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tonight on the landing, when you spoke of Paul, I understood you are a spirit, just as I am. Yet now you are here. I see you.” A pause, then, admiringly, “You have quite lovely red hair. But please, how can you be here?” The high voice was amazed.
    â€œHaven’t you ever appeared?” I was stunned. Half the pleasure of beautiful clothes is admiring them, and I felt sure that Lorraine had always enjoyed the finest apparel. “Oh my dear. You can appear. Picture yourself in your favorite dress.”
    â€œPicture myself . . .”
    Colors moved and flowed, coalescing into a slender blonde in a padded-shoulder knee-length silk dress with a pattern of ivy against cream. A single strand of pearls graced her slender neck. Tall heels sported an ankle strap. She stood beside the four-poster bed, her lips curving in delight.
    If she walked down a street in Adelaide, she would look as distant in time as a flapper in a dropped-waist layered dress.
    Lorraine turned and looked into the mirror. Her eyes widened.
    I moved to stand beside her. I felt at a disadvantage in a pink flannel nightgown. In an instant, I nodded in approval at my reflection in an A-line dress and sandals. The vibrant shade of aquamarine blue was just right for my complexion, freckles and all.
    One thin blonde brow rose as Lorraine saw my image and noted the mid-thigh skirt length.
    â€œSkirts are very short these days.” I hoped I didn’t sound defensive.
    â€œOh, I know.” She hastened to be agreeable. “Though I have to confess I don’t find today’s styles appealing. Many women on the staff wear slacks. That was acceptable during the war, when women worked night and day in factories, but now everyone could wear skirts if they wished. As for coeds today . . .” A delicate shudder. She turned toward me, her blue eyes troubled and uncertain. “Why are you here?” There was the slightest emphasis on the noun and I thought I heard a tremor in her voice.
    I tried for an appealing smile. “I wanted a place where I could read”—I picked up the slim stack of
Bugle
s—“without being disturbed. I didn’t know you were here.”
    â€œWhere else would I go?” Her lovely voice was mournful.
    I said gently, “When your work on earth is done . . .”
    Her eyes, an arresting shade of blue tempered by gray, brimmed with tears. “I blamed myself.”
    I scarcely heard the soft words, freighted with sorrow.
    â€œIf I hadn’t written him . . . I knew he’d understand . . . but I couldn’t forgive myself when . . .” She bowed her head, pressed slender hands against her face. Finally, her hands dropped and she walked away from me, her shoulders tight. She stopped near an elegant cloisonné screen, orange and red and green and gold gemstones gleaming in an intricate pattern on porcelain against ornately carved wood.
    I followed her. I didn’t know why she grieved, what memories caused her anguish, held her to earth. Perhaps I could make her feel better, lift her sorrow. “Wiggins thinks you are wonderful, and he’s dreadfully upset that someone is vandalizing the library and hiding behind your legend. I’m here to clear your name. I’ll find out who’s causing problems at the library. I won’t bother you.” I had a sudden sense that she felt hounded, and that was my fault. Everyone must have a private place, whether on earth or in Heaven. I’d come to Rose Bower hoping to learn more about Lorraine, but I hadn’t intended to intrude where she felt safe.
    She turned and gazed at me, her lovely face vulnerable. “He wants to help me?”
    â€œWiggins wants you to be happy. I promise.” I held out my hand. “Friends?”
    A slender hand gripped mine, the touch cool and gentle. “Of course I will be your friend. How like Paul to wish the best