Not in the Cards

by Amy Cissell

  “But he said you wouldn’t split up the town,” Darwin exclaimed. “This was supposed to be an easy buy.”

  “Who said?” Vincent asked, suspicion growing.

  Darwin clamped his mouth shut, hit the button for the next floor they were headed to, and got off the elevator without another word. He turned as he exited and said, “I won’t wait around forever.”

  “I’ll announce my decision November first,” Vincent promised. “Three weeks.”

  The doors closed.

  Chapter Six

  Sandy walked into Drew’s living room for the second time in a week. Misty had called an emergency meeting, although she hadn’t specified what the emergency was. She’d grabbed the two bottles of wine that had been left over from the last meeting she’d attended—her first—and stopped for a bottle of prosecco on the way. The others might like wine, but bubbly had always been her preference. Aaron had always insisted that bubbles were for special occasions only, and nothing so mundane even as anniversaries, birthdays, or Saturday afternoons. Only his business achievements were worthy, and only the best champagne.

  The first thing she’d done when she’d filed for divorce was buy the two most expensive bottles of champagne from her corner wine shop. She’d opened the first the day she moved into her new space in Oracle Bay and was saving the second for the day her divorce was final. She shook her head, trying to shed the weird guilt she felt for buying prosecco for no reason. She didn’t need permission, and she no longer cared what Aaron thought about which drink was appropriate for any given occasion.

  She knocked on Drew’s door after double-checking she was in the right place. It looked familiar—and the purple and yellow weren’t a common color scheme—but she had a major fear of walking into the wrong house, and until she’d been to a place at least a half-dozen times, she always double- and triple- checked.

  No one answered, so she knocked again before spotting the doorbell. She rang it, and finally, someone answered. It was one of the women whose name she couldn’t remember. She was tall, slim, and had sepia-toned skin with an almost unearthly glow. Her dark eyes looked down at Sandy. “You can just come in if you know you’re expected,” she said, then turned and walked away.

  Sandy followed her in and tried not to let the shortness of the woman whose name she couldn’t remember bother her.

  “Sandy!” Drew called as she walked through the kitchen. “Please tell me you brought bubbles!”

  She held up the bottle of prosecco and smiled, the mild embarrassment from her encounter at the door fading at Drew’s obvious welcome.

  “I am going to make you the most amazing drink you’ve ever had in your life,” he declared. “You’re not driving, are you?”

  “No. I walked.”

  “Good. Now hand over the bottle.”

  She passed him the bottle, set down the two bottles of cabernet, and watched him make the cocktails. He narrated the process for her. “Two ounces of gin—really good gin, the juice of half a lemon, and one and a half ounces of simple syrup—I’m using rhubarb that I made last spring.” He dumped the ingredients into an ice-filled shaker and shook vigorously, then dumped the contents into a champagne flute. “Now, top with bubbly and garnish!” He cut a long twist of lemon peel, swirled it into the glass, and handed it to her.

  Sandy took a cautious sip, then another more enthusiastic one.

  “Slow down, there, Sandy!” Drew said laughing. “You don’t want to drink that too fast. You’ll be under the table in no time.”

  “What is this?”

  “That, my dear, is a French 75, so named because it makes you feel like you’ve been shelled by a French 75mm field gun if you have too many.”

  She looked at the drink with a bit more respect. “It doesn’t taste dangerous.”

  “That’s what makes it dangerous. Traditionally, they’re made with plain simple syrup, but I always like fancying things up, and the rhubarb is both pretty and tasty. I’ll make you one with cranberry simple syrup one of these days so you can die from the pleasure of it.”

  Sandy took another sip of her drink. “It’s wonderful.”

  “Another convert!” he called out. “I told you bitches this was good.”

  A chorus of groans echoed from the living room. “Don’t get hooked, Sandy!” Misty called. “Gin and champagne is a dangerous combination.”

  Sandy smiled, still cautious with these people who may or may not be crazy as all get out, and found an empty seat in the living room. Drew followed her moments later, his own cocktail in hand, and settled into an incongruously placed beanbag chair.

