A Season of Miracles

by Heather Graham

  Connie called her the oldest twenty-six-year-old she knew and teased her that she needed to have a good time before moving to a retirement home, where she would get her kicks out of watching reruns and waiting for grade-school children to come and sing Christmas carols. But Jillian knew—instinctively, and due to the fact that it had been pounded into her all her life—that she was a Llewellyn of Llewellyn Enterprises; she had a responsibility to uphold, as did all the family. Once her grandfather had entertained dreams about her father going into the White House. He’d become one of the most popular senators ever to be elected to public office, but then he had dropped dead. An aneurysm had felled him at the age of forty-one. That was when she had really come to love her grandfather. She had watched him swallow his own grief and anguish to console her.

  She understood that she had been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, but when people called her lucky all the time, she wasn’t sure why. Luck wasn’t money. She would have traded every dime in the family coffers to have her father back. Connie told her that it was worse to be in agony and broke, and she guessed that must be true, but she felt it was more than enough that she’d lost her mother and baby brother in childbirth, and then her father. She had been raised in a huge, cold house and a huge, cold apartment—though not by a cold man. She adored Douglas Alexander Llewellyn. At the age of eighty-five, he remained the iron-fisted, tough-as-nails ruler of all he surveyed.

  But it had never been fear of him that had made her work so hard, take such care in school, or behave with complete responsibility at all times. She loved him. She wanted to please him. And though she loathed politics, she did want to do her part to change the world. Douglas had taught her about giving back; Connie had shown her why she must do so.

  “Jillian,” Kelly said, bright blue eyes sparkling, “I have never seen you look lovelier. Not even in all those chic gowns you own.”

  “She’s a vamp,” Connie said with a laugh. “We look okay, Mom? I mean, how about me? Your daughter, remember?”

  “Cute as a button,” her mother said.

  “Cute? I want to be sultry. Stunning.”

  Kelly laughed. “Your husband adores you, and you’re devastating. You’re both devastating—in fact, I’m afraid to let you go out to that pub.”

  “Just Hennessey’s, Mom. And Joe will be there.” She looked Jillian up and down and angled her head in thought. “Though, come to think of it, we may pick up every sodden Irish-American—hell, every sodden man of any nationality—but what the hey, you only go around once, right?”

  “Well, off you go, then.”

  They kissed the girls good-night. Tricia was five, and Mary Elizabeth, or Liza, was the baby at four. The excited little girls raved over Jillian’s costume, and as she kissed and hugged them, she found herself loving the clean, baby-powder scent of them in their jammies. They were such a wonderful part of real life, and one day she wanted something as wonderful as what Connie had: a cozy little apartment and people all around her who loved her, really loved her. Family. True, she had a family, but it wasn’t the same as having a husband who’d chosen to love her and children born of that love.

  “We’re off,” Connie said, kissing her mother’s cheek.

  “Behave, now,” Kelly admonished.

  “Behave? Good heavens, Mother. I want this witch to go wild, have a little fun.”

  “She can’t go too wild, and you know it.”

  “Why not? I’m buying her the biggest Guinness in the place the moment we get there. But don’t worry, because I’ll be there, protecting her.”

  Jillian grinned. Connie was the closest thing to a sister she had. In school, Connie had been a class ahead of her, and from the start, she hadn’t been in the least intimidated by the Llewellyn power, money or prestige. She had allowed Jillian to see the streets of New York, the real streets. They had gotten into a few scrapes, but they had also gotten out of them. Thanks to Connie, she had seen harsh things firsthand: prostitutes on the street turning tricks so they could afford another line of cocaine, AIDS victims dying with no hope, kind priests, rabbis, laymen and women determined to help them.

  “You are going to let loose, right?” Connie asked her, angling her dark head in question as she studied Jillian.

  “You bet I am!” Jillian teased back.

  “You can drink like an Irish potato digger, cuss like my pa, and trust in me to see that you’re okay.”

