“Oui, Claire. She is my heart. Well, I must get to work.”
He practically ran out of the dining hall, and the sisters looked after him with what seemed like predatory intent.
I followed François and my mother to the back room, where she spun around. “What are they doing here? They’re a bit much, aren’t they?”
“Yes. But there’s something you should know. Do we have time to sit down for a minute? Or do we need to get right to work?”
She glanced at her watch. “Is this something Mama should hear?”
“Yes.”
François was mashing hard-boiled eggs for his delicate little sandwiches. I could only see the back of him, but his ears seemed to have grown in the last thirty seconds. I said, “François, you should hear this, too.”
He practically ran to the back table, where he plopped into a chair with an eager expression. My mother went to the door and said, “Mama? Can you come here, please?”
My grandmother appeared a minute later. “What’s happening?” she asked.
“Have a seat.”
“There’s more? Even after the baby story?”
“Yes, more. Last night at the dance we were talking to all these people who knew Kodaly. And at dinner I got a bad feeling, like a sickness. Then it went away for a while. And then, when Erik and I were dancing in that gazebo—you know the one?—someone fired a shot through the window. Someone outside, I mean. And it hit me.”
My mother gasped. “How—where?”
I pointed at my shoulder. “It just grazed me, but Erik’s afraid the person was actually aiming. You know—to kill me.” It was the first time I had said it aloud, and suddenly I wanted to cry.
“Oh my God,” my mother said.
François stared at me, dazed. “You have been shot? By a bullet? Oh, my family warned me about America and its guns.”
My grandmother studied my face. “Why would they shoot you? No motive.”
“Well—Erik thinks it’s because I talked to Cassandra at the library. I indicated that I was researching things about Will Kodaly and his background, and I took out a book about psychic phenomena.”
“So?” my mother asked.
“So Erik thinks Cassandra might have gossiped about it. About us, our family being psychic. And if this guilty person heard, and here I was asking about the stolen painting—which I think has something to do with Will’s death—and about Keszthely, and then the person heard, wrongly or not, that I had psychic power—well. He might have felt threatened.”
“I see.” My mother looked pale. Then she looked angry. “So your boyfriend thought that his sisters would be the best protection for you? Those mannequins out there? What if someone comes to the tea house?”
“That’s why they’re there, Mom. You don’t understand. They—”
Suddenly we heard yelling in the outer room—Runa and Thyra calling to each other urgently.
“Oh no,” my mother said. We got up in one movement, but François was the first one out the door. Thyra was on her cell phone; she held up a finger.
“What’s going on?” my mother cried.
Thyra held the phone away from her head and said, “Intruder. Runa has it covered.”
We all turned to look out the window, where Janos, our landscaper, was trudging past, placid as a shepherd, holding a trowel and looking like a man bent on weeding. Before we could ask whether this was the “intruder” Thyra spoke of, Runa appeared out of nowhere, flying—flying through the air, hair flowing, eyes bright, her mouth moving as if in a chant—and landed on Janos, taking him down in a spectacular tackle. She quickly pinioned his arms behind him, as though she had just wrestled a bull in a rodeo.
Janos opened his mouth, and even through the closed window we could hear the stream of Hungarian invective.
François bent double, and I feared he was going to be sick until I heard him laughing. In fact, I had never heard François do anything but chuckle, but now he was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. “Merde,” he said. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”
I turned to my grandmother, whose eyes were glowing with fascination. “Oh, my. Like the fairies, Hana! Like Szépasszony, singing as she flies! Did you see her?”
“Yes, we all saw her, Mama,” my mother said dryly. “And we’ll be lucky if Janos doesn’t sue us. We need to go out there and talk to him.” Even she seemed on the verge of some strong emotion, but whether it was laughter or anger, I wasn’t sure.
Thyra appeared. “You know him? That old man? He looks like a vagrant.”
I shook my head. “Those are just his gardening clothes. He’s one of us, Thyra.”
“Ah,” she said. “I’ll handle this.” She marched to the door and outside, and we saw her approach Runa, who still rode on Janos’s back like a lovely equestrian. The two women spoke; Runa stood up and reached out a hand to Janos, who took it, got up, and dusted himself off. The twins talked at him. They didn’t seem particularly apologetic, but they did seem to be using their charm. There was a fair amount of hair flipping and arm touching.
I thought Janos, who was as expressive as an Easter Island head, would hold out against them, but within five minutes he had cracked a smile; and thirty seconds after that he was laughing, slapping his old knees. and pointing at them with a knobby finger.
“Good God,” I said.
François was still laughing, but he clutched his stomach with a pained expression. “It hurts,” he said, pointing at his abdomen. “But, ah, I could watch all day.”
I turned to my mother. “That’s why Erik sent them.”
She nodded. “I take it back, what I said. They’re perfect.”
My grandmother was still beaming out the window. “Amazing,” she said.
“Mama,” said my mother with a no-nonsense clap. “We need to work.”
