Chapter 15
I’m sobusy snapping Effie’s portrait—capturing her incredible face, crystal ball, and the blurred tent behind her from different angles, and wishing I had my camera with me, instead of just my phone—that I don’t realize Weaver is behind me.
It isn’t until Effie grins, showcasing her missing tooth on the upper right side, and says—“Well hello there, you must be Gertrude’s fellow. What a lucky man.”—that I emerge from my shot-hunting haze.
I glance over my shoulder as I stand, an apology on my lips for going into full feral photographer mode in the middle of a classy ballroom, but Weaver doesn’t look annoyed.
He looks…moved, the same way I felt when I saw Effie sitting here with her peaceful smile and dark brown eyes full of all the secrets of the universe.
The realization makes me ridiculously happy, even though I’ve been around the man enough by now to know that he isn’t nearly as cold as he pretends to be. But I just love that he sees the beauty other people miss. I love that he sees it in Effie.
And I love that he sees it in me.
Heart thumping a little harder, I reach out, squeezing his hand as I smile. “No, he’s not my fellow. We’re just friends,” I tell Effie.
It’s true, he is my friend, and I hope he will be for a long time. A part of me would desperately love for this to be more, but that isn’t in the cards for us. And maybe that’s for the best. If Weaver were really my “fellow,” I’d lose him eventually.
He’d get tired of being with a small-town girl who’s never done anything or been anywhere. The charm of teaching me things I don’t know would turn into annoyance that I’m so clueless, and then I’d be left alone with nothing but my regrets and several pissed off and betrayed relatives.
As friends, I can call him in New York whenever I want. I might even be able to go visit before Christmas, the way he said I should. I’d love to walk around the holiday markets and ice skate at Rockefeller Center with him. But then, I think I’d have fun doing just about anything with this man. He just makes me feel so alive, like I’m fully awake for the first time in years.
I’ll always be grateful for that, no matter how long our connection lasts.
Effie hums beneath her breath, her wise eyes flicking back and forth between us. “Oh, I see. Well, that’s a special thing, too.” She smiles in a way that makes me think she isn’t buying the “just friends” thing as she motions to the chair in front of her. “If Gertrude doesn’t mind, you’re welcome to sit with us while I do her reading.”
I shake my head. “Oh no, I don’t need a reading.”
“You paid for one,” she says, casting a pointed glance toward the blue bowl on the corner of the table, where I placed my twenty-dollar bill.
“That was for the chance to take your picture,” I say, lifting my cell. “And I did, and I think I got some beautiful shots. Thank you so much.”
“May I see?” Weaver asks, extending his hand toward my phone as Effie insists, “Nonsense, you’ll have a reading. I don’t charge for my picture. I have a firm grip on my soul. I’m not worried about someone stealing it with a photo.” She smiles again, shooing me into the chair with sweeps of her wrinkled hands.
Torn, I pass my phone reluctantly into Weaver’s palm, warning him, “I haven’t had the time to process them, so don’t judge. They’ll look much better once I take them into the editing software on my computer and adjust things.”
He nods.
“And don’t look at the cat pictures,” I add. “Most of them aren’t good, but I haven’t had the chance to delete the bad ones. I prefer to do that on my computer, too. Sometimes you see something in a photo on the large screen that you can’t see on a small one.”
He nods again, the hint of a smile on his lips. “I understand. Sit down. Have your reading. I’ll give you your privacy.”
He steps away with my phone and for a second, I’m possessed by the urge to run after him and snatch my cell back into my hot little hand. I never show raw photos to anyone. Not even my best friends. I only show processed pictures when I’m certain they’re something special.
I don’t want to be that annoying amateur photographer who’s always showing off my mediocre shots, desperate for attention I don’t deserve. I have a certain amount of talent—if I didn’t, I wouldn’t have been accepted into the college of Art and Design right out of high school—but I haven’t developed it nearly enough.
But before I can spazz out, Effie pats the top of the table and says, “Sit now, love. You need this reading. I can feel it. Your spirit is unsettled.”
My brows lift. “Really?”
She nods, her kind eyes filled with compassion, but also a steely resolve. “Really. I’m no charlatan, darling. I wouldn’t lie, especially not to a sweet new soul like yours.”
Intrigued, I cast one last glance over my shoulder at Weaver, who is leaning against a pillar wrapped in fake vines a short distance away, scrolling slowly through my camera roll with an unreadable expression.
Shoving aside my anxiety, I sit down in the cushioned chair opposite Effie, and exhale a nervous breath, “Okay, I guess. Tell me everything.”
She laughs, a rusty sound that’s still nice in my ears. Kind of like a cat’s purr. “Oh, sweetheart, we don’t have time for that. And you wouldn’t want it anyway. There’s such a thing as too much information.” She curls her fingers. “Give me your dominant hand. We won’t worry about the tarot cards or crystal ball with you. I have a feeling I’ll be able to read everything we need to know right on your palm.”
I hold out my left hand and she gives a knowing grin. “A south paw. I’m not surprised. Creative people often are.”
I’m about to tell her that I’m not really a “creative” person—I work on a lobster boat—but something stops me. I may not be a professional photographer, but it’s definitely a creative outlet, and it could have been my career if my life had taken a different turn.
A long-neglected part of me likes being called creative. It likes it a lot.
So, I keep my mouth shut as she takes my hand in both of hers. Her skin is so dry it feels like paper against mine, but her touch is comforting as she prods at my palm. “Yes, this is all we need,” she murmurs before falling silent for several moments.
