roberto and Lucretia give her a simultaneous half hug, then march inside.

Mia comes quietly up the stairs and fixes Saoirse with a thoughtful smile. “How are you?”

“I’m fine,” Saoirse replies. “So is Pluto. I’m glad you’re getting to meet him.”

Mia crosses the threshold. Saoirse shuts the door behind her.

Lucretia and Roberto have already dropped their coats on the foyer settee and gone to the living room, where Pluto is lounging before the fireplace.

“He’s even cuter than I remember,” Roberto says, petting the cat’s ears flat against his head. “And I remember him being pretty goddamn cute.”

“He’s so chill,” Saoirse says. “He acts like he’s lived here forever.”

Mia studies Saoirse. “Lucretia mentioned you were called away last night. I guess it’s a good thing Pluto is so easygoing, since Lu had to give him his insulin.”

Mia doesn’t look angry or annoyed, just curious. Likely she’s getting right to the point rather than being critical, as Saoirse finds more and more that Mia seems inclined to do.

“How about we call in the food, and I’ll tell you everything?”

There are murmurs of agreement. It takes less than five minutes to finalize the order and make the call. When Saoirse sits in one of the chairs by the fireplace, three pairs of eyes land on her from the settee behind the coffee table.

“Ready when you are,” Roberto says.

Why does it feel like, in the short time she’s known them, she’s been in the hot seat more than once, called upon to explain what she’s seen or felt or what she’s been doing? Though, that’s not entirely fair. Their first interaction was practically an interrogation, with Saoirse playing the part of disgruntled detective. She shifts in her chair, then opens her mouth to tell her story.

She’s surprised by how few interruptions there are. Only once does Lucretia elicit a smack from Roberto to quell her excited squealing. Throughout Saoirse’s monologue, Mia sits very still, betraying no emotion. When Saoirse’s finished, she stares at the trio anxiously. “And, um, he called right before you guys got here to make plans for tomorrow,” she adds. “So, there’s that.”

Roberto speaks first. “So, what you’re saying is, you owe your newfound happiness to me for insisting you give Emmit Powell a chance.”

It’s Lucretia’s turn to sock him. “That wasn’t your advice! It was both of ours! And it’s not like she took it, anyway. She ran into him unexpectedly. The universe intervened and made it happen.”

“Saoirse could have turned her back on the universe’s plan for a third time, waited for Emmit to leave the grocery store, and walked home with her pumpkin,” Roberto says.

“Oooh, I can’t believe it,” Lucretia squeals, ignoring Roberto. “I can’t believe that not only has your experience with Sarah at the séance gotten you writing again, but now you’re having your very own Poe-Whitmanian whirlwind romance!”

Saoirse’s mouth drops open. “My very own what?”

Before Lucretia can respond, Roberto chimes in. “I hate to agree with her, but Lu’s right. I mean, you checked out a book of Poe’s letters to Whitman, right? You must have read about the longing, the passion, the depth of his love for her, practically overnight.”

“Just because I started seeing someone who happens to be a writer after moving into Sarah Whitman’s house doesn’t mean—”

“And writing poetry,” Lucretia breaks in. “You’re seeing someone who happens to be a writer after moving into Sarah Whitman’s house and writing poetry .” Lucretia looks at Mia excitedly. “There’s definitely some sort of echo going on. Right, Mia?”

“A residual haunting,” Mia says from the arm of the settee, at the exact moment Saoirse thinks it herself. “The Stone Tape Theory.”

Lucretia sucks in a breath.

“Oh my gosh,” Roberto says. “That’s exactly what this is.”

“What the hell is the Stone Tape Theory?” Saoirse asks.

Mia tucks a strand of hair behind one ear. Her part is as knife-sharp and perfect as always. She wears no makeup but for a hot-pink shade of lipstick that turns her unblemished face paler than Lucretia’s. “The Stone Tape Theory is the speculation that ghosts and hauntings are analogous to tape recordings, and that mental impressions during emotional events can be projected in the form of energy, ‘recorded’ onto rocks or other items, and ‘replayed’ under certain conditions.”

Roberto is nodding. “The idea was inspired by the views of nineteenth-century intellectualists and psychic researchers, like Eleanor Sidgwick and Edmund Gurney,” he says. “But it really entered the public consciousness after the BBC aired a ghost story one Christmas in—I think it was 1972—called, fittingly, ‘The Stone Tape.’ I’ve heard it before, and it’s pretty creepy.”

Saoirse stares back and forth between Roberto and Mia, equal parts disbelieving and transfixed.

“Sersh,” Lucretia says, “is it okay if I tell them what we talked about at the coffee shop? I haven’t said anything yet, because I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to share it.”

