by Amy Cissell
Sandy smiled, said, “Certainly,” and then rolled her eyes behind the woman’s back. When they were both settled, and she’d gone through her spiel and processed the payment, she pulled her cards out of the velvet bag where she kept them.
“Could you use this deck, instead?” the woman asked, smiling what was probably supposed to be a sweet smile, but instead looked a little deranged. “It’s special to my family.”
Sandy hesitated for only a moment. She’d never used a deck other than the one she had in front of her, but she was curious to see if it was the deck and her familiarity with it, or something else that she was actively refusing to consider that was making all her readings so eerily accurate. “Sure.”
Sandy took the cards, held them for a moment, then handed them back. “Think of what you want answered, really concentrate on it, and then hand them back. I’ll start with a three card spread, and then we can expand from there.”
The woman held the cards then passed them back to Sandy. She shuffled them, cut them, and laid down the top three cards. Death. The Star. The High Priestess. She took a deep breath, but before she could organize her thoughts, she found herself speaking. “Your question was not about you, but about someone you’re curious about. In their past, they had a recent upheaval resulting in a total life change. They are starting over, almost from scratch, and have freed themselves from a past that did more harm than good.
“Currently, they are trying to reconnect to the divine spark within. They are looking for freedom, and the ability to transcend above the petty life they had before. They are regaining their autonomy and free-will, but it is a struggle to let go of that which holds them back. In the future, they have the High Priestess. This person has the will, the ability, and the spark of the divine. If properly trained and supported, they have the potential to be among the greatest.”
Sandy leaned back in her chair, exhausted. This was both the easiest and hardest reading she’d ever done. She heaved a great sigh, then looked at her client. “I need a moment before I can continue with the rest of the reading.”
The woman waved her hand, scooped up her cards, and said, “No need. I have everything I needed.”
“But you paid for the full reading!”
“I am not disappointed with what I got. Surprised maybe, but not disappointed.”
Sandy held out her hand to shake. The woman looked at it for a moment, as if Sandy was proferring a live snake instead of a handshake, then took it and shook briskly before dropping it and backing away. She turned and walked out the still-silent door without another word.
Sandy flipped the sign off and locked the door. It might only be—she glanced at the clock over the door—twenty after ten, but she needed a break, a pot of tea, and a chance to regroup.
Less than fifteen seconds after Sandy unlocked the door and flipped the sign on again, the door creaked open. A man strode in and looked around uncertainly, failing to see Sandy from her position in the shadow of the door he’d just opened.
“Hello?” he asked, rather tentatively.
“Yes?” she answered.
He jumped at least six inches away from her, then laughed. “You startled me. I didn’t expect you to be so close.”
Sandy smiled at him. He was a much more affable customer than the last. “I just turned on the sign,” she pointed out. “I couldn’t have gotten very far.”
He grinned, and even in the low light of the shop, she could see a mischievous twinkle in his blue-grey eyes. She was staring, lost in the stormy sea of his eyes, when he winked at her.
“You have—”
“The most beautiful eyes you’ve ever seen?”
Sandy blushed, a little self-consciously. “Yes. I’m so sorry. You must hear that a lot.”
“A fair amount,” he conceded. “They do make it easier to pick up guys, though.” He gave her a once over. “You probably don’t do too badly on that front, yourself.”
Her blush deepened. “I don’t. Pick up guys, that is. I’m in the middle of—or rather, hopefully, the end of—a divorce.”
“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.” He reached a hand out to her and years of habit made her grasp it. He shook it firmly and said, “Call me Drew.”
“You can call me Sandy,” she replied as their hands disconnected. There was something about him that was attractive. Not sexually, although the dark hair, perfectly coiffed, and the short, expertly trimmed beard were, she admitted to herself, extremely attractive. But something else—a spark—when their hands touched, made her want to get to know him better. She shook herself. “Are you hear for a tarot reading?”
