True believer - Nicholas Sparks [1]
“I know it’s hard,” Clausen said into the microphone, “but Frank is telling you that it’s time to let him go now.”
The woman he was addressing with oh-so-much empathy looked as if she was about to faint. Fiftyish, she wore a green-striped blouse, her curly red hair sprouting and spiraling in every direction. Her hands were clasped so tightly at chest level that her fingers were white from the pressure.
Clausen paused and brought his hand to his forehead, drawing once more on “the world beyond,” as he put it. In the silence, the crowd collectively leaned forward in their seats. Everyone knew what was coming next; this was the third audience member Clausen had chosen today. Not surprisingly, Clausen was the only featured guest on the popular talk show.
“Do you remember the letter he sent you?” Clausen asked. “Before he died?”
The woman gasped. The crewman beside her held the microphone even closer so that everyone watching on television would be able to hear her clearly.
“Yes, but how could you know about—?” she stammered.
Clausen didn’t let her finish. “Do you remember what it said?” he asked.
“Yes,” the woman croaked.
Clausen nodded, as if he’d read the letter himself. “It was about forgiveness, wasn’t it?”
On the couch, the hostess of the show, the most popular afternoon talk show in America, swiveled her gaze from Clausen to the woman and back again. She looked both amazed and satisfied. Spirit guides were always good for ratings.
As the woman in the audience nodded, Jeremy noticed mascara beginning to stream down her cheeks. The cameras zoomed in to show it more clearly. Daytime television at its dramatic best.
“But how could you . . . ?” the woman repeated.
“He was talking about your sister, too,” Clausen murmured. “Not just himself.”
The woman stared at Clausen transfixed.
“Your sister Ellen,” Clausen added, and with that revelation, the woman finally let loose a raspy cry. Tears burst forth like an automated sprinkler. Clausen—tan and trim in his black suit with nary a hair out of place—continued to nod like one of those bobbing dogs you stick on your dashboard. The audience gazed at the woman in utter silence.
“Frank left something else for you, didn’t he? Something from your past.”
In spite of the hot studio lights, the woman actually seemed to pale. In the corner of the set, beyond the general viewing area, Jeremy saw the producer rotating an upraised finger in a helicopter pattern. It was getting close to the commercial break. Clausen glanced almost imperceptibly in that direction. No one but Jeremy seemed to notice, and he often wondered why viewers never questioned how channeling from the spirit world could be timed so perfectly to fit with commercial breaks.
Clausen went on. “That no one else could know about. A key of some sort, is that right?”
The sobs continued as the woman nodded.
“You never thought he’d save it, did you?”
Okay, here’s the clincher, Jeremy thought. Another true believer on the way.
“It’s from the hotel where you stayed on your honeymoon. He put it there so that when you found it, you would remember the happy times you spent together. He doesn’t want you to remember him with pain, because he loves you.”
“Ooohhhhhhh . . . ,” the woman cried.
Or something like that. A moan perhaps. From where he was sitting Jeremy couldn’t be certain, because the cry was interrupted by sudden, enthusiastic applause. All at once, the microphone was pulled away. Cameras zoomed out. Her moment in the sun completed, the woman from the audience collapsed in her seat. On cue, the hostess stood from the couch and faced