‘They’ll finish in a minute,’ she told him. A warning from Grant flew back to her. ‘In fact, I might as well...’ Her voice stalled in her throat. The warning. Spotted the previous week: a long-haired prowler peering in bedroom windows.
Rosetta’s breathing shrank into small gasps. She willed herself to remain focused.
The intruder continued to crouch. With mechanical slowness, he turned again. He sniggered when he saw her. Was he relishing her fear?
He lurched into motion. A skink was scampering towards the washing machine. He grasped one of the skink’s tiny legs and proceeded to dangle the creature languidly in the air, studying its terrified response with detached curiosity.
‘No...’ Rosetta whispered.
The creature wriggled back and forth, its brown scales glinting bronze in the shaft of moonlight descending from the window. Rosetta’s fear gave way to fury. The intruder was watching her now; watching with unblinking eyes. His mouth widened into a mocking smile. He licked his lips.
Rosetta took an uneasy step forward.
He was now suspending the skink in front of his face, seeming to delight in the sensation of its frantic tail whipping the tip of his nose. He sneered ghoulishly. Then he lowered the skink onto his tongue.
Rosetta’s voice escaped from her in a roar. ‘Put that lizard down!’
The man’s shoulders jumped. He stumbled to his feet. The skink fell to the floor and darted under the dryer.
Rosetta stepped out of the doorway. She pointed to the road. ‘Go,’ she commanded, power rising in her voice. ‘Go now.’
Hunched and tense, the intruder slunk past her. He edged his way out of the laundry and then flitted away, a cowering wolf dissolving noiselessly into the darkness.
A clatter of footsteps rattled the metal stairs. ‘Rosetta! You okay?’ Grant was racing across the path.
He arrived at her side. Gripped her elbows to steady her. Rosetta folded forward, falling numbly against his shoulder. ‘What’s happening?’ Grant said. ‘What’s going on?’ He slipped the forgotten torch from her hand, flicked on its beam and shone it into the laundry.
She shook her head and signalled in the direction the man had run. ‘It’s him,’ she said. ‘The prowler.’
...Rosetta emerged from the memory and turned right into a street that led to Izzie’s netball courts. The shouts of players were becoming audible now, squeaks and squawks of ‘Here, here, here!’ and ‘Good one!’ interspersed with the froop-froop of a referee’s whistle.
A year had passed since that night. Grant had pursued the intruder without success. Not long after, she’d discovered the Ashbury Avenue home, and Grant’s daughter had been super pleased that Izzie’s new school was hers. ‘You can hang out with Charlotte Wallace and me,’ she’d said. And as an afterthought, ‘Charlotte’s dad sells houses. He does his own TV commercials.’ Sara had then launched into impersonation mode: turning sideways, raising one eyebrow and saying in Dominic’s pompous mutter, “Call us at Wallace.”’
Smiling at the recollection, Rosetta crossed the main road. Izzie’s team was visible now through one of the high fences. Rosetta moved diagonally from the car park and hurried to Court C, where her little red-haired dynamo, all skinny legs and big feet, was bouncing about like Skippy on a caffeine high.
Clusters of sports bags were pressed into a corner of the mesh fence. Izzie’s faded rucksack lay at the far end.
Hope no-one thinks I’m stealing the kids’ stuff, she thought, rummaging through Izzie’s bag.
‘What are you looking for?’ a voice demanded.
Rosetta jumped, swamped by unwarranted guilt. A smallish woman in her mid-to-late seventies stood over her.
Straightening, Rosetta said, ‘Uh...hello! Where did you spring from? I didn’t see you there.’
The woman failed to answer.
‘I’m collecting something from my daughter.’
‘Does she know you’re here?’
‘Well, no. But I’m not stealing from her.’
Another non-reply.
‘I might be short of cash at the moment, but I’m not desperate.’
The woman didn’t respond to that bad attempt at a joke, just continued to squint at her. ‘Hurry along then.’
‘Hurry along?’
‘Yes. Hurry along and get that key, dear, and I’ll give you a lift home. It’s started to rain.’
Key! Rosetta couldn’t remember mentioning the key.
The sky had been clear a moment earlier, and glary, an explanation perhaps for the woman’s squint. Charcoal clouds now crowded out any trace of blue.