“If she didn’t want you to share it, putting her on the spot isn’t the best way to get an honest response,” Roberto needles. Lucretia shoots him a dirty look, but Saoirse is already nodding, and the creases of worry disappear from Roberto’s forehead.

“Saoirse’s husband passed away nine months ago,” Lucretia says, “from a heart attack.”

“Oh my god,” Roberto says. “I’m so sorry.”

“I am too,” Mia says, so quietly Saoirse almost doesn’t hear her.

Saoirse nods once in acknowledgment, and Lucretia continues. “So, her husband passes away, and she moves into Sarah’s house. Sarah was married prior to meeting Edgar Allan Poe, too, to John Winslow Whitman. John died in 1833; he and Sarah never had children, though there were many of the couple’s friends in New England who said John wanted children.”

Saoirse grips the sides of her chair, denying the whirlwind of emotions coursing through her.

“The Stone Tape Theory posits that environmental elements are capable of storing traces of human thoughts or emotions, that spoken words leave permanent impressions in the air, though they become inaudible over time,” Lucretia says. “It’s also thought to be connected to the concept of ‘place memory.’ Think about it: you meet a celebrated author, Emmit Powell, while living in the house of the woman who attracted the attention of America’s greatest writer, poet, editor, and literary critic. Even Emmit’s initials are the same as Poe’s.” She shoots Saoirse a look. “You don’t happen to know his middle name, do you?”

Saoirse shakes her head impatiently.

“Anyway,” Lucretia capitulates, “the last major nineteenth-century idea associated with the Stone Tape Theory is psychometry, the belief that it’s possible to obtain knowledge about the history associated with an object through physical contact with it. Being in this house is like a study in psychometry . You’re placing your very feet where Sarah Whitman walked while projecting the same frequency of energy she must have held within her. Widowed and alone, gifted and flirting with transcendentalism. I mean, gosh, the only thing you’re missing is Sarah’s tragically romantic and chronic heart condition.”

Saoirse’s body grows Arctic-cold, but Lucretia is bouncing up and down and looking at Mia. “I told you giving her a little nudge before the séance was the right idea,” she says. “It got her writing again! It helped tip the scales from psychometry into a full-blown residual haunting!”

Mia’s expression grows wary. “Lucretia, I don’t think—”

“What nudge?” Saoirse asks.

“Right, sorry,” Lucretia says quickly. “I shouldn’t—”

“When’s the food getting here?” Roberto says, standing up and looking toward the living room door.

“What nudge?” Saoirse says, loud enough to silence everyone else.

Mia sighs. She looks at Lucretia and raises an eyebrow. “Well, you’ve got to tell her now.”

Lucretia remains silent.

“Tell me what?” Saoirse demands.

It’s Lucretia’s turn to sigh. She turns to Saoirse, guilt wrinkling her face. “I sort of included LSD in the cupcakes I made for the séance last week,” she says meekly. “It was the equivalent of a microdose in each, so that’s why you came down so quickly. It’s also why you felt great just a few minutes later. It helps open the mind and expand the consciousness.”

Saoirse’s mouth hangs open. “You drugged us?” she asks disbelievingly.

“Oh, not me,” Roberto says in a tone that indicates he knows better. “I’m far too distrustful of Lucretia’s baking skills to eat anything she makes.”

Saoirse looks at Mia, who shrugs. “I don’t eat chocolate,” she says matter-of-factly.

Lucretia smiles sheepishly. “I’m sorry. I meant to tell you, but then you seemed so anxious to get the séance started, and I know how stressed you’ve been, and I’ve done a ton of research into microdosing, and I felt like it would help you get over your block, and it’s totally not dangerous if you take it—”

“Without a heart condition,” Saoirse says, bringing a hand to her chest.

Lucretia pauses, looking confused. “I’m sorry?”

“LSD is not dangerous if you take it without a heart condition,” Saoirse says again. The words Get out! are poised on her tongue, but somehow she swallows them. She wants to hear what Lucretia has to say.

Lucretia glances at Roberto, then at Mia, then back to Saoirse. “I don’t understand. Sarah Whitman’s condition was—”

“I’m not talking about Sarah Whitman.” Saoirse heaves a deep sigh and shakes her head. “I’m talking about me. Maybe there’s something to your residual haunting theory, after all, because I have cardiomyopathy. I’m on a host of medications. Water pills, potassium, Entresto, not to mention antidepressants.” She looks at Lucretia. “And in addition to the meds, I try to limit my caffeine, alcohol, and hallucinogen intake.”

Saoirse brings a loosely closed fist up, taps her thumb to her chest, and looks at each of the three shocked faces in turn. “So, I guess I’m not missing Sarah’s tragically romantic and ultimately chronic heart condition, after all.”