“Yes, I am. Shall we?” He gestured to the small table, and they sat. She pulled out her deck, looked at him in anticipation of his objection, and then, hearing none, placed them on the table. She grabbed her phone and card reader and did the sales spiel. Drew opted for the simple three-card spread, and after processing the transaction, she handed him the deck.
“Think about what you are here to learn. Concentrate on it, and let your intention be present in the cards. When you’re ready, hand them to me.”
He stared at the cards with so much intensity Sandy was almost afraid they’d burst into flames. When he handed the cards back, she was surprised to find they weren’t warm at all. She shuffled, cut the deck, and then turned over the top three cards one at a time, reading them aloud as she went. “Past: Death. Present: The Star. Future: The High Priestess.
“That’s impossible,” she whispered.
“It’s late morning, and if I can believe six impossible things before breakfast, imagine how many I can believe before lunch,” Drew replied. “Tell me what’s impossible in my reading.”
“This is the exact same spread I did for my last client.”
“Tall woman, long, black hair, completely terrifying?” Drew asked.
“That’s her,” Sandy confirmed. “Do you know her?”
“He does, and I resent the ‘completely terrifying’ comment,” a voice said from the shadows.
Sandy jumped, nearly falling out of her chair. “How did you get in here? The door…”
“Misty let us in through the back door.”
“Misty? My landlady?”
Misty stepped out of the narrow hallway into the light, followed by two other women and a man.
“What’s going on?” A frisson of fear shot through Sandy’s body, and her muscles clenched, preparing to flee. Was Aaron behind this?
“You don’t have to be afraid,” said the woman whose cards she’d read that morning. “We won’t hurt you. We just had to be sure.”
“Sure about what?” she asked, her voice taking on a decidedly squeaky cast.
“That you are what you say you are,” she said. “But forgive me, my manners leave something to be desired.” She strode forward, hand outstretched. Sandy took it and shook. “I’m Morgana.” She gestured to the women behind her. “You know Misty.” Misty gave a half wave and a broad grin. “The others are Jezebel,” an olive-skinned woman with dark, curly hair nodded at Sandy, “Ceri,” this time the acknowledgment came from a woman who looked like the poster child for an Irish tourism campaign, complete with red hair, freckles, and shamrock green eyes, “and Paska.” The man grunted his acknowledgment, and Sandy couldn’t help but stare. He was beautiful. Tall, dark, and handsome—the type of mysterious stranger she’d spent a lot of time promising people in the course of a tarot reading. But there was something about him that exuded an aura of danger, and she shuddered slightly.
“You’re sensitive,” Misty said.
“What? Not really,” Sandy protested, years of ‘Why are you being so sensitive?’ echoing through her brain. Damn that man and his continuing ability to impact her negatively.
“I mean, you’re a psychic. You can tell the future, and you’re reacting to auras.”
Sandy laughed out loud. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. There’s no such thing as auras and psychics.”
“H
ow do you explain the readings?” Drew asked.
“Weird coincidence.” Sandy crossed her arms in front of her chest and glared at everyone and no one.
“And the fact that your readings have been preternaturally accurate?” Misty asked.
“How would you know?” Sandy knew she was being rude, but she didn’t care.
“People talk, and I listen,” she said simply.
“Do you want to know my question?” Drew asked.
“Not particularly.”
He smiled at her. “I wanted to know if you were for real. And what did I learn about you?”
Sandy looked down at the cards that were still there. “I’ve recently had a major upheaval in my life, resulting in a new start, I’m currently trying to find something—something creative and important—the divine spark that gives me meaning. I’m looking for freedom and independence, but I’m struggling to let go of my past as much as he’s not letting me go. The future could mean any number of things,” Sandy hedged, unwilling to continue.
Morgana spoke up. “I asked the same question and got the same answer. The High Priestess indicates that you have the will, the ability, and the spark of the divine you’re searching for. If you are properly trained and supported, you have the potential to be among the greatest.
“Isn’t that what you told me when you thought it was about someone else?”
Sandy nodded.