Feeling the odd splish tickle the crown of her head, Rosetta said, ‘Thank you very much. That’s really kind of you.’
‘Don’t mention it! Netball’s not much of a spectator sport. You would know, being one of the mothers. I’m one of the grandmothers. We might as well get out of here or we’ll either be deafened by that whistle or washed away by this rain.’
Rosetta followed the netball nanna to a faded pumpkin-coloured ’70s hot rod Holden that made her own ’96 model look positively modern.
The motor started up. Rosetta felt for a seat belt buckle, only to discover it glaringly absent.
Without warning, the car jumped forward and stalled.
‘Sorry,’ said the woman. The motor sputtered to a start again. She bumped the car over the grass, haphazardly dodging the dirt vehicle track.
Rosetta pressed back into the torn vinyl seat and seized hold of a strap swinging from the ceiling. She became aware of a calming aroma, a smoky, woodsy blend that suggested pine trees, campfires...roasted hazelnuts?
The rain had stilled once they reached the road. The woman pulled an enormous pair of sunglasses from her handbag and pushed them onto her nose. Rosetta embarked on a lively summary of the no-show, the lock-out and the walk to the courts. After tsk-tsk-ing in all the right places, the woman said, ‘Some people are just plain unreliable. I don’t think your tarot client will call again.’ She looked rather blank behind her beetle-eyed sunnies. The sun glinted on her unlined skin, a rich deep-brown like Craig’s.
‘I’m Rosetta, by the way. Rosetta Melki.’
‘Molly Carr.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Molly.’ Laughing, Rosetta shook her head. ‘I thought at first you were going to accuse me of going through those bags.’
‘Goodness. Poor Rosetta!’ Molly gestured to the seat behind her. ‘And that, in the back, is Curry.’
Expecting to see a casserole, Rosetta turned to the back seat and was surprised to find a rabbit, a live one, white with a grey splodge on its back. It was standing on its hind legs, its face half out of the open window. Intrigued, Rosetta watched the small creature wallowing in the air that rushed by, its ears flapping backwards in the breeze. Why Curry though? Unusual name for a rabbit. ‘Hello little Curry,’ she cooed. ‘Aw, how gorgeous, a car-friendly bunny! Amazing.’
She told Molly about Izzie’s obsession with rabbits as the scenery whizzed past. ‘Oops!’ she said finally. ‘It’s this street here, the one coming up on the right. I’ve been too busy blabbing.’
The car skidded to a maniacal stop. Rosetta felt a nasty twinge in her neck as her head flew forward and her hair swung across like curtains. Peeling away the strands that had settled across her face, Rosetta glanced again at Molly. The unlikely speed-demon looked as tranquil as a lamb.
The rabbit leapt into the reckless lift-giver’s lap, then scrambled onto the dashboard. Molly lurched the car around to the right and stepped hard on the accelerator. Fearing for the rabbit’s safety, Rosetta snatched Curry up. The rabbit’s fur was luxuriant. It brushed the side of its face against her fingertips the way Sidelta the cat did and nudged the back of her hand with its snout.
‘So you’re a tarot reader, lovey?’
‘Certainly am.’
‘I’ve never had my future read.’
‘Then here’s a way I can say thank you for giving me a lift home. That’s if you’re
not busy of course.’
‘Nope, not too busy! If I hadn’t been at a loose end this morning, I wouldn’t have been mooching around those netball courts.’
Rosetta indicated her house was on the other side of the avenue, and Molly slowed the car. ‘Okay, Rosetta, which of these lovely little homes is yours?’
Relieved to have access to indoors once again and refuge from the erratic driving, Rosetta ushered her new friend inside, heated the kettle and checked the phone messages. Nothing so far from the tarot client.
Once she’d prepared Molly a cup of raspberry tea and generous slab of semolina cake set out on a silver-edged Athenian plate, Rosetta voiced her concern about Curry remaining in the car. Molly assured her the windows were ajar and that the visit wouldn’t be long.
At the copper table, Rosetta asked Molly to shuffle the tarots. ‘Then I’ll set it out into the Celtic Cross, and we’ll see what’s on the cards!’