  “So, Misty, what’s the big news?” Drew asked.

  “Vincent Bryson, the man who owns nearly every building in Oracle Bay, is selling it all to a developer.” Amid the muffled gasps, Misty whipped out a tablet, tapped on it dramatically, and said, “This is what the developer did to the last coastal town he got his greedy little paws on!”

  The photos she scrolled through showed cookie-cutter architecture on chain restaurants and shops. Everything was homogenous.

  “It’s like the Stepford Wives of towns!” Ceri whispered.

  “Not a single punny shop name to be seen,” Paska noted.

  “This is what’ll happen in Oracle Bay,” Misty said. “Rents will be raised until we can’t afford them, then everything will be razed and rebuilt in this image.”

  “Is there anything we can do to stop it?” Sandy asked. “I know I’m a newcomer here, but Oracle Bay feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever lived.”

  Morgana and Misty exchanged an enigmatic look that Sandy was sure meant something, but she had no idea what.

  “Why’s he selling?” Ceri asked at the same time Sandy said, “Oh! I read his cards.”

  Every head in the room swiveled to look at Sandy.

  “What’d they say?” the woman who’d answered the door and whose name Sandy still hadn’t remembered demanded.

  “He really went to a psychic?” Misty exclaimed. “I was pretty sure he thought it was all a crock of hooey.”

  “He might still,” Sandy admitted. “He was even more skeptical than me about it all.”

  “What did his cards say?” the dark woman asked again.

  “Keep your pants on, Jezebel,” Drew said. “I want to know why he’s selling, and then we can talk about what Sandy got from him.”

  “I shook hands with him, too,” Misty admitted.

  “Gloveless?” Ceri looked shocked.

  Misty nodded. “He told me he needed the money to clear his name, but that he was innocent.”

  “And you believe him?” Ceri asked. Her tone was curious, rather than accusatory. No one doubted Misty’s handshakes.

  “I do. He didn’t commit the crime he was accused of.”

  “And the reading?” Morgana demanded.

  “His past mirrored what we know,” Sandy said. “Loss, financial ruin, betrayal. There was an intern, or someone much junior to him, a younger man, who I believe betrayed him. Perhaps this man was instrumental in framing Vincent?”

  There was a murmur of agreement and an impatient hand gesture from Morgana.

  “He got the Wheel of Fortune in the present. That could be interpreted as a continuation of the negative change in fortune, or alternatively, prison time instead of whatever he’s being accused of now. But, the other cards were more positive—kind of—and gave a warning to look beyond the material to the spiritual.

  “His future is dependent on a choice. He was concerned about making the wrong choice but worried about the outcome either way. If he chooses correctly, he will win at life—”

  “Is that what you told him?” Jezebel asked, her voice tinged with amusement.

  “I’m paraphrasing,” Sandy retorted. “If he can let go of the material and focus on the spiritual, he’ll achieve true happiness. But in order to do that, he’ll have to take a chance on losing everything he’s held dear. It’s all down to a choice on his part, and the future
was wavering back and forth so much that it was difficult to give him any clarity.”

  “Do you always remember the readings you do so well?” Misty asked.

  “Only since coming to Oracle Bay,” Sandy replied with a wry smile. “Although to be fair, the last time I did this regularly was at college parties, so my imperfect memory may have had something to do with the environment.”

  “It’s clear what needs to happen; what his choice needs to be,” Morgana said.

  “Don’t you need a cup of tea to be clear?” Drew asked.

  “Don’t be an ass,” Ceri said. “What needs to happen?”

  “He can’t sell, and we need to find a way to clear his name.”

  Sandy fidgeted in the bar of the Sleeping Inn, the fanciest and corniest-named hotel in Oracle Bay, waiting for Vincent to appear. She was not as big a fan of this plan as the rest of the psychics were. “Union,” she snorted. They’d explained the whole thing to her, complete with the dues structure and pricing information. Everything was set so that no one undercut anyone else. They even had an LLC and offered health insurance to the members.