  “Aye, and that I will,” Jillian agreed, putting on the appropriate accent. She was good with accents and loved the theater. She still played with the idea of heading out to audition for Broadway one day.

  “All righty, then. Jillian and I are on our way out, Mother.”

  “Toast me, ladies.”

  “We will,” Jillian promised, as Connie dragged her out the door. They flagged down a cabdriver, who, despite the absurdities rife on the street that night, kept staring at them in the rearview mirror.

  “See?” Connie teased. “He’s watching you.”

  “Hey, you’re the princess tonight.”

  “Sad but true, everyone loves an evil woman best,” Connie advised.

  In a few minutes they reached Hennessey’s Pub, down in the Village. Though the place was rocking, it was doing so in the nicest way. The music was loud, but not too loud. The band was Irish-American, playing mostly rock, some folk, all with a wee bit of the Old Country thrown in. Drinks had been flowing, but not to the extent that too many drunks were weaving around. For the most part, the clientele was in a good mood. Many people were in costume, from the group dressed as the different colors of M&M’s to the brawny exercise guru in the Carmen Miranda skirt, bra, sandals and fruit headdress. He greeted Connie by name right away. Connie introduced him to Jillian—no last name—as Sergeant Tip Guyer of New York’s finest. Connie did the introductions, and the cop instantly offered to treat them to a couple of beers while telling Connie that she could find her “old man” just inside by the bar, watching ESPN.

  “Can you imagine? A party—and they’re watching sports,” she said with disgust. “Tip, if you think you can reach the bar, we’ll take you up on those beers.”

  Tip nodded, flashing an appreciative smile at Jillian.

  “He can’t believe his good luck,” Connie said, when the man had gone.

  “His good luck?”

  “Getting to hang with you.”

  “Oh, Connie, please.”

  “Not because of who you are—just because he wants to bask in your gorgeous nearness.”

  “Connie…”

  “And there’s good old Joe, not even noticing us, just watching the game.”

  “I’m sure he can’t hear too much, with all the music, so he has to study the TV closely,” Jillian teased. There was a tap on her shoulder. A giant leprechaun was asking her to dance, but she wasn’t ready for that quite yet, so she declined politely and asked him to come back in a while.

  “Dancing is fun, and you’re out to have fun,” Connie reminded her.

  “I intend to dance. But you’ve asked Carmen Miranda to bring us drinks, remember?”

  And then she saw the tarot card reader.

  “Hey, look, there’s a fortune-teller.”

  “A fortune-teller? What fun!” Connie said.

  “She’s great.” Tip had rejoined them, bearing glasses of ale. He passed them over as he went on. “She’s interesting. She has you lay out the cards, then she tells you what they mean and how the future might affect you. I have a confrontation coming in my future.”

  “How unusual—for a cop,” Jillian teased.

  He shrugged. “A nonbeliever. So many are. But she’s really good. It’s not just hocus-pocus. Maybe she’s a psychologist by day, desperate for more interesting characters by night. She told me to watch my temper. Can you imagine?”

  “Yes, Tip,” Connie said thoughtfully, “I’m afraid I can.”

  As Tip and Connie started discussing the idiocies he saw on the streets of New York every day, Jillian had
the strangest feeling. It was as if she knew him. Of course she knew him she told herself; Connie had just introduced her. But she felt as if she had known him before. A long time ago. Was it true, she wondered, that you recognized people in life who you might like, who would be your friends, given half a chance?

  Suddenly she noticed that the conversation had stopped and he was staring at her, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from her. “Look at you, looking so solemn. Lighten up. It’s Halloween. Ghosts and goblins and ghouls. Okay, maybe that’s a bad example. Think Christmas. Santa Claus. Ho, ho, ho. Pine trees, packages, Christmas carolers—”

  “Really bad traffic, people shoving each other in stores over the newest toy craze, badly wired lights sizzling families to a crisp.”

