by Tawna Fenske
She started to protest, but really, he seemed to know what he was doing. Besides, did she want to climb back up on the desk? She sighed and stepped aside while Drew set his keys and cell phone on the shop counter and stepped up onto the desk with maddening ease. He looked down and nodded at the frame leaned up against the wall. “That’s a nice photo.”
“Thanks. It’s Mount Hood.”
“I know.”
“Studies have shown artwork in offices and waiting areas has a calming effect on people, with eighty-four percent of study participants preferring landscape or nature scenes.”
He gave her an odd look, and Violet felt like a dork. “I like statistics,” she said. “And data.”
“I like mountains. Can you hand me the photo?”
She stooped down and picked up the frame and offered it to him. “Thank you for doing this. Really, I appreciate it.”
“Not a problem.”
He got to work fiddling with a device Violet couldn’t quite identify. As if reading her thoughts, he smiled down at her. “If you’d like to make a crack about the guy who works with male strippers using a stud finder, now would be the time.”
“Pardon me?”
He held up the gadget. “Stud finder. It’s how I know where to screw. You can make a crack about that, too, if you like.”
“I’ll pass,” Violet said as primly as possible, trying not to stare at his hands.
On the counter beside her, his cell phone buzzed.
“Can you see who that is?” he asked with a couple screws between his teeth. “What’s it say on the screen?”
Violet peered down at the iPhone. “Sam?”
“My partner. I’ll call back. Give me another screw?”
This time, she forced herself not to blush. He had a partner. Of course. Named Sam. Clearly Drew was not an option. Not that she’d ever considered him to be. Not in a million years.
No, she had more pressing issues to deal with. Nursing her mother back to health. Keeping her accounting practice and Moonbeam’s business afloat. Figuring out how to be a fake psychic. Typical stuff.
“One more screw, please?”
Violet bit her lip and handed him one, determined not to notice the way her hand tingled when he touched her.
***
The next evening, Violet was ready to jump out of her skin.
Preparing to do a fake psychic reading would be hard enough without worrying about her mother’s health. But from the moment Moonbeam had come out of anesthesia the night before, she’d been a handful not only for Violet, but for every member of the medical staff.
Could she have some medical marijuana?
No.
What about burning sage in the room?
No, definitely not. Her neighbor was on an oxygen tank.
Watsu would really help the healing process; did they have a swimming pool on-site?
No.
It went on like that all evening, and eventually, Violet began to notice the nurse eyeing the cords snaking out of the wall. Violet could see the wheels turning in the nurse’s head: one good tug, and it could all stop…
You had to hand it to Moonbeam, though. She was spirited. Just like Dr. Abbott had said. Dr. Abbott, with his warm chocolate eyes and thinning caramel hair. And yes, his slightly vanilla personality. Nothing wrong with that. If Violet wasn’t mistaken, he’d looked down the front of her blouse at least twice while adjusting Moonbeam’s IV pole. He was interested in her, at least a little. She could do worse than a doctor, assuming he wasn’t married with a wife and one-point-two kids at home.
So now here she sat in Moonbeam’s shop, cozy in the chair that still held the shape of Moonbeam’s rump. She had five minutes before her first psychic reading. What the hell was she going to do?
Next door, Violet could hear the faint hum of some obscure ’80s hit. She tried to tune it out, but found herself lured by an odd wave of nostalgia as she recalled the crackly speakers and gym-sock smell of a middle school dance. One of the few Moonbeam had allowed her to attend.
Whitesnake, she thought. That was the band. The song was called “Trouble.”
Focus, Violet. This isn’t helping.
An astrological chart. She could do that. She could waste at least ten minutes of the appointment printing one off on the computer and talking to the woman about her birth sign. That was good, right?
But it wasn’t enough. Violet was going to have to make something up. She sighed, feeling a sense of dread snake up her spine as the little bell tinkled on the door, signaling Mrs. Rivers’s arrival.
“Hello, Mrs. Rivers,” Violet said, standing up. “Did you get my telephone message?”