Before Rosetta could hand them to her, Molly scooped up the cards, bending them in the process, and threw them into a violent shuffle that threatened to dog-ear the corners.
Rosetta tried not to let this get to her, although she couldn’t help feeling that Molly was treating one of her treasures—a birthday present from a boyfriend some twenty-something years ago—like a two-dollar shop dispensable.
The shuffling drew to a stop. Rosetta held out her hand for the pack, but Molly seemed not to have noticed. Instead, she snatched up a card on the top of the pile, a card Rosetta couldn’t see, studied it, nodded, then tucked it back into the pack.
Rosetta half-laughed with surprise.
The mysterious pumpkin-driver leaned forward, her face solemn and owlish. ‘Green-eyed,’ she said. ‘You need to make contact with him.’
‘Um...Wow! Um...’
‘And you need to make contact soon. The two of you sail past each other like there’s infinite time to spare.’
‘Really? Ha! That’s just amazing. Did you actually say green-eyed? I think I might have misheard.’
‘No, you didn’t mishear, I did indeed say that. The man in your future, Rosetta, is the man with green eyes.’
Chapter Four
Molly Carr seized up the tarot pack once more. The cards flew in a blur, animated by the sprightly hands that shuffled them.
Mystified at Molly snaffling her role of reader, Rosetta kept an eye on the cards. Molly was yet to provide further insight into her optimistic GEG comment. Fancy that! Meeting another tarot reader at Izzie’s netball club. Was it so surprising, though, considering the craziness of all that had happened so far? An otherwise peaceful morning had been whipped out of control with the no-show, the lock-out and the walk to the courts. And Mercury wasn’t even in retrograde!
Molly set the cards face-down into a Celtic Cross formation, pressing each one against the tarot silk’s azure and magenta loops. ‘Rosetta...Melki,’ she said ponderously. ‘You have another name.’
About to ask Molly why she’d taken over, Rosetta stopped. It was ages since anyone had given her a reading. Molly had already zoned in on the Green Eyed Guy. This might turn out to be fun. ‘My married name was Redding, but I changed it back. And my surname at birth was changed by my adoptive parents to Melki.’
‘What was your original surname?’
‘Don’t know. My foster parents didn’t know either. I was adopted in New Zealand. Lived there till I was three.’
‘Do you remember anything about New Zealand?’
‘I remember...Hmm. What do I remember? I think the only thing I really remember is a shaded yard. There’s a bird in the yard with a curved beak. And flowers in a tree that I’ve never happened upon since.’
Molly turned over one of the cards, the Queen of Cups, a Celtic version of the Queen of Hearts. ‘Your foster parents. These were the people who gave you your surname?’
‘Well, yeah. And my first name. My baba named me after the Rosetta Stone. He was an Egypt-loving Greek.’
Molly’s face conveyed displeasure.
Strange reaction. A handle was just a handle. A rose by any other name...
‘I’m not criticising your actual title, dear. That would be most impertinent.’
And hijacking a tarot reading wasn’t?
‘I’m concerned about your sonic signature. It’s changed since you were first named. I’ll have to check back with the Oracle.’
What did Molly mean by the Oracle? And what was wrong with her surname? Keen to see what the first card was, Rosetta flipped it to reveal its colourful underside. The King of Cups.
Molly gave a flourish of her hand. ‘As you would know, The King of Cups—Hearts in the ordinary card pack—is nearly always representative of a suitor.’
Green eyes and a dazzling smile flashed past Rosetta. She recalled their last encounter.
‘Just came in to tell you your A-frame got knocked over, but I put it back,’ he’d said.
Stunned to see the star of her imagination materialised, she'd looked, and kept looking—to the detriment of listening—then doubted she'd heard him correctly.
‘Your A-frame shop sign. I’ve put it back where it belongs.’ Exactly what she’d thought he’d said. ‘I think one of the school kids might have toppled it.’
Returning to reality and Molly’s unanticipated fortune telling, Rosetta deemed the prediction a lucky guess. She wouldn’t stand a chance with The Gorgeous GEG.
‘Have you heard of sprite visitations, Rosetta?’
