Grieving gal seeks solace with sinewy psychic.
Only her four-year-old daughter survived the car crash that took the lives of Kate Weyland’s husband and son, but not for long. A kindly nurse claims she saw a vision of the little girl asking not to be put on life support just before she died. Can it be true? Kate never gave much thought to the afterlife, but the tragedy has made her willing to believe—and to reach out to those who say they can talk to the dead. Like Matteo, for instance, an elderly Hispanic man, who tells her she must “go over the water.” She goes to Nantucket, where she’s introduced to Gabriel Farr, a muscular loner with compelling eyes, who does a lot of muttering and talks in three-dot ellipses. She’s unconvinced and tries out Jasmine Arthur, a channeler of Leander, a soldier of ancient Greece. Credit card or cash? Alas, Kate goes back to Gabriel Farr, intending to find out about his murky past: he was a surf bum in Hawaii, and his Nantucket property came down to him through a circuitous path from a long-ago Farr. But it also seems that Gabriel was once implicated in a murder case in Hawaii when a hula dancer disappeared. How can Kate trust him? And what will he say if she asks for the truth? He does some more muttering and explains that he saw the dead dancer in visions, which he tried to explain to the suspicious police. He didn’t do it, honestly. And, thanks to him, Kate gets to tune in to her son and daughter, now in heaven. We play . . . we play all the time. But she asks herself a tough question or two before surrendering to Gabriel’s manly charms. Had the pulsing play of light and shadow from the candles put her under a hypnotic spell? It doesn’t really matter—she’s found peace at last. And true love, too.
Trite and stilted soap opera, from the author of Cover Stories (1979), etc.