  Although there were less than a dozen active psychics in town, the union had over fifty members and qualified for small business rates. It wasn’t a bad deal, actually, and even if she hadn’t believed that something was definitely going on, she probably would’ve joined the so-called union, just for the benefits. It even came with vacation time. Everyone paid a percentage of their income into a shared pool, and if anyone needed vacation or sick time and couldn’t afford it, they could petition to draw from the fund.

  Sandy’d never been super pro-union before, but she had to admit this was better benefits, more or less, than any other job she’d be likely to get with her zero years of recent job history and an eight-year-old Accounting degree she’d never used. She fidgeted a bit more and ordered a French 75 from the bartender when he came by. “Do you know Drew?” he asked.

  She laughed at that and acknowledged that she had, indeed, been introduced to the cocktail by Drew Hardy, and they chatted briefly about various cocktails and quirks of the town while she waited.

  “You’re the Autumn Bazaar chair this year?” he asked.

  “How did you know?” It’d been decided less than a week ago, and already strangers knew her business.

  “Small town,” he shrugged. “Misty must have been excited. She’s been in charge the last few years.”

  “I think most of the work is done already. It’s just keeping everyone organized and announcing the winners of the bakeoff.”

  “I can save you the trouble of tallying the judge’s results. Bill Walters will take first and second place, and he will dedicate his win to Joseph McEwen, with whom he’s had the most ridiculous bromance since we were all in junior high.”

  “Doesn’t anyone else ever win?” Sandy asked, still keeping an eye towards the lobby in case Vincent made an appearance.

  “No one else has won for the last six years. I guess there’s always a first time. Do you bake? I bet Misty’d let you off the hook for judging if she thought you could give Bill a run for his pastry money.”

  “Alas, my kitchen skills are better described as ‘lacking.’ I can make a tolerable meal, but if you want something innovative and delicious, I’m not your woman.”

  He grinned at her, winked, and said, “I’m sure you’re better than you’re letting on. You just don’t want to be coerced into cooking for every man who walks by.”

  “You could be right, but you’ll never know now, will you?”

  He laughed ruefully. “Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

  “A bit.”

  “That’ll teach me. I shouldn’t try to tend bar and flirt at the same time. I fail abysmally at both.”

  “I’ll say,” said a new voice, one that ran shivers up and down Sandy’s spine. “I’ve been waiting for a drink for five minutes.”

  “Why didn’t you just say something?” she asked. “There’s no one else here, so it’s not like you would’ve had to shout to get his attention.”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt his lame attempts to get your number.”

  “Then why are you complaining now?”

  The man had no response. He turned his back on her, ordered a Miller High Life, and stalked over to a table as far from the bar as he could get while still being close enough that Sandy and the bartender could see him glaring.

  “Sorry I was so rude to him,” she apologized. “I hope I didn’t ruin your tip.”

  “He’s the worst tipper I’ve ever waited on. Yesterday, he tipped a dollar on an eighty dollar tab.”

  “How much High Life did he drink?”

  The bartender roared in laughter. “He has a friend in town that he’s either trying to seduce or trying to sign a business deal with. His friend has much better taste in drinks, and after that used car salesman of a man said he’d pay for all the drinks, his friend didn’t hold back and started ordering some top-shelf stuff, including a forty-five dollar shot of Scotch.”

  “Nice,” Sandy said. “I haven’t asked your name, though. I’m Sandy Franklin.” She held out her hand.

  “Russell McCarlson.” He shook her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. It’s always nice to have a new face in town. Speaking of new faces, there’s the guy who screwed our cheap friend out of $70 in drinks last night.”

  Sandy twisted around in her seat and saw Vincent striding through the lobby. Her jaw dropped at the sight of him. She’d only seen him in the dim light of her shop before, but now, in full daylight, he was breath-taking. He was wearing a suit that looked as if it’d been tailored just for him, and his dark hair and skin were a startlingly beautiful contrast against the steel grey of his suit.