  They all spun around. Connie’s husband, Joe, had joined them. Despite his words of doom and gloom, he spoke cheerfully.

  “Back to Christmas,” Connie said sternly. “Pine trees, packages, the girls giggling, Santa Claus—and miracles.”

  “You don’t really believe in miracles, do you?” Tip asked.

  “And why not?” Connie demanded. “There are plenty of strange things in this world.”

  “And the next, too,” Joe said with a depth of sincerity that caused his wife to stare at him again.

  “What is this? We’re not here to ponder the next life,” she protested. “We’re partying. Think good times only.”

  “All right,” Joe said. “Let the good times roll. But let’s test out the world of the occult. We won’t say a word to the tarot card reader. I’ll go to her with Jillian on my arm. Connie, you go with Tip. We’ll test her powers.”

  “She doesn’t claim to have powers,” Tip reminded him.

  “Tip, did I ever tell you how good you look in that color bra?” Joe teased him.

  “Ah, honey, you’re going to make me blush. But go ahead—test her out. I’ve already seen her. I’ll escort Connie, then you come along with Jillian. You’ll see.”

  Carrying their drinks, they joined the line for the tarot card reader. She was a beautiful woman. Her skin was a tawny copper color, her eyes a hazel that gleamed golden in the candlelight. She was dressed for the part in gypsy attire—a sweeping, multicolored skirt, a gold-colored peasant blouse, and a scarf in various shades of gold and copper tied around her head. She was, according to the glittery name plaque in front of her, Madame Zena.

  From her place in line, Jillian sipped her Guinness and watched as the woman laid down the cards. The customer, a pretty young woman in a harem costume, tapped one of the cards in dismay. “Oh no, that means death, right?”

  Madame Zena shook her head patiently. “It’s not just the cards themselves that speak to you, it is their arrangement. These cards warn you…” She looked up, staring at the girl sternly. “Were you planning on taking the subway back out to Brooklyn alone?”

  “Brooklyn—yes, it’s where I live. I’m a Fine Arts student.”

  “From Omaha,” the guy behind her teased.

  “Don’t go home on the subway alone,” the reader warned.

  The young man put his hands on her shoulders. “She won’t,” he said protectively.

  “But you’ll be ridiculously late if you come back to the dorm with me.”

  “I’ll sleep on the floor. Janice won’t mind.”

  “All right, all right, Madame Zena—can you tell me about my midterms?” the girl asked.

  Madame Zena leaned forward, then tapped on a card. “You passed. But barely. If you want to stay in New York and avoid Omaha for the next few years, you’d better get cracking.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The girl slid from her seat, her eyes wide. She was a believer. Jillian had to admit to being pretty impressed herself.

  “She goes for the obvious,” Joe whispered.

  “How so?” Connie demanded in a soft hiss.

  “The kid is obviously a student.”

  “Maybe, but there are colleges in Manhattan, too, you know.”

  “She made a good guess.”

  The young man had sat down in front of Madame Zena. He grinned. “Am I going to get lucky tonight?”

  “Lucky?” Madame Zena queried. “Are you going to survive the drunks driving around the city tonight? Yes, you’re very lucky. Will you be smart enough to avoid the big pothole on Willoughby Avenue and avoid a broken ankle. Yes, again, if you pay attention. That will be lucky. Are you having sex? Not a chance. Janice is going to be there, and she’s going to throw you a pillow on the floor.”

  Those standing around Madame Zena’s table all laughed. Madame Zena smiled, tolerant of the laughter. Jillian decided that the woman was very good at what she did, that she wasn’t psychic, she just used some good solid sense on her clients.

  There were a few more people before them in line. Jillian watched, enjoying what she heard, along with the Guinness. Tip refilled their beers while they waited in line and the band kept playing.

  Finally their turn came. Tip led Connie forward. Madame Zena studied her briefly, her amber eyes intent. She looked up to the line and motioned to Joe. “Come sit with your wife,” she said.

  “You told her,” Joe accused Tip.

