The Tramp (The Bound Chronicles #1)

by Sarah Wathen

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  Candy sidled past Mr. Norman’s tent on the far side of the alley. She could see Erica through the throng, demonstrating how to hold a dulcimer to some tourists. She caught Candy’s eye and waved, then turned her hand into a secret thumbs-up before moving it behind her ear to adjust her glasses. Candy smiled back and nodded, then continued on her way. There was an amazing array of tents, much more varied than she remembered from the previous year. She moseyed along, the summer sun beating down on her back, stopping to investigate the more interesting vendors and keeping an eye out for Sam.

  “Tell your fortune, pretty girl?” an oily voice asked, close to her ear. She spun toward the offender and saw a slight man, standing at least ten feet from her.

  Whoa, that was weird. It was like he was so close he was inside my head. She walked closer and he offered her a business card between two fingers. “Tarot Cards?” Candy pocketed the card and read the hand-sewn sign hanging over the man’s head. She had always been curious about tarot reading. “How much?”

  “For you, pretty girl? Ten dollars,” he said, grasping an edge of the tent flap with one hand and holding out the other for her to take.

  “What do I get for ten dollars?”

  “Your complete reading, as you like it. Three card spread, five card horseshoe, Celtic cross. As you like it.”

  Candy had no idea what he was talking about, and she had a feeling he knew that. “Okay. Do I pay you?”

  “Please,” the man shook his head, as if money were an impropriety. He motioned her inside, tucking his hand behind his back when Candy refused to take it. After the blazing summer sun of the avenue, the darkness inside the tent was almost complete. She blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the gloom.

  “Hello, my dear.” A woman was seated behind a table draped in shimmery fabric. When Candy inched forward, her eyes more accustomed to the light, she saw the cloth was midnight blue velvet sprinkled with silvery thread. Like moonlight. A round orb glowed next to the woman’s face. Candy had seen the same light at Ikea, but the way it lit up the seer’s features in the gloom was disarming. Not quite a crystal ball, but close. “Sit, pl—”

  Candy walked closer to the chair that the woman had indicated, but halted when her expression changed from solicitous to guarded. “Should I sit here?”

  “Yes…” the woman said, with less authority.

  Candy lowered herself into what she could tell was a folding chair under the same glittery fabric, then settled her hands in her lap. She had no idea of what to expect from a tarot reading. The woman was shuffling a deck of cards, watching her with eyes rimmed in charcoal black. The shuffling went on. Candy cleared her throat and looked around, beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  “My dear, I cannot read your cards,” the woman finally said. Her voice had changed. Candy could no longer detect the Eastern European accent she had heard only minutes before.

  “Oh. Why not?”

  The woman smiled. She looked down at her hands, finally still. She folded them on top of the deck of cards. “It’s not often that I meet such a one.”

  What the heck is that supposed to mean? “Such a one…like me?”

  A throaty chuckle.

  “I have the money. I tried to give it to the guy outside but he wouldn’t take it.” Candy stood to dig in the pocket of her jeans. She pulled out a few bills and rifled through them. “Here.”

  “Darling, sit. Please.”

  Candy crumpled the money in her hands, feeling like an idiot.

  The woman watched her for a beat, but then seemed to make a decision. “Have you ever brought a strong magnet too close to a television? To a speaker? No, that’s not right. You have satellite radio?”

  “My dad does, in his car.”

  “And sometimes the connection is lost? Something blocks the signal.”

  “Well, yeah I guess. The reception isn’t that great in Shirley.”

  “Oh, there is nothing wrong with my reception, my dear.” Her eyes were intense and reproachful.

  Candy sat, twiddling her fingers. She shoved her bills back into her pocket, unsure of how to proceed. “So, what’s wrong with me?”

  The woman watched her across the table, covetous. “There is nothing wrong with you. I would give anything to be as you are.”

  “Okay… well, if you don’t want to read my cards…” Feeling partly alarmed, partly embarrassed, but most of all irritated, Candy made to get up. A hand shot out to stop her.

