by Tawna Fenske
“Of course, honey. Your first reading.”
“Right. Well, I might have told her that Frank was cheating.”
“Her squash partner, yes of course. I think they’re getting ready to head to Japan for the world championships. He’s cheating?”
Violet gritted her teeth, trying to figure out if her mother was being exceptionally dense or exceptionally clever. “I don’t know, but—”
“Of course you know, honey,” Moonbeam said. “You’re clairvoyant.”
“Right, but Frank owns the building and he said—”
“Violet, honey. You know you need to trust your instincts.”
Violet sighed. “He threatened to kick us out of the building.”
Moonbeam was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice had a sharp edge to it. “Did he, now?”
“He did. He wants to come talk to me the day after tomorrow, as soon as he gets back from a business trip to Chicago.”
“Well,” Moonbeam said, slowly. “Honey? Have we ever talked about the proper way to cast a curse?”
Chapter 7
Violet glanced at her watch and then pressed the gas pedal to the floor. She was later than she’d expected leaving the hospital, which meant she was running late to meet Chris at his private practice.
“Dammit,” Violet muttered as she spotted a traffic jam up ahead. She saw a cluster of police cars and slowed down, keeping an eye on the standstill traffic.
She cursed under her breath again as she brought the car to a halt, watching her windshield wipers work double-time to fight the afternoon rainstorm. She gritted her teeth as she stared at the immobile cars. This was not what she needed. She was trying to make a good impression on Chris. To let him know she was professional and responsible and prompt.
You make it sound so hot.
Violet didn’t notice the police officer until he knocked on her window.
“Sorry to startle you, ma’am,” he said when Violet rolled down her window. “There’s a train wreck up ahead—”
“The light rail?”
The officer nodded. “Some guy played chicken with the MAX and lost, so we’re rerouting traffic back the other way. Do you need help with an alternate route to wherever you’re going?”
Violet shook her head, already mapping it out in her head. “I think I’ve got it. I grew up here.”
“Okay then. If you hang a right over there on Mercy Street, it’ll take you right back out to the highway.”
“Thanks.”
“Have a good day, ma’am.”
Violet rolled up her window and watched as the little blue Honda ahead of her executed a U-turn. She steered her rental car in an arc, falling in line behind the Honda. She glanced at her watch.
“Dammit,” she muttered again. She had told Chris she’d stop by his office at five to pick up a few more files. It was already ten after, and the reroute would cost her at least five more. She would have called, but her cell-phone battery had gone dead earlier in the day. She resisted the urge to smack her fist on the steering wheel.
By the time she wheeled into the clinic parking lot, Violet was fifteen minutes late. She cast a look around the parking lot, relieved to see there were still five or six cars. Lurching into the closest spot, she flew out of the car and sprinted to the front door of the clinic.
A pleasant, sanitized, air-conditioned gust greeted her as she pulled open the door. So did an equally sanitized-looking blonde with a face that had clearly seen one too many Botox injections. Her name tag said “Beatrice.”
“Hello, dear,” greeted Beatrice and her immobile forehead. “Do you need an appointment?”
“No, actually, I’m here to see Dr. Abbott. Chris, I mean. Not for a checkup or anything. Sorry, I’m late to meet him to pick up some files and—”
“Oh, you must be Violet,” Beatrice said, beaming widely at her. “He’s expecting you. We’ve all heard so much about you.”
“You have?”
“Let me just let Dr. Abbott know you’ve arrived. He’s with a patient right now, but I know he’ll be so excited to see you.”
“I’ll just wait here and read.”
Violet picked up a women’s magazine off the table and smiled. Beatrice smiled back, probably wondering whether Violet planned to read “Seven Bad-girl Bedroom Moves” or “The STD You May Already Have.” Violet sat down and began to leaf through the magazine. She ran her fingers through her hair, hoping she didn’t look too disheveled. She wasn’t good at being late. It wasn’t in her nature.
She turned the page, trying to find something to take her mind off her tardiness. Before she knew it, she was thoroughly engrossed in an article about gynecological exams gone bad.
A door opened off the lobby, and Violet looked up to see Chris beaming at her.
“Violet, I’m so glad to see you! How was your day?”
Violet closed the magazine and stood up, trying to pretend vagina wasn’t the last word she’d read. “Hey, Chris. Sorry I’m late. There was a train wreck and… well, anyway, it’s good to see you.”
“No problem at all. I had a couple appointments run late anyway, so you’re right on time.”
“Must have been a busy day?”
“Pretty standard, actually. Moonbeam is doing well?”
“Very well, thank you. She’s receiving excellent care.”
There was a brief pause, and Violet worried for a moment that they’d run out of mundane topics to cover. She considered inviting him to take the Cosmo quiz with her when he spoke up again.
“So Violet, can I get you water or coffee or anything?”
“No, thank you. I’m good.”
“Well then, let me give you a tour of the office.”
He led her down a narrow hallway lined with tasteful watercolors and a series of golden oak doorways. He pointed out offices and exam rooms, leading Violet through a short maze of hallways. Everything was very tasteful, very sterile. Precisely how a doctor’s office should be. Violet made appropriate sounds of appreciation, nodding when he showed her his X-ray machine and noting the expensive furniture in his office.
