Back then I hadn’t wanted to see a face. I still didn’t like people much, but I had learned to cope. With that in mind, I made my way to his property line.
It wasn’t a matter of simply climbing the fence. First I had to find a gap in the bushes. And still there was a fight to push them aside, they scraped and scratched at me. I nearly lost.
The fence gave a metallic groan as I climbed aboard, and shuttered when I flopped off. The first thing I noticed was how different our yards were. When I walked through mine the grass tickled my calves, the trees and bushes growing together, eating up the open space. His grass was freshly cut, the bushes neatly trimmed to line the exterior, a glen from a fairy tale.
The trees from my side hung well into his. I wondered if he minded. Built around the same time, our houses were nearly identical, though his was made entirely of brick. I paused at the back door, realizing the emotion I’d been tracking was gone.
I felt silly then, standing there without a reason. The only logical explanation was that it had been coming from him. Perhaps he’d won the lottery, or maybe he was just helping himself to some afternoon delight. But now that the feeling no longer lingered I began to doubt that he was even home. A body shop didn’t run itself.
I turned to go, wondering where the hell that feeling had come from, wondering if I was maybe crazy.
“Did you need something?”
I froze.
Turning slowly, the first glimpse I got was of his filthy work attire. It was comprised of a T-shirt that had once been white, now a grease stained rag, blue Dickies with black smudges, and a pair of ass-stomping boots.
“Did you need something?” he repeated, standing in the open doorway. His hair was short, his skin tan, and I noticed what I hadn’t noticed the only other time I’d met him. He was good-looking. Strong, tall, broad-shouldered, his face wasn’t sharp and severe but bold with rounding curves.
Of course I stuttered stupidly, having not planned out what I was going to say. “Are you, uh, were you happy?” I shook my head and tried again. “I mean were you feeling particularly happy today, just now?”
He didn’t look at me like I was an idiot, but that was the impression I got all the same.
“Nevermind,” I muttered. Turning abruptly, I ran home.
* * *
Francesca called me the moment my shift started. I knew she would.
“What did he want?” she blurted.
“Your number.”
“Are you serious?” she breathed.
“No,” I responded lightly.
“You can really be a bitch sometimes, you know. So what’d he want then?”
“I really don’t know,” which was the truth.
She made an exasperated sound. “Well what did he say?”
“That’s irrelevant, men don’t always mean what they say.”
“Reed isn’t like most men,” she defended.
It was like a repeat from the night before. Irritated, I asked, “Is this all you called for?”
“No actually,” she admitted. “I think I need another reading.”
Chapter 4
A few boyfriends ago, Francesca had been dating a relaxed youngster named Nicky. As a date, he’d taken her to the Parlor to have her cards read. Things hadn’t worked out with Nicky, but the tarot interpreter had made a lasting impression.
So that was why I was spending my morning with Francesca, toting her back to Madame Bristow for an emergency reading.
I had to ask, “Francesca, you do know that no one can actually predict the future, don’t you?”
“Of course,” she scoffed. “It’s just for fun.”
“I set my alarm for your self-indulgence?”
She ignored me and began giving directions. “Turn off Ocean Boulevard, there, there,” she chanted, while pointing a manicured finger past my nose.
I’d never actually noticed the Parlor, though I’d walked Mallery Street many times. It was squished between two gift shops, a small easel sign the only advertisement. Perched by the front door, it read:
TAROT CARDS
PALM READING
ASTROLOGY
Walk-ins always Welcome
“Look, there’s a spot! You’ll have to parallel.”
“No can’t do,” I said, pulling the car in nose first. I popped the curb with my front right tire, and plopped back down as I straightened out.
“What the hell was that?” Francesca asked as she unbuckled and got out.
“I heard that’s how they do it in Germany.”
“I heard that’s how you get a flat.”
“In that case, you’ll be buying me a new one. Consider it gas money owed for all the rides I’ve given you.”
She pretended not to hear me as she stepped through the door, a bell jingled at our entrance. The dark narrow hall led to a dark narrow room, equipped with a reception desk. It was empty.
After a minute of waiting, I muttered, “You’d think with them being psychic and all, they’d know when they had a customer.”
“It doesn’t work that way,” Francesca replied.
“That doesn’t sound like the comment of a nonbeliever. What happened to ‘it’s just for fun’?”
She shushed me as someone approached. Their clacking footsteps echoed out from the hardwood floor. A small dramatic woman appeared. Her thick black curls were held back by a bright scarf. Wispy crimson dress and clicking bracelets completed the ensemble, adding to the image that most customers would expect.
Francesca turned, saying, “Hi, I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping to see Madame Bristow for a reading.”
The woman had been eyeing me with no small interest. I chalked it up to the monetary value of a potential client. She turned in time to answer, “I’m sorry but she isn’t in today. I’m available for an astrological reading if that suits you. Or if you prefer, I can set an appointment with Madame Bristow for a future date.” She rolled her S’s, forming an accent that didn’t reflect a single nation or culture. She could have been Asian, but I was guessing Pacific Islander.