  “You want me to read your cards?” The woman flipped one over. “Judgement. Ruled by fire. Big surprise.” She laughed, but it sounded more like a crow squawking. “Here’s another. The Magician—Mercury, the fiery planet. And you haven’t even touched the deck. Oh look, the Ace of Cups. Summer. Heat.”

  Candy felt less fiery than she ever had, the slithery coolness of trepidation seeping over her skin. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  The seer leaned back in her chair and pulled her black wig off of her head. “Neither do I, sweetheart.”

  She produced a cigarette from a hidden pocket and lit it. Candy watched her inhale deeply, closing her eyes as if calming herself.

  Was she supposed to pay her after that? She hadn’t really done a reading. “Fine. I guess I’ll just go.” She rose from her seat and moved toward the bright line of sunshine that marked the tent’s exit. A last glance at the woman showed her apparently deep in thought. Meditating? Bizarre. Should I tell that guy outside she’s on a break?

  “You’re mother’s the same?” the croaking voice asked, just as she reached the edge of the tent. “So full of fire?”

  Candy turned back. “My mother?”

  “The gift is usually passed down, mother to daughter.”

  “Full of fire”—my bad temper? Candy was completely confused. How was being prone to explosive outbursts a gift? Everyone her whole life had chastised her about her temper. Like I’m a freak.

  “She never talks about it?”

  “My mother killed herself when I was seven,” Candy spat. None of your damn business.

  The seer’s face registered neither surprise nor sympathy. “You better be careful with it, then.”

  Candy wanted to slap her. “Well, thanks for nothing.” She ducked through the flapping curtains, dazed by the blinding sunlight, and pushed past the little man outside. He had been listening; his features were wary and he moved aside, his eyes cast away from her.

  “Nice scam,” she said over her shoulder, stalking down the alley. For once, she was happy to blend in with the tourists—she didn’t feel the prickles on her neck subside until the “Tarot Cards” sign was out of view behind the bend.

  “What a load of horse shit,” she muttered as she walked. What had she been expecting? Everyone knew fortune telling was a hoax. She felt ridiculous for going in that tent, but at least she hadn’t let them take her money. Definitely won’t mention that to Sam. He would laugh his butt off, I bet.

  Where was Sam? Candy resolved to find her boyfriend (if he was her boyfriend) and put the seer’s cryptic remarks out of her mind. She roamed through the tents with more purpose until she finally saw his distinctive outline; he was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his weight resting on one foot, with the posture of listening intently to—“Rachel!” Sam glanced back and smiled as Candy approached. “There you are. Good, you guys have met.” She pushed her sunglasses onto her head and entered Rachel’s quiet tent, bringing carnival smells and sounds with her.

  “Candy, my dear,” Rachel growled, accepting a hug and giving her an air kiss. “I must thank you for the lead, Sam is exactly what I need.”

  “Oh, cool,” Candy said, inspecting the displays. “I thought it might be a good match up.” She walked along the perimeter, appraising the pedestaled sculptures and trying to keep her grin from spreading. She knew Sam would make a go
od apprentice at Rachel’s glass studio.

  “I’m holding a workshop soon, my dear.”

  “In Shirley?” Candy chirped, surprised. “Love the new iridescent stuff.”

  “Oh, honey. I’ll show you what it’s really capable of. You can’t imagine. I’m still playing with it in these, but I’m perfecting a technique that is simply fabulous.”

  “I can’t wait to see it.” Candy moved closer to Sam and grabbed his hand.

  Thank you, he mouthed.

  He had accepted the job, then. Maybe he could work more regular hours with Rachel, instead of being at that creep Larry’s beck and call. That was Candy’s plan anyway. She was always welcome at Rachel’s place, too, and her mind exploded with the possibilities of better Sam access.

  “Wonderful. I need to get back to the studio. I’m ready to start packing up for the day—Sam, come with me.” Rachel disappeared through velvet drapery, her muffled commands continuing through the fabric. Candy looked at Sam, who was clearly taken aback, and she stifled the humor bubbling up inside. Though she loved her, Rachel was a caricature of the nutty, eccentric artist. Did she really expect him to start working immediately? When she realized Sam was not following, Rachel popped her head back into the showroom. “Well, come on, do you want the job or not?”

