Hallie's Comet Read online

  HALLIE’S COMET

  A Paranormal Romance

  ONE

  A buckboard careened down the street, clods of earth from its wheels spawning loam-crusted surf.

  Hallie O’Brien choked back a cry. She rarely drove a car. When she did, its tires spun down boulevards or parkways or fume-filled expressways.

  So why did she envision a runaway horse and wagon? And why did she envision a street paved with dirt rather than tar? Ruts rather than potholes?

  There was no logical reason. The TV had remained silent for days and she hadn’t seen a movie in months. Just like her other offbeat visions, this one had been spontaneous, unprovoked by outside influences.

  Drawing a deep, calming breath, she glanced around the living room until her gaze touched upon her workbench. Circa 1890, the bench had been used by a harness repairer.

  There! That must be the answer.

  But could an antique workbench generate hallucinations? Not really. Not unless a telepathic poltergeist lurked inside. Or maybe the workbench had leapt out of a Stephen King novel. With a shrug of her slender shoulders, Hallie scrutinized the well-crafted piece of mahogany.

  It had four drawers down the right side and a slightly raised platform upon which she could rest one weary leg at a time. Spread out across its surface were tubes of acrylic paint, two sketch pads, a palette knife, and several paintbrushes. Amid the organized clutter was a small radio. Today it droned vintage Motown and the Temptations sang about how beauty was only skin deep.

  Hallie shifted her gaze to the portrait she had just painted. She prayed that this man’s beauty wasn’t skin-deep. She wanted his soul to match his eyes.

  “‘I dream my painting, and then I paint my dreams,’” she said, quoting Vincent Van Gogh. Stepping away from the easel, located smack-dab in the middle of her sparsely furnished Bayside, New York, apartment, she attempted a grin that was, she suspected, a mite sheepish. “I sure dreamed up this painting, Marianne.”

  “Hallie O’Brien! Are you telling me that your drop-dead gorgeous man doesn’t exist?”

  “Only in my dreams.” Hallie had rescued her brother’s business shirt from his give-away carton. Knotting the shirttails above her paint-spattered jeans, she watched her sister-in-law’s brow furrow.

  Marianne snapped her fingers. “I know,” she said. “He looks like Johnny Depp.”

  “He does not.”

  “He does too. The hair’s different, but that smile …” Marianne sighed dramatically. “That mouth belongs to Johnny Depp.”

  Hallie twirled one of her curls around her index finger. “I wish that mouth belonged to me,” she blurted, a blush staining her cheekbones.

  “What’s black and white and red all over?” asked Marianne, her voice filled with amusement.

  “An embarrassed zebra?”

  “Nope. An embarrassed Hallie.”

  “My hair is brown, not black.”

  “You needn’t be ashamed of your sexual impulses, girl.”

  “Give me a break! What is this? Psychology 101?” Hallie fisted her hands into a funnel and brought the improvised bullhorn to her lips. “Alice W. O’Brien,” she said in a monotone. “Twenty-seven-year-old maiden. Can’t find her dream man. So she paints the man of her dreams.”

  “Maiden?” Marianne patted her French braid, searching for a stray wisp or tendril. There weren’t any. “Why not call yourself a vestal virgin?”

  “A vestal virgin,” Hallie said, “watches the sacred fire perpetually kept burning on Vesta’s alter. Vesta was a Roman goddess who—”

  She paused as new images came to mind.

  A night sky filled with fire. Soon the horse-drawn wagon would crush the man and woman.

  “No!” An anguished moan lapped at the back of her throat. “Watch out!”

  “What? Where? Another spider?” Marianne darted anxious glances around the room.

  “It was a daddy longlegs and he’s been evicted.” Hallie’s mind raced as she tried to invent a plausible excuse for her warning. She didn’t want to admit that vivid visions had plagued her all summer. “You almost jostled my masterpiece, Marianne,” she managed, nodding toward the painting

  “Hallie, I haven’t moved one inch. I was listening to your ancient history lesson. History lessons run in your family. Anyway, I thought a vestal virgin was another name for a chaste woman.”