* * *
The family reunion happened to be half Hungarian, and my grandmother wandered around with her teapot, chattering in her native tongue to the friends she recognized. Runa and Thyra, as promised, had become as invisible as beautiful people can be, and mostly stayed in back with François or in the hallway that led to the exit. They had assessed each person who entered to determine whether or not they might be concealing a firearm and concluded that it was not likely that any of the visitors was in fact packing heat.
François had made a huge assortment of sandwiches—egg salad, turkey and pepper, ham and Swiss, cucumber and cream cheese—and the guests had consumed them all. When I marched out with the first dessert tray, filled with petit fours and tiny chocolate éclairs, the crowd said “ahhh.”
When I went back for another tray, Thyra caught me in the doorway and whispered, “We have to hire this boy for some of our client events. He’s a marvel.”
“Better yet, have your client events here,” I said. “People find us charming.”
“An outstanding idea!” Thyra said. She looked down at her phone. “Your boyfriend is calling.” She grinned at me with perfect white teeth and said, “Hello?”
I walked to the back room, where François was putting the final touches on his last cakes and Runa was staring at him as though he were a science experiment. Normally François would be dark as a thundercloud to be observed in this way, but since Runa was pretty and had provided him with (apparently) the best entertainment of his life, he was being patient.
“You can’t do this quickly, or it will come out in a blob,” he said, holding his frosting bag aloft. “It has to be slow, steady, careful.”
“Lovely,” Runa said. “They’re like little works of art.”
I waited for him to finish, then helped him load the cakes onto my final tray. “These people eat like horses,” I said.
François stretched. “Well, my part is done. I’m going to clean up.” He went to the sink and began to fill it with hot w
ater.
Runa looked at me. “I’m going outside. This is a time to be watchful, since the guests leave soon, right?”
“Yes. Another half hour, maybe.”
“Okay. Back soon,” she said, and glided out of the room.
At table three, Grandma was in a dialogue with someone, and I heard the name Kodaly. I stopped walking and inched closer to the conversation. “So he was born in Keszthely, then?” Grandma asked.
“Yes, I think so,” said a woman with red curls who I didn’t recognize. She had the standard old-Hungarian-lady look, with her flowered dress and flat shoes, but I didn’t know her name. “I think his family moved when he was a boy, but Keszthely was always special to him. When he got a chance to go back to Hungary and paint for a few months, he decided to go there. That’s what his sister told me.”
“Ah.” Grandma nodded, as though this made perfect sense. “And you said he met someone there?”
The woman sat up straighter, feeling the sense of importance that prime gossip can give to a person. “Oh yes. The talk among the Hungarians who knew him was that he met a woman there, and fell in love, and never forgot her.”
I pretended to sort the teacups on my cart. Who was the Keszthely woman? Yet another name to put on the list of Kodaly’s lovers? Did the guy have some sort of dating compulsion, or was he just lonely and looking for the right person?
Grandma and her friend kept talking, but they moved on to new topics that didn’t interest me, and I wheeled my cart away from them.
Thyra appeared. “No one has entered your parking lot since the event started, and Runa has kept close tabs on the outer perimeter. And now she’s got that old Janos working with her, as well. He claims that he always keeps an eye out for intruders.”
I nodded. This was probably true; Janos had the look of an old knight. “Good to know. This group will be moving out soon, and then I do cleanup duty. Then what? Am I supposed to take you two home with me?”
Thyra shook her head. “No. Erik’s picking you up, and Andy will come for us.”
“Okay. Andy seems nice, by the way.”
She shrugged. “I think he’s good for Runa.”
“What about you? Do you have a special man in your life?”
“Many.” She grinned at me. “I like variety.”
“Good for you. I’m more of a one man woman.”
Her blue eyes were like lasers as they studied my face. “Good. That’s good.” Then she looked past me, to the people behind us. “We really do want to get a reading from your grandma, by the way. Will she do it?”
“Of course she will. She likes to read people. My mom has kept her on a leash for years, but now she’s been set free, and she’s having a good time.”
It was true—my mother, fearful of whatever psychic power might be rooted into our DNA, had forced her mother to downplay her instincts for decades, partly because my mother was probably fearful of her own instinctive responses. Conditioned by the modern world to believe that psychics were charlatans, she had simply pretended the feelings weren’t there. I understood, because I had done the same thing. A lifetime of subtle sensations, strong suspicions, and near visions had been corralled into categories like illness, melodrama, or stress. Now I knew better. I was Natalia’s great-granddaughter. I, and two generations before me, had inherited Natalia’s gift.
* * *
Runa and Thyra helped us clean up. Their energy was boundless. They zoomed around the tea house, wiping tables and sweeping crumbs. They laughed and chattered with each other, then got acquainted with my mother and grandmother by drying the teacups they washed.
By the time we seated Grandma at one of the tea tables and asked her to read their leaves, she was feeling happy: she had new friends.
Thyra went first; she scattered some loose leaves into her cup and poured in the hot water. She blew on it and drank it down quickly, flipped the cup upside down on the draining cloth, and then turned it a few times to dry the cup and allow the leaves to take their shape.