  “I did not,” Tip protested.

  Madame Zena noticed Jillian. Her lashes flickered, as if something disturbed her.

  “Well?” Joe murmured.

  “Shuffle the cards,” Madame Zena said. “Let your wife go first. I’m using the three-card spread. They reveal past, present and future. There is a meaning to all cards, and a reverse meaning, as well.”

  She laid out three cards, side by side. For a moment she studied them, then studied Connie. “Temperance. You are a good human being. You’ve made those around you happy, and you have chosen your friends wisely.”

  “That’s me,” Connie said happily.

  Her husband sniffed.

  “Joe!”

  He caught her hand and kissed it. “You’re the best human being.”

  Madame Zena looked at the cards, then past Joe and Connie to Jillian.

  “Madame Zena?” Joe queried, tapping the table.

  Madame Zena pointed to the second card. “The Nine of Swords. There is discord in your life.”

  “But there isn’t!” Connie protested.

  “Maybe it’s in the future,” Joe suggested gravely.

  Madame Zena shook her head. “The future is here…The World. It symbolizes…completion, rewards.”

  “So everything comes out okay?” Connie said hopefully.

  Madame Zena looked at her. “You must make things come out okay, because the reverse meaning here suggests that success is yet to be won, that you may be lacking in vision. You must take care to see, to see everything, beyond the physical eye, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Connie said. But the tone of her voice said “no.”

  “So the cards don’t like me?” she asked in distress.

  “The cards are to be used for good. They warn you. Nothing in life is free, nothing comes without a price. Except for the occasional miracle. The cards warn you that you must be firm, steadfast, loyal. You must always control your own future.”

  Madame Zena wasn’t going to say more.

  “Okay, me now,” Joe said.

  Madame Zena looked over his head at Jillian once again. She looked troubled. “Shuffle the cards,” she told Joe.

  He did, and the reader laid them out. Three cards. Past. Present. Future.

  The exact same lineup as his wife.

  “Hey, that’s not possible,” Joe protested.

  “Shuffle them again.”

  He did. They fell the same way. Madame Zena shrugged. “You know what they mean.”

  “They mean you do card tricks as well as readings?” Joe suggested.

  “No, young man, I do not do card tricks. You’re a good man, you’ve made good choices.”

  “The best of men,” Connie said loyally, slipping her arm through her husband’s.

  “You’re passing thro
ugh a rough time. Only your own courage and determination will show you the way to go. They will bring you through to triumph or success.” She stared at Jillian again. “I don’t want to read your cards.”

  “What!” Jillian said, astonished, and dismayed by the little chill that swept through her.

  “I’m sorry, I’m tired.”

  “Madame Zena, she’s been in line for nearly an hour,” Tip protested.

  Joe and Connie had risen already, and Tip was ushering Jillian forward. She sat, and Madame Zena stared at her, then handed her the cards. Jillian felt as if a rush of electricity jumped into her flesh. “We are all part of our own destinies, you know,” Madame Zena said. “The soul can be very old, and the soul can learn. A good soul remains so. Sometimes there are second chances.” Madame Zena’s strange hazel eyes were hard on Jillian. “In life and in death. Energy does not die. God is great. Hand me the cards.”

  Instead of the three cards, Madame Zena laid out more, creating a cross on the table before her. She had Jillian turn them over, then was silent for a long time.

  “You’ve had tremendous upheaval, tragedy.”

  “Of course,” Joe said. “Her husband died.”

  Madame Zena asked, “Violently?”

  “Cancer,” Connie supplied softly.

  Madame Zena shook her head. “No, something worse, far worse. There was a lack of faith, a terrible betrayal…there was a fire.”

  “Nope, no fire,” Jillian said positively.

  “Yes, there was a fire,” Madame Zena insisted. “Betrayal. And the night. There was one who came and enticed and laughed and…betrayed. And there you see the Moon. Rising in Pisces…You are in danger. You have enemies.”