  “It is. Please stop talking about virgins, vestal or otherwise.” Feeling like a demented hitchhiker, she jerked her thumb toward the crimson-cushioned couch where her nephew Jefferson was napping. The two-year-old boy’s cheek rested against an overstuffed purple dinosaur, and Hallie began to contemplate a painting. Vermilion, umber, a smidgen of Prussian blue. And purple.

  “Are you afraid we might corrupt Jeff’s morals?” Marianne winked. “Burt – or was it Ernie? – introduced the V-word this morning on Sesame Street. You’re a nineteenth century woman stuck inside a time warp, my friend.”

  Hallie didn’t react. Her so-called time warp was a family joke.

  Walking toward the couch, she said, “Jeff’s looking more and more like his dad every day, a miniature Neil Diamond O’Brien. Speaking of Neil, how’s my prolific brother?”

  “Thriving. Successful. Very.”

  “You sound cynical, Marianne.”

  “I didn’t mean to. It’s just …” Her voice trailed off as she heaved a deep, sincere sigh.

  Trying to hold her breath and speak at the same time, Hallie said, “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing major. Please don’t look so scared. I love your brother. He loves me. It’s just that Neil’s success breeds social events. Uppah crust, my deah, uppah crust.”

  Hallie studied her sister-in-law’s tall form. Even sporting an eight – or was it nine? – month belly bulge, Marianne could easily grace the cover of Vogue. On the other hand, Hallie could probably pose for Jack and Jill. Not that her body lacked curves. However, her riot of mahogany curls and dark eyes seemed to defy the aging process. She had been asked on more than one occasion to produce ID at her own champagne gallery openings.

  Even her name. Her big brother Neil, a toddler when she was born, couldn’t pronounce Alice, so Alice morphed into Hallie. She’d just as soon forget her middle name.

  She probably looked young because she looked innocent.

  Oh, she’d been kissed and stroked, she wasn’t that innocent, but she’d always managed to stop before it got out of hand.

  Bottom line: she didn’t want sex without love. Maybe she was stuck in some nineteenth century time warp. Or maybe she was waiting for her dream man to come along and sweep her off her feet. Or maybe she wanted to remain faithful to the man in her painting, the man who didn’t exist.

  A wistful yearning stabbed through her. “Neil’s success breeds children, my dear,” she said, striving for humor. “I’ve lost count. Is this new baby number five or six?”

  “Five. What’s wrong with having kids?” Marianne’s voice sounded defensive.

  “Nothing. I was joking. And I’ve kept count, honest. Tina Turner O’Brien, Barbra Streisand O’Brien, Madonna O’Brien, and Jefferson Airplane O’Brien.”

  “Thank goodness Neil let me name Jeff. Your brother wanted to call him Wonder, after Stevie, but I put my foot down.” Marianne glanced down at her feet. “Do you think my ankles look swollen?”

  Hallie shook her head emphatically, the motion causing her curls to bounce. “Why don’t you sit, Marianne?”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Because I’m still ‘adrenalized.’ I’ve been working on that portrait non-stop. It’s exciting and scary and … damn. I just said something stupid, didn’t I?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, I did. If a picture is worth a thousand words, yo
ur face is worth a bazillion.”

  Marianne paced between the couch and matching love seat, her sneakers carefully avoiding the paint-spattered sailcloth that dominated a patch of uncarpeted floor. The sailcloth was Hallie’s seabed. When she felt stressed, she called it her B’rer Alice laughin’ place.

  “Fess up,” Hallie urged.

  “You’re creative while I’m pregnant.”

  “Having a baby is more creative than painting pictures, and you know it.” If she hadn’t been so struck by her sister-in-law’s anguished expression, she would have grinned. Only Marianne could wear jogging sneakers with a rhinestone-studded maternity dress and still manage to look chic. “C’mon, kiddo, fess up.”

  “Jeff’s impossible to potty-train. Why are girls so much easier than boys?”

  “You’re upset over diapers? Not!”

  Marianne halted mid-stride. With the intensity of a guru, she contemplated her shoelaces. “Your brother loves Wall Street but hates commuting,” she said, the words coming out is a rush. “He wants to move closer to work. Do you know how much it costs to live in Manhattan? We’d have to sell the kids. I want to stay in Bayside. My house may be old, but it’s big, and I can watch my garden grow. I just planted daffodils, beets, carrots and tomatoes.”

  “Daffodils. Yum.”

