“Now, that’s amazing.”
“With . . . animals? Is that right? I’m seeing animals.”
“Say, this is incredible. ’Cause I work on a cattle ranch.”
“Yes. And . . . you are the boss? Perhaps not the big boss, but there are men who work for you. Respect you.”
“I like to think they do. I’m the foreman at the Double K. Aw, heck, I shoulda tried to make you guess that.”
She laughed, an earthy rumble deep in her throat. Marlene Dietrich, but without the man-eating vibe. “I am no mind reader, Shorty. I can only read the messages you send me.”
“Yeah, but send you with my mind.”
“Tell me what is on your mind tonight, dear one. Something is troubling you, I think. Is it anything I can help you with?”
She was getting right to the point. He could’ve talked about the weather in Medicine Bend and Hoboken indefinitely—big bucks for Madame Romanescu. Maybe she wanted to go to bed.
“I doubt it,” he told her, taking a sip from his cup of decaf. “Just wanted to hear a voice, tell you the truth. Gets powerful lonesome out here on the range, just me and the dogies.”
“The dogies?”
“Cattle, ma’am. Longhorns. We’re herdin’ about two hundred head out to plains pasture for the summer.”
“But you like this work, I think. It’s hard, but it suits you.”
“Most o’ the time.” Most of the time he enjoyed his job at Cullen Pratt McGrath. “Yeah, I reckon it suits me. Only . . .”
“Only . . .”
“Oh, it’s a big ol’ ranch, the Double K. Fact, it’s a corporation, and lately there’s been talk of movin’ me up to superintendent.”
“Goodness. That sounds like it would be quite different.”
“Quite different, yes, ma’am. Lot more . . . administration.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I got what you call mixed feelings. Course, it’s nice they think I’d be good enough and all—”
“A feather in your cap.”
“Yep, but then again . . .”
“So much more responsibility. It worries you.”
“Nope. No, that’s not it.”
“No, it’s not the responsibility,” she amended quickly, “that doesn’t bother you. It’s more that . . .”
“More that . . .”
“That . . .”
“I always thought someday I might . . .”
“Go out on your own,” she guessed.
“There you go.”
“Have a little ranch of your own.”
“Yeah. Well, not too little.”
“No, not too little. Just right.”
“That’s it. You hit ’er square on the head, ma’am.” After a little leading from him. But that was all right. He felt uncommonly tranquil, for some reason. It was that voice of hers.
“I can see it’s a dilemma for you, Shorty.”
“Well, I reckon it’s time to shoot or give up the gun.”
“But it’s a good dilemma, yes? Two ways you can go, and neither one is bad. Or . . . ?”
“Wellll . . .” He thought about leaving Cullen Pratt, which would come out of the blue to most of his colleagues. “I’d hate to let the boys down, that’s for sure. But then again, there’s a few things about the way they’re runnin’ the place that don’t set right with me anymore.”
“You feel that you could do a better job.”
“Well, different. More modernlike. There’s big changes comin,’ and the Double K’s not, uh, not always ahead o’ the curve, you could say.”
“Cattle-raising is changing?”
“Oh, heck yeah. All kinds o’ new techniques and . . . energy-saving measures and what-have-you. Long overdue. So, ma’am, what do you think I should do?”
A long pause this time. In the background, he thought he could hear a cat meow. Or a baby cry? “It’s difficult,” she said at length. “I’m sensing a great deal of ambivalence. Feelings of duty, loyalty, but also of restlessness and discontent. It’s as if a chapter of your life is drawing to a close, but you are reluctant to end it just yet. It’s easier for you to be passive, let others shape your destiny for you. But in the end, it is you who must take the action.”
“Yeah, but what action?”
“Oh, dear one. I think you already know the answer to that.”
She was either very good or he’d just been hornswoggled. Or both.
“If you like,” she said, “I can read the cards for you.”
“The cards?”
“Tarot cards.”
“Do they tell the future?”
“I’m afraid not. They’re only a guide, a vehicle, to help clarify the choice you must make.”