“So you probably want to get those files,” he said when the tour was over.
“That would be great.”
“I don’t suppose you’re free for dinner, are you?”
“Dinner?”
“If you don’t already have plans, of course. I’ve been wanting to try that German restaurant up the road a bit, and I’d love the company.”
“Oh. Well, yes. That would be lovely.”
He smiled at her. “Let me grab those files for you, and I’ll be ready to go.”
“Okay,” Violet said. “I’ll wait here and read about…” She glanced back at her magazine. “I’ll just wait here.”
Chris was only gone a few minutes. When he emerged again, he had traded the lab coat for an expensive-looking wool jacket. He held an umbrella in one hand and a briefcase in the other. Violet admired the aesthetic. Very debonair.
“Do you want to go in one car, or follow me there?” he asked.
“Carpooling makes sense. Saves fossil fuels and all that.”
He grinned. “You are your mother’s daughter, aren’t you?”
Violet smiled benignly and followed him out to the parking lot, where he beeped open the locks on a shiny black Mercedes. He reached past her to open the passenger-side door for her.
“Thank you,” Violet said, and got in.
Chris moved around to the other side, depositing the briefcase and umbrella in the backseat before moving to the driver’s side and taking his seat.
“Pardon the mess,” he said, and picked up a single gum wrapper out of the console. It was the only thing Violet could see that was out of place.
They rode in companionable silence, listening to the patter of raindrops and the swish of puddles beneath the tires. Violet thought about how pleasant it was to be comfortable enough with someone that there was no need to make trivial conversation. That was nice.
Better than nice, that was really great.
Violet looked out at the rain, trying to remember the last time she’d seen unclouded skies. That was one thing she didn’t miss about living in Portland, Oregon. Not that there were many things she did miss. She liked her life in Portland, Maine. It was perfect. Just what she’d always wanted.
She turned to Chris, tired of listening to her own thoughts. “You like living in Portland? I mean, you didn’t grow up here, so I just wondered.”
He gave her an odd look. “How funny you should ask that right then.”
“Why’s that?”
“I was just thinking about living on the East Coast and how much I enjoyed my childhood there.” He looked at her and smiled. “I guess I pretty much give up the expectation of private thoughts when I’m spending time with a psychic.”
“Right. Well, it doesn’t always work quite that way.”
“No? Do you have to really focus on it or something like that?”
“Something like that,” Violet agreed, desperate to get off the subject of psychic powers. “So you enjoy the East Coast?”
“Very much. Like I mentioned the other night, I grew up in New Hampshire, and my parents are still back there.”
“You see them often?”
“Not as often as I’d like. They’re getting older, and… well, you probably know how it is. I suppose it’s the same for you, isn’t it? Moonbeam’s over here, and you live on the East Coast. You must miss her.”
“Sometimes,” Violet agreed, surprised to realize she wasn’t lying.
Chris smiled. “It must have been interesting growing up with a mother who was so… so…”
“Wacky?”
“Well…”
“Infuriating?”
Chris laughed. “I was going to say spirited, but I suppose you’d know better than I would.”
Violet shrugged, a little taken aback by the hero worship Chris seemed to direct toward Moonbeam. “It was interesting,” she agreed.
“Were all your boyfriends petrified that she knew their innermost thoughts?”
Violet laughed. “I never thought of that. Maybe that’s why I didn’t have boyfriends in high school.”
Chris raised an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”
“Believe it. I guess you’d say I was a bit of an outcast, growing up.” She tried to say it with a nonchalant air, but she could see from Chris’s sympathetic expression that she hadn’t succeeded.
“So how about now?” he asked. “Do you date much?”
Violet smiled and looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Some. Nothing serious at the moment. How about you?”
“Nothing serious. I haven’t really found what I’m looking for, I suppose.”
“And what are you looking for?”
He smiled, his warm, brown eyes a little faraway as he looked out at the road. “Marriage, family, the whole nine yards.”
“The two-point-four children, the cocker spaniel, the house with the big front yard?” Violet added, grinning.
Chris smiled back a little sheepishly as he wheeled into the parking lot of the restaurant. “I suppose that sounds a little boring.”
“Hey, nothing wrong with boring. I love boring. Boring gets me hot.” She hadn’t meant to add that last part, but the way Chris’s eyes lit up told her she’d managed to intrigue, not offend. Well, that was good.
Chris switched off the car and unbuckled his seat belt. Then he turned and smiled right into her eyes. “In that case then, let’s head inside and have a perfectly boring dinner.”
***
By the time Chris walked her to the door at the end of their evening, Violet was more frustrated than she’d been in years.
Not sexually frustrated—that would have been a good sign, really. And not frustrated with Chris, either. He was perfect. Exactly the sort of man she’d been looking for. He’d been an absolute gentleman all evening, kind and well-mannered and intelligent and exactly—exactly—what she wanted.
Which is why she was so damn frustrated with herself. Chris was smart, charming, career focused, and attentive to her every need. Above all, he was normal. Just what she wanted.