  “Yes, I do,” Sam assured her, but motioning to the extensive display environment around them, added, “How long will it take to dismantle this?”

  “I have a team to do that, darling. We’re just taking the major pieces in the truck. I’ll take you both home, after we drop everything off at the studio and I show you around. You game?”

  At mention of how they would be getting home, the memory of rolling Popcorn sprang to mind, and Candy was relieved to have better transportation than the horses. She nodded eagerly, accepting for them both, “Yes, please.”

  “I’m game,” Sam agreed.

  The three of them packed the more expensive glass artwork and arranged the boxes in the bed of Rachel’s F-150, Sam and Candy exchanging secret smiles and quick kisses every time they passed each other. Though their afternoon had been unexpectedly cut short, Candy figured they would have more time together after Rachel dropped them in Buffalo Square. By the time the truck was ready to leave, the festival seemed to be dying down, the wail of cicadas picking up. Candy had already slapped several mosquitoes on her neck, and was glad to be getting clear of the thick woods and into the air-conditioned cab. She couldn’t wait to get Sam alone, maybe ask him to waltz her around in private somewhere.

  Rachel had a way of bending plans to her own needs, however. When she heard that Sam lived far to the south of town, she decided that Candy should be deposited at her grandmother’s house in the valley, before she and Sam drove to the glass studio over the river, in Western Mountain. Candy wished she could change her mind and ask to be taken home (closer to Sam’s house), but—drat—she had already promised her cousin that she would spend the night at Grandma Catherine’s with her. On a map, the new transportation plan seemed logical beyond argument, her grandma’s upper-valley neighborhood the obvious first stop. Arguing would seem foolish. And desperate. Candy felt cheated and disappointed, though, as they drove down the state road from the festival.

  “But Rachel, I wanted to see that new work you were talking about,” she tried.

  “Oh, we’re having an open studio in a couple weeks, love—First Thursdays are starting up again now that autumn is almost upon us. You’ll see plenty of work then, mine and everyone else’s. It will be fabulous, don’t miss it.”

  Candy felt lame disagreeing, and not even sure what she had wanted to happen at the end of the day, except for that she had wanted Sam. She listened to the glass-blower shoptalk, sullenly. She thought Sam felt the same, but watching him with Rachel, she had to wonder.

  When they pulled onto Riverbend Road, Candy was picking at her nails, despondent, while Sam and Rachel chatted away on either side of her. Looking up to watch her grandma’s house approach, she saw her uncle Pat’s SUV and two other visiting cars in Grandma Catherine’s driveway. Beyond, there looked to be a party developing at the Robinson house. She caught her breath. The bonfire’s smoking. Is he already here?

  She offered abrupt good-byes, annoyed with Rachel and aware she had already lost Sam’s attention; he didn’t even register that there was a party starting right under his nose, couldn’t even smell the campfire. Something about that gave her evil pleasure, seeing him so absorbed in tech-speak with Rachel. She felt guilty when he leaned over for a familiar, boyfriendly peck on the lips, though.

  He murmured, “See you, baby,” watching her lips as he slouched back onto his seat.

  Her insides fluttered at the endearment. Baby. Holy crap. “I’ll call you later,” she said and delivered one last kiss.

  chapter twenty-two

  Rachel put the truck in gear. She was already driving towards the bridge, when Candy burst through her grandma’s door to get the scoop. “Grandma?” She dumped her bag on the floor and kicked off her sneakers, noting the already large accumulation of shoes by the front door.

  “We’re in here,” several voices shouted at once from the direction of the living room; a deep masculine voice mixed with a young female one and her grandma’s familiar melodious greeting. She bounded into the room to find John and Reagan sitting on either side of Grandma Catherine, who held a large, leather-bound photo album on her lap. John pulled himself out of the snug sectional sofa and spread his arms out, white teeth shining from ear to ear.