“I guess not, not tonight. Prob’ly gettin’ late for you.”
“What time is it there?”
He calculated Mountain Standard Time. Or was it Pacific? “Almost nine,” he hazarded. “Maybe if I call you again sometime, we can do the cards.”
“I would like that.”
“I could tell you all about my love life.”
“Oh, a very long call,” she teased.
He’d been joking, but now the thought of talking to Madame Romanescu or anyone else about his so-called love life brought him down. “Nope. Shorter than . . . than me.”
“You do not have good luck with women?”
“More like they don’t have good luck with me.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. No. No, that does not feel right to me, Shorty.”
“It’s true, ma’am. Either that or they’re gold diggers. You shoulda seen the one I met today—just for instance. Meaning no disrespect to women, this one could give all o’ you a bad name.”
“Or perhaps you were too quick to judge?”
He thought of Krystal with a K and her “bowling bag.” For about two minutes, she’d reduced him to speechless staring, and he didn’t even know why. Attractive, sure, but she wasn’t exactly a beauty queen. Still, something about her . . . But soon enough, luckily, he’d gotten her number, and if she was a physical therapist, he was Wyatt Earp.
“Don’t think so,” he told Madame Romanescu, “but I’ll be keepin’ my eye on her, so . . .”
“The truth will out.”
“There you go.”
A rather long moment passed while neither of them spoke. The soft in-and-out of her breathing sounded gentle and patient—and not just so the minutes could tick by. He was beginning to take a shine to Madame Romanescu.
“Well, ma’am,” he said at length.
“Shorty?”
“Ma’am?”
“If you do call back, I hope you will call me Romy. It would make me feel . . .” She gave a light laugh. “ A little younger.”
“Oh. All right.” How old was she? Middle-aged, he reckoned. But well-preserved.
“And,” she added, sounding tentative now, almost shy, “it’s what my friends call me.”
“Well, then. I sure will do that.”
They hung up, Oliver with a definite reluctance. He didn’t understand himself at all lately. It took a while, but he finally figured out the source of some kind of pride or one-upmanship or . . . almost a gotcha feeling, all related to Charlie. It went beyond childish, but what it boiled down to was, Look, Grandfather: I get to call her Romy, too.
SEVEN
Molly’s final exam in Attachment and Affect Regulation was on Monday, and she wasn’t ready. She had dogs to walk, plants to water, houses to watch. These days Charlie wasn’t even paying her for her psychic expertise anymore, so why was she wasting a whole precious Saturday afternoon and evening at his place, first telling him his fortune, then going with him to Cartamack Day at his retirement community?
She liked him, that was why. That was the only reason. She’d come in spite of the imminent arrival of his obnoxious grandson, certainly not because of it. What an idea.
“I’m seeing the same thing, Charlie,” she said, back in her old sea
t at his coffee table. “She has gray hair, and . . .” Molly squinted. Sometimes she really did see something, and sometimes it really did look like a face. “No, that’s all. It’s just too vague. She’s got you on her mind, that’s all I know. And she’s important. Significant.” She’d probably talked herself into that, but it still felt right.
“And she’s nearby?” He sat beside her, leaning forward sometimes to gaze into the crystal ball himself.
“That’s how it feels.”
“So she could be here, for Heart Attack Day.”
“Would you stop? I’m going to say that to somebody accidentally, I just know it.”
He had a mischievous cackle that always charmed her. “So that’s it? That’s all you got?”
“Sorry. I told you, it’s just so shadowy—”
“Okay, then, let’s go.” He jumped up, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s get out there so you can find her.”
“Oh, that’s my job now?”
“You’ll be able to sense it,” he said with certainty, helping her put the ball back in the case. “After that, I’ll take over.”
“You’re amazing,” she said in his small foyer while she put on her jacket. “Hey, what happened to the horses?” The biggest piece was missing, leaving its shiny outline on the slightly dusty glass shelf.
“The mustangs? Sent ’em out to get appraised. I want Oliver to know what they’re worth when I give ’em to him for his birthday.”