“Yes,” replied the mousy-looking woman picking her way toward the back of the shop. She looked like a light breeze might topple her over, and she jumped like a scared cat when she bumped against a rack of key rings.
Cheating husband, thought Violet.
“I hope your mother is okay,” Mrs. Rivers said. “I’ve used her services a few times, but I have to admit, I never knew she had a daughter.”
“Yes, well, I live in Portland.”
Mrs. Rivers looked at her quizzically.
“Portland, Maine,” Violet amended, feeling foolish. “Shall we get started?”
“Oh. Oh, yes, of course. So is this common?”
“What?”
“For psychic abilities to run in families this way. You know, you and your mother—”
“Yeah, sure. Very common. Can I get you some tea?”
Mrs. Rivers gave her a goofy smile. “You’re the psychic. What kind of tea do I like?”
Violet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. This was one of Moonbeam’s favorite tricks.
“Chamomile,” Violet replied, feeling guilty already.
Mrs. Rivers looked delighted. “Oh! You’re as good as your mother!”
Absolutely, thought Violet, turning to switch on the Insta-Hot. I can read the notes in the appointment book, just like Moonbeam.
“So how long have you been in business?” Mrs. Rivers asked as they waited for the water to boil.
“Oh, almost ten years. Right after I got out of college.”
“Really? You went to college to be a…?”
“Oh. Psychic. Right. Um, actually, my degree is in accounting. I’ll be running an accounting practice over in that corner of the shop while I’m here. If you know anyone who needs my services…”
“A psychic accountant? Oh, you’ll be in very high demand.”
“Right. I actually don’t combine the two. Unethical, you know?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Rivers said, and Violet felt like a heel.
She turned in her chair and retrieved a mug from the cupboard, along with a tea bag and two sugars—just the way Mrs. Rivers liked it. “So you’re a Gemini, right?” Violet began. “Let me just pull up your astrological chart here on the laptop and we can go over your—”
“Actually, I don’t want to do the astrological chart this time.”
“No?”
“No. I want to know something… um, personal.”
“Personal?”
“Yes. You see, I have this friend.”
Violet sighed. “Mrs. Rivers…”
“Okay, okay, you’re too good,” Mrs. Rivers said, looking guilty. “You’re right, it’s me.”
“Go on.”
“It’s just… I want to know about Frank.”
“Frank? Right, good old Frank. What do you want to know?”
“Well, he’s just been acting a little suspicious lately, and there have been a couple times when I’ve wondered if maybe there’s something going on and—”
“You want to know if he’s cheating?” Violet guessed.
Mrs. Rivers’s eyes grew wide. Jesus, Violet thought. When a woman has to ask a total stranger if her husband is fooling around, she already knows the answer. Why is she asking me?
“I’m just so—,” Mrs. Rivers began.
“Yes. Yes, he is
cheating. I’m sorry.”
“But—”
“Statistically speaking, twenty-two percent of men cheat. Really, it’s best to move on. Once the trust is gone, you really don’t have much left, do you?”
Mrs. Rivers looked dumbstruck. “But how—?”
“The how isn’t the point, Mrs. Rivers. The point is, you can’t let things go on like this.”
“I can’t?”
“No, you can’t. And I think you know what you need to do.”
“I do?”
“Think about it.”
Mrs. Rivers furrowed her brow, concentrating hard. “I guess you’re right. So how long has this been going on?”
“About two weeks longer than you’ve suspected it.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. So I need to confront him, then. Maybe I could bring him here and you could talk to him? I mean, he can’t deny it with you. You’re a psychic. You see everything.”
“Right. See, that’s really not the best idea. Why don’t you and Frank sit down and have a heart-to-heart talk. And even if he denies it, I think there’s a more important lesson in here for you.”
“There is?”
“Yes. You need to start standing up for yourself. You need to not let Frank—or any other man—control the way you feel about yourself. You need to be strong. How will he respect you otherwise?”
