Read Online Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black) by R. M. Ridley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R. M. Ridley
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enough to know that even if they ended the relationship, it didn’t mean it wasn’t the guy’s fault it failed.
There could be a woman out there still in love with Wendell, yet hating the poor shmuck for not doing whatever she had expected him to do. Jonathan would check into that one deeper. He earmarked it in his brain and set it aside.
Wendell continued. “The last thing I inherited was a nice urn filled with my mother’s remains and her silverware—which I’ve never used.”
With the mention of remains, Jonathan put down his fork and, leaning on the table, asked, “Wendell, have you experienced any feelings of cold, or do the hairs on the back of your neck keep standing up?”
Not all ghosts manifest with a temperature differential, so it failed as a surefire way to identify a spectral presence in his life, but the possibility of Wendell being haunted, quite possibly by his mother, remained quite real. Those sorts of relationships can be very strained, dysfunctional, and turbulent.
“Uh, cold?”
“Yes, a chill—not necessarily when you were getting the predictions, but any unexplained chills?”
“Not, uh . . .” Wendell hesitated.
Jonathan felt his pulse speed up, but then Wendell shook his head.
“No, not as I could say so. Why?”
“Sometimes hauntings manifest as temperature drops.”
“You think . . .” Wendell looked into his mug of tea. “You think I may be haunted?”
“It’s a possibility,” Jonathan admitted, although if he were honest with himself, it didn’t seem likely.
Jonathan had been able to see ghosts his whole life and he had seen nothing while Wendell had used the Magic 8-ball.
“Look, Wendell, I’m stumped. Nothing’s making sense here, a ghost being able to do this is theoretically possible, so I’m just grabbing at anything that might fit, any ‘could be’ as it were. A haunting is possible.”
A s Bao arrived to deliver Wendell’s dumplings, Jonathan took the moment to once more quell the beast growling in his gut.
Wendell regarded the plate before him with something akin to dismay. After a moment, he gave a barely discernible shrug, picked up his knife and fork, cut into a dumpling, and inserted a piece between his lips.
A moment later, as Jonathan had predicted, Wendell began eating heartily, which took one worry about his current client off Jonathan’s shoulders.
Both of them ate in silence for several minutes until Wendell paused and, placing the speared third of a dumpling back on the plate, looked at Jonathan.
“You think it’s my mother, don’t you?”
“Pardon?” Jonathan queried in an attempt to perhaps discourage Wendell from going down that thought path, or at least buy more time to come up with a good way to respond.
“You asked about the cold, the haunting, after I told you I had inherited my mother’s ashes, see?”
“Yeah, it’s true. I did.”
Jonathan took a sip of his now-cold tea, but Wendell wasn’t so easily dissuaded from the line of questioning. Clearly some mommy issues there, and Jonathan couldn’t see a way around the topic, especially if he wanted to get to the bottom of this.
“Yes. All right, Wendell, that was where my thinking left me. It’s possible—”
“I loved my mother and she loved me. I tended to her in her last days, see? I scattered her ashes over the river from her favorite spot, the spot where she and my father used to go all the time when they dated. I sprinkled her ashes there as she wanted, just like she’d done for my father.”
“Damn,” Jonathan despondently cursed before he topped up his tea.
“Damn what?” Wendell inquired hesitantly.
“It’s highly improbable your mother’s haunting you if you’ve scattered her ashes, especially if you dumped them into running water. It is possible but unlikely.” He ran his hand through his hair. “But still, damn—that’s one more off the list of possible causes for these threats, or taunts, or whatever they are.” Jonathan
There could be a woman out there still in love with Wendell, yet hating the poor shmuck for not doing whatever she had expected him to do. Jonathan would check into that one deeper. He earmarked it in his brain and set it aside.
Wendell continued. “The last thing I inherited was a nice urn filled with my mother’s remains and her silverware—which I’ve never used.”
With the mention of remains, Jonathan put down his fork and, leaning on the table, asked, “Wendell, have you experienced any feelings of cold, or do the hairs on the back of your neck keep standing up?”
Not all ghosts manifest with a temperature differential, so it failed as a surefire way to identify a spectral presence in his life, but the possibility of Wendell being haunted, quite possibly by his mother, remained quite real. Those sorts of relationships can be very strained, dysfunctional, and turbulent.
“Uh, cold?”
“Yes, a chill—not necessarily when you were getting the predictions, but any unexplained chills?”
“Not, uh . . .” Wendell hesitated.
Jonathan felt his pulse speed up, but then Wendell shook his head.
“No, not as I could say so. Why?”
“Sometimes hauntings manifest as temperature drops.”
“You think . . .” Wendell looked into his mug of tea. “You think I may be haunted?”
“It’s a possibility,” Jonathan admitted, although if he were honest with himself, it didn’t seem likely.
Jonathan had been able to see ghosts his whole life and he had seen nothing while Wendell had used the Magic 8-ball.
“Look, Wendell, I’m stumped. Nothing’s making sense here, a ghost being able to do this is theoretically possible, so I’m just grabbing at anything that might fit, any ‘could be’ as it were. A haunting is possible.”
A s Bao arrived to deliver Wendell’s dumplings, Jonathan took the moment to once more quell the beast growling in his gut.
Wendell regarded the plate before him with something akin to dismay. After a moment, he gave a barely discernible shrug, picked up his knife and fork, cut into a dumpling, and inserted a piece between his lips.
A moment later, as Jonathan had predicted, Wendell began eating heartily, which took one worry about his current client off Jonathan’s shoulders.
Both of them ate in silence for several minutes until Wendell paused and, placing the speared third of a dumpling back on the plate, looked at Jonathan.
“You think it’s my mother, don’t you?”
“Pardon?” Jonathan queried in an attempt to perhaps discourage Wendell from going down that thought path, or at least buy more time to come up with a good way to respond.
“You asked about the cold, the haunting, after I told you I had inherited my mother’s ashes, see?”
“Yeah, it’s true. I did.”
Jonathan took a sip of his now-cold tea, but Wendell wasn’t so easily dissuaded from the line of questioning. Clearly some mommy issues there, and Jonathan couldn’t see a way around the topic, especially if he wanted to get to the bottom of this.
“Yes. All right, Wendell, that was where my thinking left me. It’s possible—”
“I loved my mother and she loved me. I tended to her in her last days, see? I scattered her ashes over the river from her favorite spot, the spot where she and my father used to go all the time when they dated. I sprinkled her ashes there as she wanted, just like she’d done for my father.”
“Damn,” Jonathan despondently cursed before he topped up his tea.
“Damn what?” Wendell inquired hesitantly.
“It’s highly improbable your mother’s haunting you if you’ve scattered her ashes, especially if you dumped them into running water. It is possible but unlikely.” He ran his hand through his hair. “But still, damn—that’s one more off the list of possible causes for these threats, or taunts, or whatever they are.” Jonathan
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