The Butterfly Whisperer

by Lisa Moreau

  Jordan pulled into the restaurant valet station thirty minutes late, glad to see Ralph was working. He was a nice kid, whom she trusted not to go hot-rodding in her black Jaguar. The car had been an extravagant birthday gift to herself, but she had to keep up appearances. She couldn’t be seen driving around town in anything that cost less than forty grand.

  Before getting out of the Jag, Jordan took a quick look in the rearview mirror. Not too bad considering she’d been up and going strong since five a.m. She ran fingers through thick chestnut hair and pinched her cheeks to add natural color. Doug frequently said she could pass for a runway model, which always made her chuckle. Granted, she was five foot eight with a killer body, heart-stopping hazel eyes, and an attractive face, but she’d never thought of herself as gorgeous and certainly wasn’t confident enough to strut down a runway.

  When Jordan entered the restaurant, Doug was seated and sipping red wine, which was clue number two that something was up, since he rarely drank. After a quick hug she took a seat, immediately wanting the scoop. “Spill it. What’s up?”

  “What makes you think something’s up?”

  Jordan raised an eyebrow. “Le Papillon? Wine? What gives, Dougie?”

  “Can’t we order first?” Doug studied the menu like it was the most engrossing thing ever.

  Jordan drummed her fingers on the table and glared at him. He really was a beautiful man. A Caucasian mother and African American father had produced a mocha complexion and striking green eyes. Always impeccably dressed and with a body more buff than that of any personal trainer at Crunch Gym, he could nab any guy he wanted, and often did.

  After several minutes Doug peeked over his menu. “Is that a new outfit? Ann Taylor?”

  “Yes, and you’re stalling.”

  “Fine,” he said, putting down his menu. “I went over the books and even talked to the accountant, and we can’t do it. We don’t have the capital to open another office.”

  “Damn. Are you sure? We’ve been doing so well.” Jordan frowned, sat back, and folded her arms across her chest. She dreamed of expanding SOS with an office in San Francisco, Dallas, then who knew where.

  “I’ve crunched the numbers every which way, and we just can’t swing it right now. Not in the foreseeable future either. Maybe you could ask your mom for the money?”

  Jordan shook her head vigorously. “No way. I don’t even know where she is these days. Last I heard it was Paris.”

  Jordan’s mother was a travel photographer. When she was ten, her parents had divorced and Jordan’s father had reared her. Even after she’d moved into her mom’s New York condo after she left Monarch, she rarely saw the woman. She had, though, given Jordan a nice sum of money to start her own company. That was enough. She refused to ask her for anything more.

  “What about borrowing the money from Bibi? Lord knows she’s loaded.” Doug winced, probably because he knew the reaction that idea would elicit. Bibi was Jordan’s for-the-moment girlfriend.

  “Hell, no. The last thing I need is to be indebted to her.”

  “Hey. I meant to tell you that lawyer called again. That’s like the third time. He said it was urgent you call him back.”

  Jordan frowned. Why would a Monarch lawyer be calling her? She hadn’t had contact with anyone since she left.

  “Oh, God, don’t look now, but Patty Parker is heading toward our table,” Doug whispered.

  “See? We should have gone to Frank’s Deli. Stars never go there.”

  The click of Patty’s stiletto heels echoed behind Jordan. “Why, if it isn’t the SOS dream team.”

  “Patty, it’s so good to see you again,” Jordan lied.

  Doug stood and pulled out a chair. “Won’t you join us?”

  “Aren’t you a doll? I wish I could, but I’m with that big hunk-a-man over there.” Patty pointed to a nervous-looking Bill Poser sitting at a table. “We’re waiting for his parents.” Patty smiled coyly. “We’re announcing the news…of our engagement!” She squealed in decibels high enough for only a dog to hear. Amazingly, the wineglasses didn’t shatter.

  “Congratulations,” they said in unison.

  “Well, I have you two to thank since you introduced us. Listen, I have to get to the powder room, but you’re both invited to the wedding. And I hope you’ll be coming…together.” Patty wiggled her eyebrows before sashaying away, leaving a heavy scent of Chanel No. 5 in the air.

  Doug giggled. “She still thinks we’re an item? I’m gayer than a picnic basket at the West Hollywood Park, and you’re all but missing an L tattooed across your forehead.”