  She almost forgot about the plan, she was too busy admiring him, but then short and slimy in the corner saved the day.

  “Vince!” he called. “Vincent!”

  Vincent’s steps slowed almost imperceptibly for a moment, but then returned to his quick gait as he headed towards the exit. The man hopped out of his chair and sped through the bar towards the lobby. “Vincent! I’ve been waiting for you!”

  Vincent stopped, and to Sandy, it looked like he squared his shoulders before turning around. “What do you want, Darwin?” he asked. “I told you to leave me alone until I was ready to decide…” his voice trailed off when he caught sight of Sandy.

  He walked towards her, sidestepping Darwin, and stopped in front of her, shoving his hands awkwardly into his pockets. “What are you doing here?”

  “Having a drink.” She gestured with the hand holding her French 75 and splashed some out onto his suit. “Oh my god, I am so sorry,” she said, crimson staining her cheeks. She set down her drink and grabbed a napkin and dabbed at the wet spot on his lapel.

  “It’s okay. I’m glad I’m not the only awkward one here. I mean, what kind of opening is ‘What are you doing here?’ I’ve heard better pickup lines from a rusted out Chevy.”

  “Was that one? A pickup line, I mean?” she asked. The heat from her blush spread to the tips of her ears and down her neck. She shook her head. “I only mean that it’s okay if it was, even if it wasn’t a good one.”

  “It wasn’t, but it could be. If you wanted it to be.”

  “I’m gonna go ahead and step in here,” Russell said. “Vincent and Sandy, would you guys like to have dinner with each other tomorrow night? You would?” he said, not waiting for an answer. “That’s fantastic. Sandy, meet Vincent here at seven o’clock. Wear something nice. Vincent, after buying the lady a couple French 75s, you’re going to take her to dinner at The Depot in Long Beach.”

  “Um, okay,” Sandy said. “I mean, okay if it’s okay with you,” she added.

  “It’s okay with him,” Russell said. “Now shoo! I have another PBR to pour.”

  Sandy paid for her drink, grabbed her purse, and left, still not quite sure what had happened.

  Sandy checked out her reflection for the hundredt
h time and asked for the hundredth and first, “Do I look okay?”

  “You’re awfully nervous for someone getting ready for a fake date,” Drew observed. “And, as I told you,” he looked at his wrist where a watch would usually rest, “two and a half minutes ago, you look gorgeous. I mean, look at you—that blue-black hair with that skin and those blue eyes? You’re gorgeous. If I were a younger man, I’d be chasing you all over town.”

  Sandy laughed. “I’m pretty sure I’m not your type, Drew.”

  “For a woman as beautiful as you, I could possibly compromise. Maybe.”

  She smoothed down the little black dress Drew had brought over, saying he’d borrowed it from Jezebel—the only other woman she knew who was remotely close to her in size. With a couple strategically placed pins, it fit her like a glove. A very tight, very revealing glove. “Am I showing too much cleavage?”

  “Your bosoms are magnificent, and there’s no such thing as too much. Now go, have fun, and take this.” Drew held out his hand, and Sandy instinctively took what was offered.

  “Condoms?” she shrieked.

  “You can’t be too careful or too prepared,” he said. “I know it’s been a while since you’ve been on the dating scene.”

  “It’s a fake date,” Sandy pointed out. “I’m just trying to pump him for information about whatever it was that he did.”

  “You’re attracted to him, and he’s definitely attracted to you.”

  Sandy scoffed. “Where on earth did you get that idea?”

  “Russell called me,” Drew said.

  “Does everyone in this town gossip like old people?” she groused.

  “Yes,” Drew said. “It saves us the money it’d cost to have a town paper.”

  That surprised a laugh out of her, and she turned back to the mirror to check her makeup. “Do I look okay?”

  “Get out of here.”

  Sandy sat across from Vincent at The Depot, hands twisting nervously in her lap. The whole date had been awkward thus far, and she couldn’t figure out what to say or how to raise the subject of his potential criminal past.