“Well, I guess…”
“Don’t guess. Know! Be strong! Be assertive!”
“Okay!”
“Now go out there and kick some ass!” Violet shouted, pounding her fist into her palm with a smack.
Mrs. Rivers looked befuddled. “Wow. You’re a lot different than your mother.”
“Yeah, well, she taught me everything I know. I just put my own twist on it.”
“Okay,” Mrs. Rivers said brightly, glancing at her watch. “So it looks like our time is up.”
“It is?”
“I only signed up for a half hour this time.”
“Right,” Violet said, feeling a weight lifting from her shoulders. “So I’ll just run your platinum MasterCard now.”
“Wow. That’s really amazing how you just know things like that,” she said, digging in her purse.
God help this woman, Violet thought as she reached for the credit card machine.
By the time she’d run the card, issued a final pep talk, and ushered Mrs. Rivers out the door, Violet was feeling exhausted. And thirsty. And yes, a little bit guilty.
Did Moonbeam still keep a bottle of tequila behind the—
“Nice work there,” a voice said.
Violet stood up fast, smacking her head on top of a bookcase. “Ow! Dammit, Drew, how long have you been standing there? Were you eavesdropping? What do you want?”
“Ten minutes. Yes. Toilet paper.”
“What?”
“Just answering your questions again. In the order you—”
“Right,” she said, trying hard to hold on to her indignation instead of noticing the bright blue of his eyes. “So you were eavesdropping?”
“Not intentionally. The walls are pretty thin, and I share a corridor with your mom’s shop. I was just stocking the restrooms for tonight and I noticed we were out of toilet paper and—”
“Right. I know. The access door to the storage closet is in Moonbeam’s shop.”
“Wow!” Drew said. “You must be psychic!”
Violet frowned. Was he being a sarcastic bastard or a naive one? Sarcastic, she thought, eyeing the back of his head as he opened the storage unit. Definitely sarcastic.
“Anyway,” he said from inside the closet, “since you’re psychic, you probably already know that Frank isn’t Mrs. Rivers’s cheating husband.”
“What?”
“Frank is her squash partner. They both play professionally. They were ranked in the top-ten doubles teams on the world circuit a couple years ago, and I’m pretty sure Frank wouldn’t be happy to hear you think he’s cheating.”
“But—”
“Of course I’m sure you already knew that,” he called over his shoulder. “Being psychic and all.”
Violet closed her eyes and counted to ten. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe the squash partner really was cheating. Maybe he wouldn’t be so angry. Maybe—
“So Drew,” she said, interrupting her own thoughts in desperate hopes of canceling them out. “Do you often eavesdrop on my mother’s sessions?”
“Not intentionally,” he called from inside the closet.
“Right. Not intentionally. I was just wondering if her technique has changed much over the years.”
“You mean does she still prey on gullible people and tell them exactly what’s written all over their faces?” He turned around with his hands full of toilet paper and grinned at her. “Pretty much.”
“I wouldn’t use the word prey, exactly—” Violet began.
“No? What word would you use?”
“My mother is empathetic.”
“Of course.”
“She’s kind,” Violet added, not sure why her cheeks were heating up. “Moonbeam is keenly in tune with the emotions of others.”
“Absolutely. Nothing wrong with that at all. Hell, I’m not even sure she knows she’s full of it.”
“Am I sensing a little skepticism here about psychic powers?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.
“Would that be your sixth sense or your seventh sense at work there?”
Sarcastic. Definitely sarcastic.
Of course he had to be good looking. And of course he also had to be gay. Why could she never meet any straight, handsome, funny men who weren’t complete smart-asses?
Dr. Abbott, she thought, and forced a little smile.
Drew began to juggle the toilet paper with maddening ease, and Violet watched, fascinated in spite of herself.
“Hey, are you coming tonight?” Drew asked, still juggling the toilet paper.
“Tonight?”
“The Men of Texas. I’ve got your name on the list.”