  “You should love that since you’re in the closet.” Jordan took a swig of Doug’s wine.

  “I’m not in the closet. But when you date actors who aren’t out you have to be careful. Oh, and like you go around waving rainbow flags.”

  “I don’t feel the need to advertise my sexual preference. If anyone asked, though, I’d tell them the truth. But no one asks. I think they’re afraid of the answer.”

  “Half of Hollywood is in the closet. Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Doug opened his menu and studied it. “Do you know what you want?”

  The yellow butterfly frantically flapping its wings inside the acrylic centerpiece caught Jordan’s eye. “Someone told me once that if you whisper a wish to a butterfly, it’ll come true.”

  Doug furrowed his brow. “Butterfly wishes? Seriously?”

  Jordan shrugged. “It’s worth a try, don’t you think?” She grabbed the container, closed her eyes, and said, “I wish that a big pile of money would drop down from the sky and land in my lap.” She squinted one eye open and grinned when she saw Doug’s horrified expression. “It’s not like I really believe it’ll work, but you can’t blame a gal for trying.”

  *

  Sophie stared at the items on her kitchen table. Was she a little insane? She checked off the objects on her list: empty box, a white feather, vial of seawater, handful of sand, and a Bic lighter. The lighter was a sad replacement for a candle, but it was all she could find, so hopefully it wouldn’t make a difference. She stuffed the items, which represented the four elements of air, water, earth, and fire, into the box. This just proved it. You could find anything on the Internet. Even a soul-mate spell.

  Earlier that day she’d Googled “soul-mate love invocation” after reading her horoscope in the Monarch Messenger, as she did every morning. Written by Madame Butterfly, the resident psychic, it was always eerily accurate. Hers had read: Unpleasant surprises have dominated your year, dear Pisces. The death of something or someone lurks heavy on your mind, but do not despair. With death comes a new beginning.

  The death referred to her girlfriend, Cindy, metaphorically speaking. Six months ago, Cindy had walked into their bedroom and said, “I’m leaving you. I’ve fallen in love with another woman and am moving to Seattle.”

  Sophie had been speechless. Taking two shaky steps backward, she’d plopped down on the nightstand, right on top of the rose-quartz crystal Cindy had given her for Valentine’s Day. How apropos. Love was biting her in the ass―again. She’d gripped the sides of the table and watched her girlfriend of two years stuff her undies into a suitcase. Never trust a woman who wears G-strings. They weren’t even comfortable, always riding up her ass. Sophie knew they hadn’t been happy for a while. In fact, it’d been months since they’d had sex, but she’d thought they were just in a rut. You know, the infamous lesbian bed-death syndrome. She’d never expected that Cindy was having an affair.

  Sophie grabbed the horoscope and read it again. With death comes a new beginning.

  Well, if a new beginning was coming her way, she wanted to make darn sure the universe knew what she wanted. No more lying, cheating, G-string-wearing women. The Internet instructions suggested reciting the invocation under a full moon, and luckily, one was scheduled for tonight. Sophie grabbed the box from the kitchen table, along with a garden shovel, and headed into the living room.

  “Hey, Mr. Limpet. I bet you
think I’m nuts, don’t you?” The electric-blue betta fish waved his fins rapidly when she tapped on the aquarium. “This will be our little secret, okay?” Sophie dropped two freeze-dried shrimp into the water, with Mr. Limpet jumping like a dolphin to retrieve the treat. “You be a good boy, and I’ll be back in about an hour.”

  A full moon lit the forested path leading from Sophie’s cabin to the eucalyptus grove. It was a beautiful night, surprisingly warm for November. This was the best time of the year. Thousands of monarch butterflies migrated along the Central California coast during October to January. It was also the busiest time, since Sophie ran the monarch butterfly sanctuary. Halfway down the trail, she stopped abruptly. Darn. She’d forgotten the printed soul-mate chant. The website had directed to recite the incantation exactly as written, but it was too late to turn back. Hopefully, she’d remember what it said.