She handed the cup to my grandmother, who studied it and said, “Ah. Interesting.”
Thyra leaned forward. “What?”
“See? Sárkány. The dragon. He is the beast within you. Means you need to make a decision.”
Thyra nodded. “We have been pondering a lot of decisions about the store. Runa and I run a company of imported woolens, and we just started a new line of evening wear. We have to decide whether or not to open a new store.”
Grandma found this interesting. “Be sure to consider the good and bad. Don’t go only for shiny things, yes? Live inside both choices before you choose.”
“That makes total sense. Thank you,” Thyra said. She patted my grandma’s hand with surprising affection.
Runa practically pushed her out of the way. “My turn,” she said. She handed her cup to my grandma, who was half laughing at their antics. My mother stood against one wall, texting—probably to my father, with whom she kept in touch throughout the day.
Grandma peered into the cup. Her smile disappeared, and her eyes widened. She looked up at Runa, then touched her hand. Her face was tender, curious. Then she looked at the rest of us. “I need to be alone. You can all go pack up, yah? Let me talk to Runa.”
This was unprecedented. I had never seen Grandma insist on a private reading, and like any normal human being I was now twice as curious about what she was going to say. So was Thyra, I could tell. Still, we weren’t going to refuse her request. My mother, Thyra, and I went to the back room that François had vacated about an hour earlier. He had still been laughing a little when he left.
Now we stood in an awkward cluster, asking each other pointless questions. “Do you know what she saw? Did she seem upset? How did Runa react? What was Runa expecting?”
Finally, I opened the door a crack and peeked out. To my immense shock, my grandma was sitting forward in her chair, as was Runa, and their foreheads were touching. My grandmother murmured something softly, and Runa said something softly in return. Then they pulled apart and my grandmother took her hands. She spoke to her with a serious expression; Runa’s eyes were riveted on Grandma’s face. The scene was calm, almost surreal, but also intimate. I felt a stab of jealousy.
Then it was over, and Runa stood up, smoothing her sweater over her leggings. “Thank you,” I heard her say. “Thank you very much, Juliana.”
My grandmother practically bowed, and then they embraced. What in the world was going on?
Runa came to the back room. I had only known her for a few days and even I could tell that she had been deeply moved. Her ironic expression was gone. Her face was pale and grave.
“What in the world did she tell you?” Thyra asked.
Runa shook her head. “I can’t talk about it yet.”
She turned to me. “Erik is here. Thyra and I have to go.”
We thanked the two of them for their help, and escorted them to the lobby, where we saw Andy pull into the lot a few minutes later. They waved and left, promising as they went to be in touch soon.
My mother and I turned to my grandma. “What the heck?” I said.
“Yeah, spill it, Mama.”
Grandma stood tall. “No, I cannot. She will tell soon. But it’s her life. It has to come from her.” She nodded once at us, then went to get her coat.
* * *
Erik tucked me into his car as though I were a piece of glass. I laughed. “I’m fine. Your sisters were excellent guards, and it was quiet as could be here. Maybe we’re wrong, Erik. Maybe there’s nothing—”
His face was impassive as he drove. “We’ll go on the assumption that we’re not wrong. Meanwhile you are in my protective custody.”
“You make that sound very sexy,” I said.
His smile was wry. “Don’t distract me. You look distracting enough, without saying things like that.”
&n
bsp; “Oh? Do I look distracting?” I pouted like a supermodel until he laughed.
“Well, not now,” he joked. “Hey, I have your wolf for you. I know it has sad associations, but it’s clean and intact, and you can put it on your shelf. Think of it as something that a great artist once owned.”
“Yes, I guess so.”
He decided to divert me. “Listen, when we get to this pumpkin patch, I’m going to want your initial read on John Banner. That’s Kodaly’s son—the mother raised him with her name, but she gave him the middle name of Kodaly. Fair enough, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yeah. That way the boy won’t feel deprived of his father’s name, but the mom who raised him alone gets to have her own name carried on.”
“Anyway, the boy and his dad had connected this year, as I told you. The mother implied it was a positive thing, but I want to know if you sense any negative vibes. If so, the kid would be a prime suspect.”
I thought about this as we drove through Riverwood and saw troops of trick-or-treaters marching down the sidewalk, often with parents trudging right behind them. One mother pushed a stroller in which I glimpsed a little fuzzy bumblebee who was not even a year old.
The stroller made me think of the little Henrik Sipos. Was he afraid when the strange face appeared above his stroller?
“Hana?”
“Hmmm?”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just thinking. You know, my grandma had a weird interaction with Runa today.”
“What do you mean?”
I told him about the private reading and the glimpse I had of the two of them, their heads pressed together.
Erik thought about this while we turned onto Route 4 and the landscape changed to green on either side of us. Eventually, the pastureland was dotted with orange, and Wolf turned into a gated driveway that led to a cute little house with a sign that read “Sherman’s Pumpkin Patch.” Erik kept driving past the house to a huge backyard filled with pumpkins, divided by size. The largest ones cost ten dollars, the medium seven, and the small five.
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