“Oh, right. I mentioned it to my mother’s best friend, and she thought it sounded exciting. I’m not so sure. It’s not really my scene.”
“Your mother’s best friend watching the Men of Texas? This I’ve gotta see.”
“Yes, well, I’ll try to be there.”
She watched him juggling the toilet paper for a few more minutes, disgusted with herself for being so strangely amused, so fixated on his hands.
Hands reserved for his partner, Sam, she reminded herself. Knock it off, Violet.
“Did you know Oregon is the most active juggling state in the U.S.?” she blurted.
He stopped juggling and stared. “What?”
“Yes. Approximately fifty-three percent of the state’s population can juggle. Portland is also home to the only retail all-juggling store in North America.”
“This data fetish you have is fascinating.”
Violet blinked, not sure if he was teasing or genuinely fascinated. He was smiling, but that could mean anything.
“Well, I knew about all that because I’ve been contracted to do some accounting work for the guy who runs the juggling shop,” she said. “But there really are a lot of interesting statistics related to Oregon. Have you heard that Oregon has the highest concentration of strip clubs in the nation?”
“I’ve heard that,” Drew said slowly, studying her with something that was either amusement or the expression of a man trying to remember if he had mental-health services on speed dial.
“It’s not true,” Violet said. “Oregon actually has the second highest concentration of strip clubs in the nation. West Virginia beats us.”
“I didn’t realize we were competing.”
“It has to do with the Oregon Supreme Court ruling that adult bookstores, nude dancers—it’s all considered free speech, so it’s protected. It’s part of why Portland thrives on the whole offbeat counterculture thing. Legalized medical marijuana, p
hysician-assisted suicide, bacon-wrapped doughnuts—”
“I never thought I’d hear doughnuts and suicide in the same sentence,” Drew said. “At least not in a way that made sense. You really are a wealth of wacky data, aren’t you?”
Violet bit her lip. “I can’t help it. Part of being an accountant, maybe.”
Drew’s eyes were locked on her mouth, and Violet stopped biting her lip and stared back. He shook his head and turned away from her. “Hope to see you tonight, Violet.”
He walked away juggling his toilet paper.
***
Drew couldn’t believe he’d invited Moonbeam’s daughter to see the Men of Texas. What the hell had he been thinking? Sometimes he forgot he ran a bar with strippers and not an exotic sushi restaurant.
The nature of his business, and particularly the addition of the twice-weekly male-stripper shows, had annoyed the hell out of his ex-wife. It didn’t matter that the stripper thing had been her brother’s idea, or that Jamie saw it as the fulfillment of his lifelong dream. Catherine had expected Drew to talk her baby brother out of what she saw as a ridiculous plan, and the fact that he refused annoyed Catherine to no end.
As a high-powered divorce attorney, Catherine probably could have fought him for a share of the bar, but she hadn’t been the least bit interested. In fact, she had only set foot in the bar twice during their entire two-year marriage.
“Professional women find that sort of thing gauche,” Catherine had told him so many times he’d stopped counting.
And Violet was definitely a professional woman. That’s why Drew choked on his cherry Coke when she came wandering through the door at ten p.m., looking saucy and stern in a pair of slim black pants and a purple wraparound top made of some sort of stretchy material. The stilettos she wore gave a sexy wiggle to her walk. Drew tried not to stare.
That became impossible as Violet’s companion joined her. She looked like someone’s grandmother, with fine, pale curls and a plump bosom. Of course, no grandmother he knew wore a red bustier under a tie-dyed cape, with purple Birkenstocks to round out the ensemble. Drew had to blink several times to take her all in. Had he seen her around Moonbeam’s shop before? If he had, she sure as hell hadn’t been wearing leopard-skin stretch pants.
He watched as the two of them ambled over to a corner table and smiled up at the waiter. To her credit, Violet maintained eye contact, despite the fact that the waiter was clad in nothing but a green loincloth designed to look like leaves. Grandma was slightly less subtle. Her jaw was hanging so far open, Drew could have lobbed a basketball in there.