  As Sophie approached the forest, she inhaled the sweet scent of eucalyptus. This was quite possibly her favorite place on earth—amid trees, surrounded by monarchs, and with the sound of crashing waves in the distance. She walked to the largest tree in the center of the grove and looked up at hundreds of orange dots as monarchs huddled together. Her gaze roamed down the tree to a spot at the base of the trunk. BFFs 4Ever. That’s what was carved under her and Jordan’s initials. Sophie’s heart clenched. What a joke.

  She knelt under the tree and began digging a hole. Satisfied that it was deep enough, she placed the box of items in the dirt, covered it, and rolled a large boulder on top. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and contemplated what she wanted. Well, she knew what she didn’t want, which was a lying girlfriend who would leave her brokenhearted. She wanted to find the one, her soul mate, if such a person existed. Sophie opened her eyes and held out her hands. Within seconds a butterfly landed in her palm. She gazed lovingly at the orange-and-black creature, admiring its beauty and endurance. It was amazing how these beings―with such delicate, paper-thin wings―migrated over two thousand miles each year.

  Okay, now what was that chant? Sophie gazed at the moon, like it would help her remember. It had a cute rhyme. Something like love be strong…for she done me wrong…no, that was a country song…or maybe…oh, screw it…she’d make up her own.

  Sophie gazed at the butterfly and whispered, “Flames of time erase mistakes…bring true love whatever it takes…uh…Be ye far or be ye near, I summon my soul mate to me here…um…by the power vested in the full moon and the Great Native American Spirit, my wish is granted…amen…that’s all, folks…with liberty and justice for all…the end.”

  Sophie made the sign of the cross, though she had absolutely no idea why since she wasn’t even Catholic. The monarch flapped its wings and flew into the tree, carrying the whispered wish with him. Sophie stood and looked at the full moon, semi-satisfied with the ceremony. Now she just had to have faith that her soul mate would appear.

  Chapter Two

  Breaking Up Is Easy to Do

  Not the French accent again. Bibi was born in Fresno, for Christ’s sake. Ever since she’d played a Frenchwoman in an international instant-coffee commercial, the accent had stuck. And Jordan was fairly certain Bibi wasn’t her given name, not that she’d ever admit it. They were sitting on the couch in Jordan’s Beverly Hills condo with two cups of hot water and a box of assorted Leif’s instant java on the coffee table. Bibi grabbed the box and studied her photo, tapping it a few times with a half-inch fuchsia fingernail.

  “I was having a great hair day,” Bibi said, doing a bad Brigitte Bardot impression. She ran her hands through luxurious sangria-colored locks. Actually, it was brown with red highlights, but Jordan wouldn’t make that mistake again. Bibi’s two-hundred-dollar-an-hour hairstylist called it sangria, and because she was the hair goddess of the universe, the description had stuck. Jordan was all for extravagances, but two hundred dollars for a haircut and color seemed excessive even to her. Bibi ripped open the box, squealed, and sucked on one of her fingers.

  “Paper cuts are the worst,” she whined. Yeah, the worst…except maybe for that Ebola thing. But then again, paper cuts involved bleeding and throbbing. Weren’t those the symptoms of Ebola? “I don’t know why you don’t have a maid.”

  Jordan chuckled. “My place isn’t big enough to warrant a maid. What would she do? Open boxes for me so I don’t get paper cuts?” Guilt gripped Jordan when Bibi batted her big brown Bambi eyes. “I’m sorry. Let me see your finger.”

  She cradled Bibi’s hand in her palm and looked at the injured member but couldn’t see anything, so she leaned closer…and closer…Was she looking at the right hand? She didn’t see even a pinprick. Where did she keep her magnifying glass? “I don’t see anything.”

  Bibi pulled her hand back and stared at Jordan indignantly. “I stopped the bleeding myself.” She grabbed a packet of Café Viennese, poured it into one of the cups, and stirred vigorously.

  At times like this Jordan wondered why she was dating Bibi. Okay, so she had beautiful sangria hair, perfect bone structure, and an even more perfect body. Granted, she’d had more than a few Botox sessions, but so had everyone else in Hollywood. She was a semi-talented, spoiled actress, not a great conversationalist, and they didn’t have much in common aside from the fact that they were both discreet about their sexuality. In retrospect, maybe Bibi was the perfect match. Lord knows Jordan wasn’t looking for anything serious. She never was.

