Each of the crew took a turn in Clarice’s booth, stumbling out one by one, their expressions ranging from pleased (Betty), to confused (Cricket), to radiant (Burt).
Haven joined Cricket in the confused category as she ducked out from under the curtain, but her face quickly lit in a grin as her eyes fell on me. “Your turn,” she said, laughing and pushing me inside.
The interior of the booth was dim and muggy, the whirring of a large fan in the corner shutting out the festival noise. It smelled like a mixture of pungent herbs and some sort of sweet oil, the same scent I’d picked up wafting off Clarice as she passed me at The Yellow Trellis Inn. Clarice sat near the back, a small, round table in front of her, draped with the same deep blue fabric of her curtain. My eyes adjusted as I took the few steps toward her, sitting down. “I’m being forced to do this,” I told her, making sure she understood I was here against my will.
Her laughter was like wind chimes, tinkling and delicate. “Not a believer in the sixth sense, Chief Hale?”
I flashed her a smile. “I tend to be skeptical of anything that requires a cash payment for proof of its existence. No offense.”
“None taken. I understand your skepticism, and I can only tell you that though I make a business of my . . . talents, I constantly have one foot behind the veil, unrelated to cash payments. I couldn’t shut it off if I tried,” she said, leaning forward slightly. “If you look deeply within yourself, you will find that all of us have intuition that can’t always be explained by circumstance or evidence. Mine is simply stronger than the average person’s. Now,” she said, taking my hands in hers. “Let’s see what the future holds for you.”
I sighed, watching her as she gazed down at our joined hands, her brows taking turns moving up and down, her mouth thinning and then puckering as she apparently listened to whatever message might be coming from beyond the beyond. Oh for Christ’s sake.
I was sitting in here for Haven, doing this ludicrous thing because she had looked so damned excited for all of us to have our fortune’s read, and I was—apparently—unwilling to do anything that might take that joyful smile off her pretty face on a day she’d declared the best of her entire life.
I’d even helped sway Gage into asking her out on a date. Because dating Gage was her dearest wish come true.
My stomach muscles tightened. Damn cheap beer.
I considered what she’d divulged about the cantaloupe and rooftop garden. I pictured Haven as an eleven-year-old girl with curls springing out around her little face and sighed. She’d said, “when” her mother brought food home. She’d been hungry once upon a time. And it’d killed me to hear that.
She’d traveled halfway across town to work at a store where she could get an employee discount, only to bring home items off the discount shelf. In my mind’s eye, she’d morphed from an eleven-year-old to a weary teenager, but with those same runaway curls, lugging bags of bruised apples, and half-wilted spinach home on three buses so she could make meals for her mother and brother that said, I care for you. I will sacrifice for you.
I very suddenly understood what fresh spinach, brewer’s yeast, chia seeds, and all the other stuff I couldn’t even pronounce meant to her and why. And I felt ashamed for the teasing I’d done before I truly understood.
So, yeah, perhaps if anyone deserved their wishes to come true, it was this girl. Even if that meant Gage Perfect Buchanan.
I’d moved my eyes from Clarice to the fabric draped behind her as I thought about Haven, and when I returned my gaze to her face, she was looking at me strangely, head thrust forward. “There are one of two paths for you. Either lose it all. Or lose it all.”
‘Scuse me?
I waited for more. Only silence came. “Um . . . what?”
Clarice dropped my hands, letting out a loud whoosh of breath, and repeated what she’d just said.
“Yes, I heard you. Both potential future paths sound . . . equally terrible.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “It does sound that way.” Her brows did that quizzical thing again, but she offered no further insight. I gave it another moment.
Nothing.
“I don’t think things are supposed to work this way.” I narrowed my eyes. “Are you messing with me because I expressed doubt in your . . . talents?”
“Oh no, no. Definitely not. I never lie when it comes to my predictions.” She peered at me again. “The fog is very dense around your future. Very, very dense. Murky even.”
Very, very dense.
“Are you serious? That’s what you’re leaving me with?” I stayed planted in my chair. Why did I care? I didn’t believe in this crap anyway. But even so, shouldn’t you be able to expect certain things in these situations? I was under the impression that there was an agreement among shysters like Clarice. They told you your future was bright and shiny and all your dreams would come true. It was vague and silly and you basically knew you’d just thrown away twenty bucks, but even so, you walked out smiling, friends clamoring to know what you’d been told. Clarice didn’t get to tell me my future was full of loss and darkness and zero paths that led to happiness. “This is outrageous,” I sputtered. “It’s not how this sort of thing is done.”