Only… well, she wasn’t really wanting him. Not the way she expected to want a good-looking, smart, single—
“You must be tired,” Chris murmured as they stopped on the front porch.
“What?” Violet asked, hoping she hadn’t missed some important thread of conversation.
“That’s the third time you’ve yawned since we left the restaurant. I hope I didn’t keep you out too late.”
“Oh… no, of course not. I mean, it’s not your fault I’m yawning.”
It’s not, Violet reminded herself. She was just tired. That was all.
“So Violet, I had a really nice time this evening.”
“Me too.”
“Is there any chance I could see you again? Maybe without the pretense of reviewing paperwork or looking at files?”
Violet smiled. A joke, he’d made a joke. Obviously he wasn’t a boring man. She really was tired.
“I’d like that,” she said with enough gusto to make Chris beam at her.
“I’m so glad. Shall I give you a call tomorrow night to set something up?”
“I might not answer my phone tomorrow night. I have a couple of outdoor readings scheduled after dark… full moon and all. Moonbeam books those appointments months in advance, so I’ll be tied up with that.”
“Sure, of course,” he said as though it was the most natural thing in the world for her to go traipsing into the dark of night with total strangers to give psychic readings. “How about if I just call you sometime in the next couple days when we’ve both got our calendars in front of us?”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“Okay, then.” Chris leaned toward her. Violet knew what came next. She took a breath, steeling herself for the kiss. Her hands felt clammy, and her heart skittered a little in her chest. Violet closed her eyes.
She felt Chris’s lips brush her cheek, so soft she might have missed it. She felt him draw back. She opened her eyes.
Is that it?
Of course it was. Chris was a gentleman. What did she expect? It wasn’t as if he would throw her up against the side of the house and push his body against hers, his breath hot on her throat, his hand fumbling at the opening of her blouse the way Drew’s had as she’d pressed her breast into his palm and…
Violet felt her cheeks go hot. She took a small step back and offered Chris a weak smile.
He smiled back, looking kind and pleasant and absolutely perfect.
What the hell is wrong with you, Violet?
“Good night, Violet,” he said softly.
“Good night,” she said, and went inside to beat her head against a wall.
***
Violet opened her eyes the next morning and felt the dread pooling in her gut. It was the day she’d feared most when she’d agreed to this ridiculous psychic scheme. The day she’d known would probably blow her whole cover. The day she was almost certain to humiliate herself.
Not coincidentally, it was also Moonbeam’s favorite day each month.
“Fucking full moon,” Violet muttered, and got up to take a shower.
For at least a dozen years, Moonbeam had expounded on the special boost in psychic energy she felt with the gravitational pull of the full moon. Violet had always assumed it was menstrual cramps, but whatever. The appointments booked up months in advance, with many clients happy to take early-morning appointments with no moon in sight. Many of them requested special outdoor locales for their full-moon readings.
Moonbeam was happy to oblige.
“A clairvoyant’s power is always at its peak when the lunar cycle correlates with the earth’s geomagnetic field, and the solar geomagnetic flux is in a state of calm,” Moonbeam had said so many times that Violet could recite the bizarre string of words backward and forward.
She had no idea wha
t it meant. She only knew that Moonbeam was nuttier than normal when the full moon arrived, and so she dreaded it.
Now she dreaded it for another reason. People were going to expect her to know things. The people who booked these appointments were serious connoisseurs of psychic services. They wouldn’t be fooled by fake trances or half-assed tarot-card readings or words of wisdom from her Magic 8 Ball.
Everyone would know she was a fraud.
That alone wasn’t so bad—certainly Violet didn’t believe in psychics herself—but at least Moonbeam knew how to pull it off. She’d had years of practice.
Violet didn’t have a clue.
So her mother’s reputation would be sullied, and it would all be her fault.
Damn full moon.
Violet toweled off and dressed in an amethyst cashmere sweater with slim black slacks. She topped it off with tall black boots and a spritz of her favorite perfume. Maybe if she smelled nice, no one would notice she didn’t know what the hell she was doing.
In the kitchen, she ate some organic steel-cut oatmeal drizzled with wild-forest honey and nibbled a handful of locally grown raspberries. Collecting her keys from the basket by the front door, Violet marched out the door with the enthusiasm of a woman facing an executioner with exceptionally bad halitosis.
Once she was settled in with a mug of mint tea in Moonbeam’s red velvet chair, she studied the appointment book.
Ann Marie Winston, age twenty-seven, Scorpio, residing just outside Tigard. These were the only facts available to her. Ann Marie was a new client who’d booked her appointment three months earlier. She’d given no indication what she wanted to talk about, probably because the appointment had been made so far in advance.
Moonbeam’s only note, written in tiny, flowery script, read, Moved from San Fran, had regular psychic there.
“Maybe she’ll have low expectations,” Violet muttered to herself as the door chimed.
Violet stood as a fresh-faced blonde stepped through the door and surveyed her surroundings. Violet surveyed Ann Marie, scanning for designer labels, telltale facial expressions, something significant in her poise—anything that would give her a clue who Ann Marie was and what she expected.