  “At least three times a week I drive to the city and meet Neil at his office. The kids have begun to call the baby-sitter Mommy. When we attend those upper crust gatherings, Hallie, somebody always asks me what I do. You know, what I do for a living? I’ve been tempted to answer airline pilot, but since I’m always pregnant I didn’t think that would fly. I’ve tried domestic goddess, but all they hear is the word domestic and they think I work for a cleaning service. ‘Robin Hood and His Merry Band of Maids.’”

  “Wow, that’s great. Did you make it up?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could be in advertising, Marianne.”

  “Right. I can see the logo, Maid Marion in an apron while Robin says, ‘We steal from the rich and give to the poor and wash windows.’”

  “I’d hire you. My place could use a good cleaning, especially the windows. I’m a tad broke right now, but I’d write you an IOU.” Her finger jabbed the air, forming an I, an O and a U. “Dust bunnies are breeding on my TV screen.”

  “It’s not funny, Hallie. A snooty lady asked what I did and I said chief cook and bottle washer. Big mistake. I could practically hear their gossipy whispers. ‘Poor Neil. His wife watches soaps all day. What do they talk about at night?’”

  “Don’t fret, Marianne. They’re jealous. Obviously, you and Neil do more than talk.”

  “At our last wing-ding, I settled for housewife and managed to endure their pity.”

  “Confusion, not pity. They’re so dull-witted they thought you were the wife of a house.”

  “I’m big as a house.” Marianne pirouetted. At the same time, she hugged her bulging belly.

  “Big as an apartment,” Hallie corrected.

  “Mansion. Oops. Jeff’s awake, and he’s about to entertain us with infant profanity. Madonna says she’s been teaching him the ‘baddest word ever.’ I’ve got to use your bathroom. Please keep my son away from Johnny Depp. His lips haven’t dried yet.”

  Hallie’s heels supported her rump as she knelt by the couch. “Hi, neph,” she said. “Would you like some milk and cookies?”

  “Doody cookies. Doody diaper.”

  “Oh dear.” She unsnapped his rompers. “You’re not even wet, Jeff.”

  “Doody Barney,” he said gleefully, clutching his stuffed dinosaur. “Doody milk, doody bottle, gimme.”

  “Oh, I get it. Madonna. The baddest word ever. Let’s learn a new word, okay? How about Gabriel?”

  Gabriel? Where on earth did that come from?

  Hallie’s gaze lit upon Marianne’s purse and diaper bag, both tossed negligently on top of the love seat. Toys spilled from the diaper bag, mostly miniature musical instruments, including one horn. Gabriel blew his horn. A feeble explanation but it would have to do.

  Because she didn’t know anyone named Gabriel.

  The man in her painting could be Gabriel. Although his face and upper body manifested great strength, there was an angelic quality to his eyes. He looked young yet ageless, solid yet yielding, decisive yet reasonable.

  Good grief, she was imbuing a man she’d never met with qualities that didn’t exist. At least they didn’t exist in her world of inflated male egos and artistic temperaments.

  She had never painted a “dream man” before. She didn’t even attempt realistic portraiture, having developed a style devoted to pure Impressionism, influenced by her three idols: Picasso, Degas and Van Gogh.

  “My sister paints the three bars,” Neil had once said, inflecting his voice with a Davy Crockett drawl.

  “Bars? Oh, bears. Your accent is ghastly,” she had reprimanded, weaving her hand through her dark curls. “You sound like Elvis with a bad cold. And if you’re talking Papa Bar, Mama Bar and Baby Bar, I’m not Goldilocks, not even close.”

  “I didn’t mean bear bars, Hallie. I meant barns, bargains, and a ballerina’s barre.”

  Her brother’s witty wisecrack had some merit, thought Hallie, since she sometimes borrowed her father’s minivan and drove through New York State, halting to sketch barns, cows, street fairs and auctions. In fact, she had found her workbench at a farm auction and bought it for a song.

  Speaking of songs, the Temptations were singing about how they wished it would rain. Hallie heard the muted growl of thunder. Soon the Temptations would get their wish.