  “Oh my god—John!” Candy took in his new physique before crashing into him. She couldn’t help blushing against his chest; she had rarely seen him in the last few years, during such a rapid growth stage for adolescent boys, and it was hard to keep up with the changes via photographs. A single glance showed her that John had grown attractive in a way she hadn’t noticed before. Over six feet tall, he was still slender, yet much more filled-out in his shoulders and chest. Manly. The cute cleft chin that he’d had since he was little was more defined, his jaw line more angled.

  He squeezed her tight and raised her up off the floor with a comic growl, and the strangeness that had been lingering between them for years was gone in an instant. “Hey, Candy-cane. It’s good to see you.”

  “Jaw-breaker.” She knitted her brows and rubbed his velvety blonde head, bleached against his summer tan. “Your hair is so short—where’s the curls?”

  “Oh, sorry,” he said, the timber in his voice hinting at genuine concern. He knew how much she always loved to boing his curls; they were a novelty, since her own hair was as straight as a board. “I have to keep it short while I’m life-guarding or it’ll turn green.”

  “Well, grow it out.”

  “I will,” he promised.

  “So, what are you guys looking at?” Her grandma had the photo album opened to a page where Candy had just gotten a pair of purple terrycloth training pants, her favorite Christmas gift that year.

  Reagan quoted the famous song Candy had sung, while dancing around waving the present in the air, “Purple panties, purple panties.” It had become something of a family anthem for Candy.

  “You were so thrilled to have something a little less boyish. All those older brothers, who can blame you, sweet thing?” Grandma Catherine recalled, gazing at her granddaughter with kind eyes. “Fit for a princess.”

  Who could be embarrassed, after the thousandth re-telling? Candy indulged them with her next scripted line, “Purple was just my favorite color, is all.”

  “Your Aunt Maeve had to dye those purple—nobody could find real purple panties.”

  “Oh, there they are in action.” Reagan pointed out a photo on the opposite page in which Candy stood with her feet planted on a makeshift first base, holding a huge baseball bat over her shoulders. She had a lop-sided, gamine grin plastered on her proud face, still baby-fat. She wasn’t wearing any
thing but the panties and a ponytail pulled through an oversized Bobcatts cap. “Yeah, you were a real princess, Candy.”

  “Alright then, let’s find some Reagan gems.” Candy knew just where to start.

  They flipped through the album, trading jibes and telling old stories, welcoming Reagan’s little sister Carol and then the eldest, Ursula. Ursula’s baby slept in a sling around her shoulder, not waking even at Carol’s periodic shrill of dismay. She was still too young to accept embarrassing jokes, Candy knew, but still her reaction was a little ridiculous. She glanced at John, guessing she wasn’t the only girl in the room to have noticed he’d become so good-looking.

  After finishing the first album, they grabbed another. Then another. “Oh look, there’s John—that must have been when you started staying summers here. Oh my god, the Boy Scouts uniform.”

  “Yep. There I am. Look at all those badges,” he laughed, a deep rumble in his chest.

  Reagan tittered, “Candy was so impressed with those.”

  “What? No I wasn’t.”

  “Oh come on, Candy,” Ursula said, lowering her voice when the baby started to squirm. “That’s all you could talk about the next school year—how unfair it is that the Boy Scouts don’t accept girls.”

  John regarded her, wonderment in his expression. “I didn’t know that.”

  Candy shrugged, suddenly feeling examined. Then, in blessed distraction, Uncle Pat burst onto the scene, insisting that everyone get their butts outside to eat. “The fire’s a-blazin’ next door, grab a hotdog on the way outside.”

  “Dad, where’d you put my fiddle?”

  “Eat first, Carol; then playtime,” Uncle Pat admonished, trying to sound tough.

  Grandma Catherine eyed the baby, “I’ll take Micah, sweetie.”

  “Awesome, I’m starving.” Ursula plunked the baby into her grandma’s waiting arms. “I’m sorry, Gramma—he needs a change.”

  “I think I can handle it, honey. You get some food in you, before he wakes up starving himself and howling for Mama again.” She set the baby over her shoulder, shushing and bouncing when he mewled in dissent of the transfer.