“Astrology, what is that really? And can you see details with it.” Francesca’s questions were for show. I knew she wasn’t leaving here without a reading, the kind didn’t matter much.
The astrologist answered in somber tones. “With the date of your birth many things can be seen through the use of celestial bodies. Character traits are the easiest to chart, but to foresee the future is difficult, details more so. It will require great effort on my part, and I only do it for those who are in desperate need.”
“Yes, I’m interested in that. Are you free now? I think you’ll find my situation is very dire.” I almost felt bad for Francesca. She was like one of those people who checked their horoscope, though they didn’t really believe it. They did it to feel special, the thrill of hearing all about themselves, their own possibilities. Why being one of twelve made the masses feel special, I didn’t know.
“Yes, if you’ll walk down the hallway to room two I’ll be with you in a few minutes. I must prepare.”
We did as instructed, stopping before the door marked two. A metallic gold star and silver moon hovered near the number just in case you weren’t sure you’d picked the right room. I followed Francesca inside the small space, a cubicle really.
The walls and ceiling were a dark midnight-blue, covered in posters and tapestries. The charts and graphs looked like gibberish, and did nothing to impress me. There were artful depictions of the zodiac, numerous constellation mappings, and planetary rotations overlapping one another in disarray. A table took up half the room. Pushed against the long wall, it was covered in a heap of canvas and aged yellow paper.
Francesca sat patiently in one of the two chairs. I assumed the other was for the astrologist, so I pressed myself unobtrusively into the corner.
The door opened as our entertainer arrived. Small but stately, she carried
a velvet bag. Its contents she spread across the paper shrouded table. I recognized a few measuring tools and the magnifying glass.
“My name is Eclipsys.” I wanted to comment on that, but held my peace. “What is your name and the exact date of your birth?”
“My name is Francesca Black, but it wasn’t always that. Does that matter?” Eclipsys shook her head and Francesca continued babbling on about her birthday.
Eclipsys went to work with her charade. Bending over her papers, she shuffled through, mumbling, measuring, and checking. The magnifying glass went well with the image she was trying to establish.
I couldn’t feel any real interest or effort on her part. She was what I considered ‘emotionally silent’ at the moment. Francesca was a bubble of excitement, but that would be obvious to anyone with all her fidgeting. I was both bored and amused, a contradictory mix. But that was the thing I’d learned about emotions, they were nonsensical and often conflicting.
Eclipsys stood slowly, as if her mind was elsewhere, and wandered absently to the chair. She was a very good actress. “I see freedom and power within you, a unique ability to live passionately, but without the turmoil of regret. You easily draw what many covet, a gift, and the center of your power, but it staunches your potential. A balance is missing in your life, something essential you’ll need to progress.” She paused, blinking, as if coming out of a trance.
Francesca let out the breath she’d been holding.
I continued to keep quiet. Barely.
“What’s the thing I need?” Francesca asked. Becoming slightly frantic, “What’s the thing I need? Is it a guy? Can’t you look a little more? Maybe you missed something, it’s really important. I need the details, remember, I mentioned it’s dire.”
Eclipsys held up her hand, stalling any further protest. “I saw nothing that indicated dire intervention. The paths we take are long and winding. You need not worry, self-discovery is a precious journey.”
Francesca was irritated now, causing me to suppress a Puckish smirk. I must have made a noise or something because Eclipsys glanced at me. I had somehow stirred her interest. As she twisted to face me her body went rigid, she gasped before a spasm shook her. Her eyes were unseeing when she said, “You will meet with death.”
It was creepy, and I would have been freaking out with Francesca if I hadn’t known she was faking—which she was. I hadn’t felt a rising panic, no hysteria, not even distress from the astrologist. She’d been cool as a cucumber throughout the entire performance.
Eyes bugging and bewildered, Francesca asked, “Does that mean she’s going to die?”
Eclipsys shook her head while staring at me, pretending to look on in mute fascination.
“What is this,” I asked calmly, “revenge on the skeptic?” I didn’t wait for a response. I left that small dark place, wood planks creaking beneath my feet as I went.
My car didn’t do air conditioning, so I had the windows rolled down when Francesca climbed in. “It cost over fifty dollars to learn you’re going to die,” she complained.
“What a ripoff,” I commiserated.
Chapter 5
“Sterling’s Motel, how may I help you?” I asked with the phone pressed to my ear.
“Oh good, you’re still alive.”
“It hasn’t even been a day, Francesca. Some things take time.”
“I’m just not satisfied,” she huffed.
“That I’m still alive?”
“No, not everything is about you, Adelaide. I’m not satisfied with my reading.”
“What were you hoping to hear?” I asked, honestly curious.
She hesitated, then, “I think I’m in love.”
“Is this about that nancy Reed Wallace?” I asked, with no small amount of exasperation.
“If you ever bothered to pay attention to the news, you’d know he’s the most eligible bachelor this island’s ever seen. He’s like—the biggest catch.”
“That’s not news, that’s gossip.”
“Whatever, that’s not the point. The point is that Eclipsys did say something was missing from my life. I think it’s Reed.”