In the elevator, their side-by-side reflections in the shiny doors made her smile. “You’re looking especially handsome today,” she told Charlie truthfully, admiring his cherry red sweater and pressed khakis. “Which makes it a lot harder for me, you know.”
“How’s that?” He smiled back paternally.
“Every woman here is probably thinking about you, Charlie. You’re a catch.”
“True, but I’m only interested in the one in the ball.”
She tsked, elbowing him. “Your modesty’s irresistible, too. Speaking of Oliver,” and they had been, “where is he?” she asked casually.
“Said he’d be late, some meeting or other. Kid’s a workaholic.”
Cartamack Day was huge, a sort of street fair/open house spread out over the retirement community’s sprawling campus. The main action was on the enormous stone terrace between the community center and the eighteenth green of the golf course, where tables and chairs, a buffet, a stage, and numerous booths vied for space under strings of unlit Japanese lanterns. Charlie took Molly on a tour of the nearest attractions—the lake, the main restaurant, the library, fitness center, bowling alley, concert hall, woodworking shop, hair salon. By the time he showed her the billiard room, she wanted to know when she could move in.
“Gotta be old and decrepit,” he grumped, hands shoved in his pockets. “Believe me, you don’t wanna move in a second before you have to.”
“I don’t know about that. I think I could be very happy here.” She was only half joking. And Charlie, she could tell, was secretly pleased with her reaction. He stood a little straighter, sounded a little more proprietary, less mocking, when he told her about the bridge club and the lecture series and the drama club. It was a perfect day, dreamy white clouds high up in a blue sky, sun at a gentle slant behind massive trees edging the golf green. They sat on a stone ledge and sipped lemonade, people-watching. The current entertainment was a barbershop quartet that was, according to Charlie, “better than the ukuleles.” Between songs, a woman emcee announced winning numbers in a raffle to benefit the Alzheimer’s Association. Once in a while Charlie waved to an acquaintance, usually a lone man, but no one ever stopped to talk, and he never introduced her to anyone. It gradually dawned on Molly that Charlie didn’t have many friends.
“So, you getting any vibes yet?” he asked for the second time in ten minutes.
She shook her head. “It’s really hard to concentrate here.”
“Okay, we’ll shut up. You concentrate.”
She looked around, studying the women nearby. Some were spry and attractive, some frail and disabled, most in between. They outnumbered the men about three to one.
“Sorry,” she had to say after a few minutes of “concentration”—really just observing body language. “I’m not feeling anything.”
“Guess she’s not here. Maybe she’s a gardener,” Charlie said hopefully. “Wanna go look at the community gardens?”
“You even have gardens?”
“Vegetables and flowers.”
“Charlie, this place is paradise. Seriously, when can I move in?”
“Not quite yet, I’m afraid.”
She jumped. Oliver Worth stood behind them on the other side of the wall. The blue eyes she’d gotten lost in a few days ago were staring at her in disbelief. Distaste. She felt a hot flush rise to her hairline.
“ About time,” Charlie said, standing, reaching over the wall to give his grandson a rough pat on the arm. “Bribe enough congressmen for one day? You remember, uh, Krystal.”
“Vividly.”
“Oliver,” Molly said, standing, too, and deliberately extended a businesslike hand for him to shake. She would not fall under his stupid spell again—and then his hand enveloped hers and she melted. Oh, stop it, she thought. This is crazy. He and Charlie talked about the size of the crowd, the adorable a cappella children’s chorus singing “Doe, a Deer,” the wisdom of getting in the buffet line now or waiting, but Molly was practically in a fugue state, able only to nod and smile. She heard an actual buzzing in her ears. It didn’t go away until Oliver did, to get them more lemonade.
“Still nothing?” Charlie asked.
“What?”
“The woman, the woman.”
