I didn’t normally respond to demands, especially demands by purple-wearing, soothsaying, weirdly-named psychics.
But at this point, I was more worried than peeved by Aurora’s “request” to visit her immediately. On my cell phone just minutes earlier, an on-line newspaper bleeped a headline: “Man found dead on quest to find Hal the Huntsman treasure.” (See last week’s From Dawn to Dusk.)
Was Todd the man found dead? Perhaps Aurora/Dawn truly could “see” the answer. Continue reading
Dawn turned to Dusk.
Dusk turned to Dawn. Six times.
And then I could wait no longer.
So I ignored psychic Aurora’s “suggestion” to go on as if nothing had happened. Too much was at stake. (See last week’s Fear of Dawn.)
I blamed Todd, of course. His pursuit of me had seemed so genuine until I realized that his professed love was actually “gem”uine. Continue reading
“Yes, I can help you,” she answered, “but my magic has a price. Although under the circumstances, perhaps you will be eager to pay it.”
“How do you possibly know ‘my circumstances’?” I asked the woman. My friend Lacey told me that her cousin Jennifer knew a woman who was a psychic. This “spirit goddess,” as she called herself, rented a small room in the tiny village 20 miles from my home. I deemed myself desperate enough to pay her a visit.
Perhaps “pay” was the operative word here. I didn’t expect her services for free, but… “Whatever my circumstances, what is your fee?” I asked. Continue reading
Before further conversation, I grabbed my brown suitcase, the one Derek was still holding in his hand. “I think I’ll make the switch before we forget,” I said with a wry laugh.
Ignoring me, he tapped his finger on his forehead. “I knew I recognized you. Bob. Bob’s girlfriend.”
“Ex- girlfriend,” I interrupted quickly. (Story begins with The Wrong One and then Summertime Baggage.)
Derek continued, “At my parent’s Christmas party in Brookline. Bob and I were…” Continue reading
Halfway through the third piece of chocolate, my apartment bell rang.
Too late for a UPS delivery or for a friend to stop by.
Definitely too late for Bob (see last week’s The Wrong One...).
I hit my pink-manicured finger on the speaker and asked, “Yes?” Only it sounded more like, “Yethhh?” since I was swallowing the last bit of dark chocolate caramel.
“Sloan?” a male voice inquired. “Ms. Molly Sloan?”
I had a bad feeling about this, but I couldn’t deny the inevitable. Continue reading