Her forehead shot up. “I believe you’ve been misinformed on how this sort of thing works. Sometimes I’m given a word, or a string of words, perhaps a vision now and again, but an understanding is not provided to me. It’s up to the recipient to interpret the message. I do have a disclaimer that I share my predictions whether they’re positive or negative.”
“Where? Where is that disclaimer?”
“Right there.” She pointed behind me and I turned, squinting to see a tiny sign with lettering barely large enough to make out unless your nose was pressed against it.
“If anything more comes to me, I’ll let you know as we share a residence at the moment.” She smiled and despite her assertion that she’d provide more if she could, she wiped her hands together like she was wiping her hands of me completely.
What the actual hell?
I stood slowly, mouth open in offended disbelief.
The glare of the sun felt like an assault as I ducked out of Clarice’s booth, and whatever look I was wearing on my face made Haven widen her eyes and bite back a smile. “The future doesn’t look bright, I assume. What did she say to you?”
“Nothing that makes any sense,” I grumbled as we started to walk.
Haven laughed, laying her hand on my arm. “Don’t worry so much. She told me I’d plant ten thousand gardens. Obviously, that can’t be true.”
My mood brightened. “So she is a total quack. I knew it.” I took in a full breath.
“Or, maybe she speaks in metaphors. Sometimes I swear I’ve lived in ten thousand places.” She gave a wistful smile, twirling the end of her braid idly in her finger.
“I don’t think there was a metaphor in my case. She was very clear. There was an either or and they both sucked.”
“How about we forget the future and live in the moment with some whack-a-mole?”
My spirits rose. I was in the mood to whack something. If it had to be a plastic mole, so be it. I’d name it Clarice in my head. “It’s a plan.”
We spent a few hours playing games at the game booths and eating sugary snacks. I won her a stuffed dog that she squealed over and cradled as though it was a Ming vase, making me feel proud and happy. One of those simple masculine pleasures. “What’s his name?” I asked her.
She considered him for a moment and then said, “Blueberry,” almost shyly, followed by a short self-deprecating laugh, “so when I look at him, whenever that may be, wherever that may be, I will always remember today, spent in Pelion, Maine, with Chief Hale and our motley crew of misfits.”
“Blueberry it is,” I said softly.
We drove home mostly in silence, the sun just slipping below the horizon. Haven’s nose and shoulders were red, but she didn’t seem to be able to stop smiling, even though it was a sleepy smile. I was tired too from the sun, and the beer, and the sugar crash.
For some reason, things felt different between us. Sweeter somehow, but slightly strained too. I helped her down from my truck and pressed a finger softly into her shoulder, and she smiled, both of our eyes lingering on the light tan fingerprint that slowly faded away. I wondered if I’d be like that fingerprint, pressed into her skin briefly, eventually fading to nothing. No trace that I’d ever touched her at all or that she’d ever known me. Maybe our singular kiss would become just as forgettable. I swallowed down the unexpected tinge of sadness.
“I think I’ll go to bed early,” she said, her voice stilted.
“It’s been a long day.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But a wonderful one. Thank you again for taking me. For winning me a prize.” She hugged Blueberry to her chest.
I put my hands in my pockets. I wanted to kiss her. God, I wanted to kiss her. I’d never wanted to kiss anyone more.
Friends.
And she had a date with Gage Buchanan. A much-wanted date it was wise to remember. And I’d been called many, many things, but stupid had never been one of them.
I opened my mouth to say goodnight. “You know what would feel great right now?” Because, damn it, sometimes wisdom was overrated.
Her eyes widened slightly. “What?”
“A swim.”
She laughed. “A swim? In the lake?”
“Well, I think our crew would be mildly scandalized if we took a swim in that old clawfoot tub upstairs.”
She snorted softly. “Probably so.”
“What do you say?”
She glanced behind her at the lake, shimmering under the lowering sun. “It does look tempting,” she said, “except that I don’t know how to swim.”
I brought my head back. “You don’t?”
She shook her head. “No lakes in the inner city.”
I regarded her for a moment. Of course, there had to be pools and other ways city kids learned how to swim, but if her mother didn’t provide food on a regular basis . . . My gut clenched. “I usually only wade in anyway,” I lied. “Mostly for the coolness of the water.”
She glanced at the lake again, bringing her hand up and running it seemingly unconsciously over her shoulder, surely hot from the burn. Out in the distance there was a lone kayak, just a speck on the horizon. All the boats had returned to dock.
For a moment I thought she’d say no, and I realized I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly, as her eyes returned to me. Please say yes. I wasn’t ready to say goodnight. Not yet. This wasn’t me. I didn’t wait for women to say yes. I never had. Yet, here I was . . . waiting. Hoping.
“All right,” she said softly.