  Jordan stirred coffee grounds into her cup and tried not to groan. This instant crap sucked. “So where are you off to for the next commercial?”

  Bibi had a sweet deal. She got an insane amount of money to travel the world filming ten-second commercial spots. All she had to do was sit on a mountain or at an outdoor café, sip coffee while wearing a low-cut blouse, and say―in a sexy growl―“Mmm, for instant gratification, I drink Leif’s.” Obviously, sex could sell anything, even a drink that tasted like insect repellent.

  “Paris, maybe, but that’s not important.” Bibi put her cup down and turned to face Jordan. “I want to talk to you about something.”

  “Oh?” Jordan peered over her cup.

  Bibi inhaled sharply, held her breath, and squealed, “Let’s move in together!”

  Jordan spewed French-vanilla mocha across the room. She couldn’t have been more surprised if Bibi had just told her she’d been nominated for an Oscar. “What?!”

  “I’m in love with you, ma chérie.”

  Jordan coughed, cleared her throat, and placed her cup on the table. “We’ve only been dating two months. You can’t possibly be in love with me.”

  “But I am, and I know you feel it, too.” Bibi grabbed Jordan’s hands and clutched them tightly to her voluptuous chest.

  “I’m not in love with you. I’m sorry.” Jordan pried her hands out of Bibi’s cleavage, bolted upright, and paced across the living room.

  This was why she rarely dated. She could have spent the energy, emotion, and time on something important, like her company. Clearly, Jordan was missing the lesbian U-Haul gene. She’d never lived with a woman and didn’t intend to do so. She was a loner and liked it that way. Even a normal lesbian, though―with all genes intact―would have thought Bibi moved too fast.

  Jordan stopped and faced the coffee queen head-on. “I told you when we started dating that I’m not looking for anything serious. This isn’t going to work.”

  “What are you saying? You’re breaking up with me?” Bibi’s false eyelashes blinked rapidly.

  “We want different things. And do we really have that much in common? So, yeah, I think we should break it off.” This was the part Jordan hated the most―the breakup, which she always seemed to instigate.

  Bibi bolted off the couch. “I can’t believe you’re breaking up with moi! It should be the other way around.”

  “I’m sorry. Really.” Actually, she wasn’t sorry, but she didn’t know what else to say.

  “Fine!” Bibi grabbed her three-hundred-dollar Kenneth Cole purse. “You’re a cold fis
h in bed anyway! You have no idea how to please a woman.” Ouch, where’d that come from? “And for your information, people in relationships sleep over after having sex. They don’t slip out at three a.m. You’re not…normal!”

  Jordan had spent most of her life feeling like a square peg in a round hole. She didn’t need a reminder from an angry, overpaid actress.

  “Good-bye, Jordan!” Bibi stomped to the front door―as much as one could stomp in seven-inch heels―and slammed it shut on her way out. Geez, what a drama queen.

  Jordan stood stiffly and stared at the door. Cold fish? Bibi would have to zero in on her biggest insecurity. She’d never felt particularly comfortable with physical intimacy and had learned to fake orgasms better than a bored housewife could. Not that Jordan didn’t enjoy sex, but the words “erotic” and “sensual” weren’t in her vocabulary. She plopped down on the couch. Whatever. She was better off without Bibi anyway. In fact, she was better off without any woman. She’d have more time to spend on SOS, which is all that really mattered anyway. The single, celibate life was the way to go. Jordan took a sip of cold French-vanilla mocha and spat it back into her cup. She needed a Starbucks latte. That was what normal people drank.

  Jordan grabbed her cell phone as it vibrated on the coffee table. “Hey, Doug.”

  “Guess who I got you an interview with. Go on, guess.”

  “I don’t know how you could top Ophelia, but let’s see…don’t say TMZ because they try to twist everything I say into a controversy.”

  “Nope. It’s with the hottest magazine in town. LA Live!”

  “Whoa, seriously? Good job. When?”

  “Friday. I’ve already told them we have a client-confidentiality agreement, so no personal questions. They want to ask about our process and what makes our match rate so successful.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I thought you’d sound more excited.”

  “I am. Totally. It’s just…well, I broke up with Bibi. Like literally two minutes ago.”