“You’d be Francesca Wallace. Or you could use a hyphen, Francesca Black-Wallace. No, that doesn’t have the sexy ring either.”
“I’m serious,” she interrupted. “He’s not just stopping by his summer home, he’s staying for a while, he said so himself.”
The office door opened and I hurried to bring the conversation to its end. “Yes, it’s been good chatting with you, and I’m sure the two of you will be very happy together.” I hung up without waiting for a response. She’d know I had to help a customer.
I prepared to be professional, but the woman before me didn’t look much like our normal clientele. And she was radiating all the shades of hostility. My teeth began to grind in response.
“I’m not interested in a room,” she stated. “I’m here to speak with a Miss Adelaide Graves.”
I couldn’t imagine why.
“Are you Miss Graves?” She buried her contempt and bitter resentment beneath a cool professionalism.
“Yes. What do you want?”
Her dislike doubled, and she couldn’t suppress her haughtiness when she spoke. “I’m Mr. Wallace’s personal aide. I’m here to set up an appointment. He’d like to meet with you.”
“Why?”
Aggravation, outrage, and, well, just plain rage followed my question. Maybe she preferred to do the asking. Or maybe some of those feelings were mine. Reed Wallace was rapidly climbing my shit-list.
“That’s for Mr. Wallace to explain.” She stood primly, staring down at me with her queen-of-the-boardroom look. With a perfectly fitted suit, feminine blouse, and sensible heels, she was well put together. Not a glossy blonde shoulder-length hair out of place.
“I’m not interested,” I said shortly.
She was shocked for a moment, but recovered quickly to boil and seethe. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Nooo,” I said slowly, drawing out the word. “Did you understand it that time?” If you thought I wasn’t curious as to why I was being summoned, then you were wrong. But I had years of practice pushing people away, and under the circumstances that seemed the proper response. Someone said jump, and I would say piss off.
“Mr. Wallace doesn’t give second chances.”
“Good. That means we’ll never have to repeat this conversation again. Now if you don’t mind, I should be getting back to work.” I scooped up my lecherous novel and buried my nose in it.
* * *
When I got home I kicked off my shoes in the front room and climbed the stairs to my loft. I changed into boxer shorts and a T-shirt before wandering back downstairs. I then took out the trash and washed a few dishes, basically puttering around, procrastinating until I was too hungry to put off cooking dinner any longer.
I pulled a chair out from under the little table I kept pressed under the kitchen windows. Hauling it to the refrigerator, I climbed up to reach the tiny cabinets above where I kept the canned food.
I began to rifle through, setting aside a can of cranberry sauce for later while I continued to debate what type of soup sounded best. I caught myself humming and went deathly still.
It was that same feeling I’d felt before, alien but familiar. I’d say happy, maybe excited, but not in a way I’d ever experienced. It was reflex to glance around, look for the source.
The movement caught my eye, a milky white swirl hovering below my feet at the base of the chair. It shifted and churned like smoke and water, going transparent so I could see the linoleum pattern beneath it. And in a blink it was a milky mass once more.
I sucked in a sharp breath and moved away, pressing myself against the fridge. It seemed to fade for a moment, and I fervently wished it would go away. Instead it turned a sickly gray, seeming to solidify into something real, though I couldn’t say what. Without warning it
came at me, pouncing upward in a whirl of twisting wisps, reaching for my feet with enthusiasm.
I gave a shrill, piercing scream as I jerked away. The chair tilted and I threw out my arms, flinging a can of soup as I scrambled to catch myself. Noise exploded as I fell. First a tinkling crash, followed closely by a resounding thud. That was me hitting the floor, landing roughly on my side.
When people said they had the wind knocked out of them, they had a point. I laid there gasping for breath. My entire body ached from impact. Whatever feelings I’d been catching were gone along with that thing, whatever it was.
I stayed still for a few moments, and seriously considered if maybe I was crazy. Perhaps my accident had triggered a case of schizophrenia and this was all a hallucination. That was plausible. I was very private, and with the disappearing act I had pulled at eighteen, I’d never given anyone the chance to diagnose me.
That could also mean I didn’t have the ability to feel emotions. I mean, an empath, really? When being crazy was the logical answer, you knew things had hit rock bottom. Probably I should see a doctor. But then I remembered back to the years of therapy and pills, and I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. I would rather be where I was, barely keeping it together and possibly crazy, than living like that.
Something firm pressed into my neck. I gave a strangled cry and lashed out with my arm. Much to my humiliation, it was only my neighbor Lucas Finch. He moved away at my outburst and was now standing across the kitchen watching me warily. “Just checking your pulse too see if you were still alive.”
Chapter 6
I gingerly picked myself up off the linoleum. Most of the glass from the broken window had fallen outside, but a few pieces had scattered across the floor before I landed, leaving me a bit scratched.
“Don’t move,” he instructed. “Your feet are bare. Where do you keep the broom?” I pointed to the laundry closet. “Did someone try to break in?”
“No. I threw a can of soup out the window.” He handed me the broom. “It was an accident,” I added lamely. “I fell off the chair.”