Drew smiled again. “We were testing you. All of us are sensitive, as Misty puts it. We’re the local psychics union. Didn’t you notice the surprising number of psychic shops in Oracle Bay?”
“Oh my god,” Sandy said. “Oracle Bay? Your town is Oracle Bay, and you’re all…”
“We are all Oracles,” Ceri confirmed. “You’re included in that statement. I am a scryer, Morgana reads tea leaves—”
“It’s called tasseography,” Morgana snapped.
Ceri rolled her eyes and continued, “Misty is a palm reader, Drew does the crystal ball thing, which is the weirdest thing—”
“You look at bowls of water. Our talents are the same,” Drew countered. “Except yours is about one hundred times more powerful.”
“Anyway,” Ceri said, “if I could finish without further interruption…” she looked around, and no one said anything. “Jezebel is an astrologer, and Paska reads runes.”
“Bones are easiest,” he muttered,” but harder to get.”
“Ignore him,” Ceri advised. “He’s old and grumpy.”
Sandy looked at him again but didn’t say anything. He didn’t look old, but he did look grumpy. And since she was leaning towards accepting that she was surrounded by honest-to-goodness psychics, who was she to argue that they weren’t older than they looked. Maybe her new psychic powers would preserve her youthful good looks!
“So, we’ll see you tonight, then,” Morgana said. “Come on, it’s time to let her get back to it, and the rest of us have work to do, too.”
“Tonight?” Sandy asked, feeling like she’d missed something.
Drew slapped his forehead. “We didn’t tell her that part! Sandy, tonight is our monthly meeting, and since you’re the newest member, you’ll be hosting.” He looked around her sparsely furnished shop and amended his statement. “I’ll host on your behalf, but you’re in charge of bringing the wine. You’ll want to estimate at least a bottle a person.”
Sandy’s jaw dropped, and she found herself at a loss for words—something that had happened altogether way too often this morning.
The group started filing out and were almost gone before she found her tongue. “Wait! Where? What time?”
Drew’s head popped back in the shop, “I’ll swing by about seven and pick you up.”
The door shut behind him.
Sandy paced back and forth in front of the case of wine she’d procured from the local wine shop she’d walked by a few dozen times but hadn’t gone in before this afternoon. She’d been afraid the wines therein would be tempting and out of her price range. She hadn’t been wrong, but when the proprietor found out who she was and who the wine was for, he offered her the friends and family discount, helped her select the best wines, and gave her an additional discount for purchasing an entire case.
She glanced at her watch for the tenth time in as many minutes. Two minutes until seven. She resumed pacing.
The door squeaked open at exactly seven o’clock. Sandy squelched the sudden spate of nerves that overwhelmed her and whispered, “Breathe, Sandy. Breathe.”
“It really is okay,” Drew said. “We’re a lot of fun, I promise.”
“If you say so,” she replied. “You’ll have to give me some time to get used to all this.”
“You can have some time, but not too much. It’s the busiest time of the year for us, and you’ll need to be up and running soon if you’re going to chair the Bazaar committee.”
“I’m going to chair the what committee now?” Sandy asked.
“Oops! I’m getting ahead of myself. We’ll explain everything tonight.” He hoisted up the case of wine and led the way out of the shop and into the street.
Sandy had to walk faster than she was used to to keep up with Drew, even burdened as he was with the case of wine, and she found herself quickly out of breath and unable to ask any of the million questions plaguing her.
Drew lived about a dozen blocks away, on the bay side of Oracle Bay, in a cute turn-of-the-century bungalow painted a bright yellow with lavender trim. White trellises adorned the sides of his house, but this time of year, nothing was growing up them.
He noticed Sandy’s attention and said, “Morning glories. In spring and summer at dawn, it’s breathtaking. The back of the house has jasmine, and you can see the wisteria growing over the front door. Purple and yellow are my favorite colors.”
“I can’t wait to see it in all its glory,” she murmured as they ascended the steps.
The second Drew opened the door, the noise assailed her. She stopped abruptly on the threshold, uncertain if she should go further. Somehow, taking that last step into Drew’s home felt like taking the last step away from skepticism and into a new world she’d never dreamed possible.