“Oh. Charlie, I’m just—” She put her hand to her forehead, trying to think. She turned her back on him. Women everywhere. Did any of them give off a vibe? A woman in pale blue velour, sitting with two friends at a table near the stage, was staring. At Charlie? Yes. With an avid expression, practically breathless. She had gray hair. She was pretty. “I think—maybe—it could be—”
“Who? Who?”
“By the stage, the second table. Don’t look!” She described the woman, then shifted so Charlie could get a discreet gander over her shoulder.
“Hm,” he said, narrow-eyed.
“Go say hi to her.”
“Me?”
“No, the invisible man I’m also talking to.”
“What’ll I say?”
“Say, ‘Hello, my name is Charlie. What’s yours?’ ”
“I can’t do that.”
“And then ask her to dance.” A swing band called Sawyer Bones and the Skeletons was tuning up. “Go. Just do it. You can.”
Oliver came back. Charlie took the glass he handed him and downed it in two gulps. “ ’Scuse me, I got business.” He pivoted and marched away.
Molly wanted to watch his progress with the lady in blue, but it was hard enough communicating with Oliver when she had all her senses trained on him. She couldn’t afford to divert any of them elsewhere.
“Nice day,” he opened.
“Lovely.”
“They have this every year. Apparently.”
“So I understand.”
“There will be fireworks at nine.”
“I have to leave before then.”
“So do I.”
They stood side by side, watching the band, the dancers, anything but each other.
“Charlie tells me you’re a lobbyist. For the energy industry.”
“Yes, I blow up scenic mountaintops for coal removal.”
A joke? She stole a glance at him to see—and then it was hard to look away from his clean, sharp, perfect profile. Charlie said he always wore suits, but today he had on slacks and a red polo shirt. Loafers. She came up to his jaw. The setting sun picked out glints of gold in his dark hair, which was cut perfectly.
The first time they’d spoken—when he’d called her on the psychic line to tell her to stay away from Ch
arlie—she’d gotten the strangest feeling about him, that he was suffering, that something from his past had a hold he couldn’t break. But nothing like that was coming from him now, and all she felt was chilliness and discomfort.
“Do you live nearby?” he asked.
“Yes, quite near. That was—” She broke off, pretending she had to cough. She’d almost blown it there; she’d been about to say, “That was a surprise, finding out Charlie and I live so close to each other.” I’m Krystal, she reminded herself, not Romy. She wished Oliver would stop asking questions.
He was looking at her strangely. “So you live in the neighborhood ?” he pursued.
“Almost. I have a little house in Kensington.” Did that sound wistful? She’d been trying not to think about her house.
“ And how long have you been a—”
“Would you like to dance? I love this song.” What song was it? Who cared? Anything was better than telling Oliver Worth about her career in physical therapy.
EIGHT
She smelled like strawberries. Must be something she put in her hair, which was tickling his chin. Thick hair, between short and long, the color of ripe peaches. “It had to be you,” crooned the woman singer in the swing band. No, it didn’t, and Oliver resisted pulling Krystal Smith-Jones’s firm, warm body any closer. He had a lot of questions he wanted to ask her, but it was better when they didn’t talk. When they talked, they had to pull back and look at each other, and then he’d become fixated on her mouth. Her full, sensitive lips, the prettiest part of her face. Except for her eyes, gray-green, not large but oddly luminous and steady....
“How”—he cleared his throat—“how long have you known my grandfather?”
“Not long. Have you always lived in the Washington area?”
“Yes. No—I went to grad school in California, and stayed out there for a few years afterward.” As he expanded on that, he realized she did it on purpose—turned the conversation back to him. Clearly she was hiding something.
“How about you?” he asked, this time without looking at her. “Where did you go to school?”
She began to answer, something about American University, but he forgot to listen as the absurd idea crossed his mind that her husky contralto sounded a bit like Madame Romanescu’s. Just then the song ended and the Skeletons jumped into a dizzy cover of “In the Mood.” Ms. Smith-Jones’s raised brows and cheeky grin were a definite challenge, and he could never resist a dare. She took his outstretched hand and he launched them, more or less simultaneously, into the jitterbug.
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