  Her gaze touched upon her latest canvas, propped against a big-screen TV, blocking its screen. She had abandoned that canvas to paint her dream man, but her work-in-progress depicted several ballerinas caught in a rhythmical wave of motion. She often attended rehearsals for The Dance Theatre of Harlem, then used her preliminary drawings to create expressions of spiritual ecstasy. One pretentious art critic had labeled her “the female Degas.”

  She felt a scowl crease her brow. That same critic wouldn’t call another artist the male Degas, would he?

  “Sorry, Jeff, your auntie was daydreaming. Where were we? Milk and cookies, right? You’re such a good boy.” She scooped up her nephew and carried him to the portable playpen. “Your bottle’s in the fridge and I bought a box of animal crackers. Lions and tigers and bars, oh my.”

  “Doody cackers.” Jeff snatched up a piece of soft flannel and pressed it against his cheek.

  “I’ll be back straight-away, little love.”

  Hallie walked into her kitchen. Just like her living room, dining room and bedroom, it was sparsely furnished. One of her cow paintings dominated the east wall. A sturdy butcher-block table and four wicker-backed chairs looked lost in a sea of decorative, kiln-baked tile. A microwave and knife sharpener had been housewarming gifts. Her cedar-scented cabinets accommodated six crystal goblets and six china dinner plates. Her silverware drawer held an array of plastic forks, knives, spoons and wooden chopsticks, all scrounged from the Chinese take-out she habitually ordered.

  It wasn’t that she expected to leave on the spur of the moment. She merely wanted to purchase items uniquely individual, possibly one of a kind. And if that meant eating with plastic utensils or placing a thick mattress on top of her hand-woven Indian rug until she found the perfect bed, so be it.

  For twenty-seven years, minus three years in Paris when she had studied at the Academic de la Grande Chamiere, Hallie had lived with her parents. Both were employed by the New York City Board of Education. Her father, Shamus, taught music appreciation and coached the high school football team. Her mother, Josie, taught history. Craving independence, Hallie had searched high and low for the perfect apartment. Like Neil, she loved the vibrant energy of Manhattan. Like Marianne, she preferred to live in the more laid-back suburbs.

  It was Marianne who had discovered Hallie’s duplex, located at the end of a cul-de-sac, next door to a country club. F
rom her back windows, she could see the manicured golf course, and the only sounds that occasionally pierced her concentration were the muffled oaths from golfers who’d boogied or bogeyed or whatever the heck it was called. She didn’t know squat about golf. She played tennis. Oh, she wasn’t a pro, not even close, but she could hold her own against most athletic amateurs.

  Damn, she’d better stop daydreaming – again! – and start behaving like a Mommy. Marianne, at Hallie’s insistence, was leaving Jeff overnight so that he could have some “quality time away from his sisters.” Meanwhile, Marianne would drive to the city for yet another upper crust gathering.

  “Hallie?”

  “Yes?” She turned away from the refrigerator, where she’d been reaching for Jeff’s clown-shaped bottle. “Ohmigod, Marianne, what’s the matter?”

  “My water broke.”

  “What?”

  “Which word didn’t you understand?”

  “Okay, sweetie, let’s not panic. We’ll simply call Neil, your doctor and the hospital.”

  “My hospital’s Mt. Sinai.” Marianne winced then grabbed a chair for support. “I don’t think I’ll have time to make it from Bayside to Manhattan.”

  “No problem. We’ll find a hospital that’s closer.”

  “And when, may I ask, did you buy a car?”

  “My bike is parked against the living room wall. Its tires are a tad low, but there’s a bicycle pump in the front hall closet.”

  “You want me to ride your handlebars?”

  “Not a good idea, huh?”

  “Unless there’s a delivery room inside the country club, I think you’ll have to play midwife.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’ve seen movies. TV. It takes hours and hours to have a baby.”

  Marianne’s mouth gave rise to a lopsided smile. “This is my fifth kid, kiddo. I’m primed like a pump.”

  “You’re joking. You’re not joking.”

  “Sorry, but I think you’ve got to hold down the fort until the paramedics arrive. Or my doctor.”

  “Doctor,” Hallie repeated, dazed. She consulted her authentic Coca-Cola wall clock. Then her gaze shifted past the clock, as if she could see through the wall and onto the golf course. “It’s only three-thirty. Don’t doctors play golf? Sure they do. So it’s really quite simple. I’ll just step outside and—”