“Are you coming?” Drew asked.
She steeled herself, took a deep breath, and walked in.
The interior of the house was as welcoming as the exterior. The exposed wood beams were shining in the lamplight, and the lighter colored walls in blues, grays, and pale yellows balanced the dark wood. Drew led her through the kitchen—completely modernized with stainless steel appliances, tile countertops, wood cabinets, and a gorgeous gas stove.
“Your home is beautiful!”
“Thank you. I started life as an interior designer—before I moved to Oracle Bay—and I like to keep my hand in. If you need any help with your home, let me know! I can help you decorate on a budget.
“Grab that tray, would you?”
Sandy snagged the tray that held a half dozen or so wine glasses with individual charms on the stems, a corkscrew, and an assortment of cheeses and crackers. The living room, where the steady stream of voices was coming from, was full. Sandy recognized everyone from the earlier encounter at her shop and smiled a shy greeting.
“Sandy!” Misty called. “I’ve saved you a seat. Set the tray down on the coffee table and come sit down.”
“I should at least pour the wine,” Sandy said.
“Do that,” Misty agreed. “See if you can get the right glass to the right person on your first try.”
Sandy grabbed three bottles of wine. “I have Cabernet Sauvignon, pinot noir, and prosecco. What does everyone want to drink?”
“Prosecco,” Ceri said before anyone else had a chance to say anything. Sandy grinned and carefully popped the top. She went to grab a glass, then took a more careful look at the charms. There were seven different charms: a hand, a silver ball, a hand mirror, a skull and crossbones, playing cards, the astrological symbol for Pisces, and a teacup. She grinned for a minute, and then racked her
memory for each person’s particular talent.
Sandy poured the prosecco into the glass with the mirror charm and handed it to Ceri. “First one right,” Ceri said.
“Anyone else for prosecco?” There were no more takers, so Sandy poured some into the glass with the cards and opened the pinot.
Misty—the hand, Morgana—the teacup, and Jezebel—the Pisces—took pinot. Drew—the silver ball, and Paska—the skull and crossbones—took Cab.
When everyone had been served, Sandy settled into the couch between Misty and Ceri and sipped at the prosecco. “This is really good!” she gasped in surprise. She was used to expensive champagne and hadn’t had a high bar set for the much lower price point local sparkling wine.
“You have to try some cheese,” Misty said. “It’s made by one of the locals. Joseph McEwen has a herd of prize-winning goats and makes the best goat cheese.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s such an asshole,” Ceri suggested. “He pours all of his goodness into the cheese.”
“What kind of prizes do goats win?” Sandy asked. From the look on Misty’s face, his character flaws were not a line of conversation she wanted to follow. She sliced into a pale cheese with a deep red rind, took a bite, and moaned, “Oh my god, this is amazing.”
“I don’t really know,” Misty admitted. “I do know that’s a wine-washed and aged goat cheese, though, and one of the best he does. He also provides milk and cream to the local bakery that makes the magical prosecco mousse for the Bazaar.”
“Tell me more about this Bazaar,” Sandy said. “Drew said I’m in charge of it this year?”
“You weren’t supposed to tell her until she’d gotten through at least a bottle of wine,” Morgana chided.
Drew shrugged and set down another tray, this one with tiny desserts in paper wrappers. “I didn’t tell her anything besides that.”
“And probably panicked her in the process,” Morgana said.
“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Sandy pleaded.
Morgana set down her wine, leaned forward, and laced her fingers around her knee. “Every fall, Oracle Bay puts on the Autumn Bazaar. It’s our biggest event of the year, and tourists from all over the world come to town. It’s bigger than our Halloween parade and festival, and bigger than the Yule Ball in December. People can enter home-made foods and beverages to be judged, although Bill Walters has won the dessert contest every year for the last ten years with his chocolate prosecco mousse. Last year, he even came in second with the peanut butter apple pie he entered on a whim.