‘I have. It’s mentioned in a chapter of a book we’re to launch at Crystal Consciousness.’ Perhaps she should start on it. Conan Dalesford’s 300-pager on money, OOBEs and the future could always be brought forward on her To Be Read list.
‘I believe you’re being helped, Rosetta, by one or two of these otherworldly beings.’
But sprites were meant to only belong in novels, fairy stories like Lillibridge’s, although to those considered gullible enough, herself and Lena included, a question mark hung over Our True Ancient History’s fiction claim.
‘What the Otherworldly beings want you to know,’ Molly said, ‘is that you mustn’t let anyone talk you out of your dreams.’
Before Rosetta could react with friendly scepticism, a scrap of the past rushed back, a glimpse of those teenage years when her foster father repeatedly despaired of her airy notions. ‘Rosetta-Rosetta,’ he’d said. ‘What are we gonna do with you, huh?’
She’d been guilty of thinking aloud about ending world poverty.
‘You don’t have to be Mother Teresa, okay? Just be a good person. Be good to your mama and baba and sister and brothers, and when you marry, be good to your husband and kids. That’s it.’
‘But I want to be more than that. I want to be part of a team that addresses global suffering.’
Her baba shook his head. ‘That takes a lotta money, Rosetta, to build up something like that.’
‘Then I’ll make sure I have money. I want to initiate community programs.’
‘Better find a rich husband then.’
Her mama eyed her critically. ‘She’s not skinny enough to marry a rich man. A rich man wants a woman with a good figure.’
Rosetta’s baba chuckled and said, ‘Better lose weight, then, Rosetta,’ before murmuring something in defence of her child-bearin’ hips.
‘But her voice isn’t soft or sweet enough,’ Mama shrilled.
Baba winked. ‘So that’s why your mama married a poor man like me!’
Rosetta had assured them she would never rely on a man for money. ‘I’ll be wealthy in my own right,’ she’d said, and marched to her bedroom, head held high.
...In readiness to confide in Molly about her life’s mission, Rosetta drew in a breath. Could her goal ever be realised? Would she one day have earned enough to fulfil her hope of becoming a philanthropist? ‘There is one dream I’ve never given up on, Molly.’
‘Don’t abandon eggs.’
‘Sorry?’
Molly thumped her fist on the copper table. Again
she said, ‘Don’t abandon eggs.’
‘That won’t happen. Meat’s definitely out, but I'd be hopeless at sticking to a vegan diet.’
Molly scanned the ceiling. ‘The work in which you’re involved. The green-eyed fellow is connected with your work.’
‘The work I do at the shop?’ Meeting anyone through her cleaning job wasn't an option. Apart from Jack Barnaby’s chirpy delegations when she scoured various offices in Martin Place, and the disgruntled notes from finance traders like ‘MW’ whose pens were marked Royal Sydney Golf Club, human interaction remained rare.
‘Perhaps it is the shop,’ Molly said.
The possibility of the GEG calling in again to Crystal Consciousness was practically a certainty!
‘But there’s often more than one way to meet your fate. It could happen any day. Any day or night. You might be hurrying down the street...and there he’ll be.’ She waved a hand in the direction of Ashbury Avenue beyond the sitting-room window.
‘Haven’t we all heard that before.’ Rosetta smoothed out a small crease in the tarot silk.
Molly collapsed the Celtic Cross formation. She crunched the cards into a pile again. Sixteen cards left in the reading and yet the self-assigned reader was closing it off, wrapping the tarots into their silk and rising from her chair. And now she was scurrying into the hallway.
Rosetta leapt from her seat. ‘Molly, I hope you didn’t think I was being sarcastic just then.’ She followed the hasty lady towards the door.
‘Not in the slightest, dear. And what you said is true. We’ve all heard it before: that we’re soon to invite a handsome stranger into our lives. The difference is my insights are quite sound, but I must get back to the netball courts. My granddaughter might well be on an orange-eating break by now, and I don’t want her concluding I’ve been beamed up by aliens.’
Perplexed by unpredictable Molly’s predictions, Rosetta snibbed the door to avoid being locked out a second time, then followed her onto the verandah. Molly bustled across to the driveway where the Holden, with its black-scraped orangeness and tilted headlights, conjured up the image of a grimacing Jack-O-Lantern.
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