The Summerhouse (The Summerhouse 1)

They then both turned to look at Leslie.

“If you agree, that is,” Millie said.

Leslie took a deep breath because she had an idea that the answer to this question was going to change her life forever. “Yes, I’d like that,” she said at last. “I think I’d like to find out if there’s more to me than just joining committees.”

This answer seemed to puzzle Millie, but she smiled anyway. “And what about your dancing?”

“My jumps aren’t high enough, and my—Well, let’s just say that Broadway is safe.”

Millie took Leslie’s arm in hers. “Painting is much more . . . well, usable anyway.”

Leslie knew that she meant that in a woman’s true profession of being a wife and mother, painting was more “genteel” than leaping about in front of people wearing little clothing. And privately, Leslie thought that painting would be something she could do while spending her days on the campaign trail.

“All right,” Leslie said, “when do I start?”

Part Three

Twenty-seven

The three women were standing in Madame Zoya’s little room, and each of them was dizzy from the quick change in time. But Madame Zoya’s smiling face steadied them as they looked at her.

“And what have you decided?” she asked, looking at Leslie.

But Leslie was too disoriented to reply; she could only blink at the woman.

“I want the new life,” Ellie said because her writer’s mind knew what the psychic was asking. It was a question that she’d thought about a great deal in the last weeks. “But I want to remember everything. I don’t want to forget what happened to me in the past.” Her voice lowered and she gave a bit of a smile. “Or what was done for me.”

Madame Zoya nodded, then looked at Leslie again. “And you?”

“I want the life I have,” she said softly, “but I, too, want to remember it all. There is something I need to remember.”

“A man,” Ellie said, smili

ng.

“Oh, no,” Leslie answered quickly. “Not a man. Me. I want to remember myself.”

“What does that—” Ellie began eagerly.

But Madame Zoya interrupted her. “And you, dear?” she asked softly as she turned to Madison; then the other two looked at her also.

Madison didn’t look well. She looked as though she’d just been through hell and hadn’t yet returned. For a moment Madison swayed on her feet, as though she were going to faint, but then she lifted her head and looked at the psychic. “The new life,” she whispered. “And I want to forget the old one. I don’t want to remember anything about that life,” she said with no hint of hesitation in her voice.

“Done,” Madame Zoya said. “Now, dears, run along. I have other people to help.”

Part of Ellie wanted to shout, “That’s it?! You don’t want to hear what happened to us?” But she didn’t say anything. For one thing, she was confused. Right now she had two lives in her head—and she had a thousand memories, memories that contradicted one another. Which were real and which weren’t?

Slowly, and awkwardly, the three of them made their way out of Madame Zoya’s house. It wasn’t easy, as it had been weeks since they’d been down those corridors. Twice they opened wrong doors, then stood and stared into rooms without having any idea what they were seeing.

At long last they were outside and standing on Madame Zoya’s little porch, and the sunlight nearly blinded them.

It was Madison who recovered first, because her mind wasn’t taken over by conflicting memories.

While Ellie and Leslie were blinking at the brightness and trying to sort out what was in their minds, Madison began to rummage in her big tote bag that was slung over her shoulder.

“Do either of you know what happened to my cell phone?” Madison asked. “I’m sure I had it a minute ago.”

“Cell phone?” Ellie said, sounding as though she’d never heard of one.