“What do you see?” I finally ask, more curious than I’ve been about something like this before. I’ve had my tarot cards read several times, but never my palm, and never by someone like Effie.
If she isn’t the real deal, I don’t know who is, and it isn’t just the fact that she looks the part more than anyone else offering their services here tonight. It’s her energy.
She projects an air of complete confidence, kindness, and wisdom as she says, “As I thought, you’re a new soul. It’s your first time here in a human body.” She clucks her tongue sympathetically. “Which means a lot of pain and ugly surprises. People will let you down. Not because they’re bad people, necessarily, but because you’re so innocent and new.”
I frown. “I don’t know about that. I mean, I wouldn’t say I’m a bad person, but I have dark thoughts every now and then.”
“We all do, darling,” she says, unphased as she moves her prodding fingers closer to the center of my palm. “But your dark thoughts are pale, peachy gray in a world of midnight black.” She exhales a soft laugh. “Trust me on that.” She lifts her chin, her eyes brighter now. “But that’s a blessing to the world. And to the people who love you. Of which there are many. I see wonderful friends who treasure you for exactly who you are and a family member…” She looks down again, humming softly. “Not a parent… Maybe an older relative?”
“My grandfather,” I supply.
She nods. “Yes, a grandfather, but he’s like your parent. He loves you desperately. He’d do anything for you. Even if he seems cranky or closed off at times, his heart is as soft and devoted as yours.” She looks up, holding my gaze as she adds in a more pointed tone, “He will never abandon you or stand in the way of your dreams. Not for a moment. He only wants your happiness. He might put up a fight at first, if there’s something he doesn’t understand, but in the end…” She glances past me toward where Weaver stands by the pillar. “He’ll learn to love what you love. Whatever and…whoever that happens to be.”
I pull in a breath and let it out with a shake of my head. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“That’s all right.” She smiles. “I am.”
“But he’s…” I clear my throat and glance quickly over my shoulder, ensuring Weaver is still distracted before adding in a softer voice, “My family would hate him, Effie. Our families have ugly, awful history between us, and Gramps…” I shake my head again, more firmly this time. “Gramps would never be okay with me being romantically involved with a Tripp. Not even someone my age, let alone a man who’s so much older. The age difference doesn’t bother me, but it would bother him. A lot. I know it would.”
Her expression sobers. “Sacrifices will have to be made to build a life with an older man, but your family won’t be one of them. They might be upset or hurt at first, but they’ll come back to you.” She taps her thumb to the center of my palm. “I see a happy family life in your future. And a happy marriage.”
My jaw clenches. “That’s a nice thought, but…it can’t happen. Not with Weaver. It just can’t. There are too many things standing in our way.”
She smiles, sadly this time. “Well, you know best, I’m sure. I read what I see, but futures are never set in stone.” She releases my hand. “If you’re determined to push happiness away, you’ll succeed. You have that power. All you have to do is keep believing that other people’s dreams are more important than your own.”
My lips part as pain flashes through my chest.
She gives my wrist a gentle squeeze. “I’m sorry if that isn’t what you wanted to hear, sweetheart. I can assure you, however, that everything will be okay. It always is. You’ll get where you’re going eventually. There’s no rush, no finish line, no goal except to live as fully as you can each time you get the chance, and learn your heart lessons along the way.”
She looks up, shooting Weaver a wide grin as he appears at my side. “And what about you, handsome? Would you like your palm read? Or do you still think you have it all figured out?”
I jerk my attention Weaver’s way, uncertain how he’ll handle Effie’s challenging words. But he doesn’t seem offended.
His lips actually tilt up as he says, “Not right now, thank you. We have dinner reservations in five minutes. But perhaps later. I certainly don’t have everything figured out. I thought I did.” He glances my way, his smile fading as he adds, “But I think those days are behind me.”
“Excellent,” Effie says, as I take Weaver’s offered hand and let him draw me to my feet beside him. “Go bravely into the unknown. You’ll be glad you did.”
“Thank you, have a good night.” I lift a hand in farewell as we move away, leaving Effie sitting peacefully in her big purple chair, waiting for her next customer.
“How was that?” Weaver asks, his hand at the small of my back as we cross the room.
“Good.” I purse my lips. “Or bad? Or sad? Maybe all three? I can’t really tell. I think I need some time to digest everything she said.”
He grunts. “I wouldn’t take any of it too seriously. People like that don’t have any more knowledge about the future than we do. They say frightening things to prey on people’s insecurities and keep them coming back for more.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think so. Not Effie, anyway. She didn’t say anything scary. She said good things, actually…assuming I don’t fuck them up.”
“As far as I can see, you’re not the type to fuck things up.” He passes my phone over. “Your pictures are incredible, by the way. You have serious talent, Ms. Sullivan.”
“Thank you.” My cheeks heat with pleasure as I tuck my cell back into my small purse. “But seriously, they’ll be way better once they’re processed. Editing is almost as important as getting the right shot in the first place.”
“Then I’d like to see them when they’re edited,” he says. “And to send a few shots of your choosing to Makai, a friend of mine in New York. He runs a photography gallery in the East Village. I think he’d be interested in your pieces. Especially the portraits of the old men down by the lobster boats.”
I look up at him, my eyes wide. “You went back that far?”
“I went back to the start of last summer,” he says. “The shots of your friends around the beach fire are stunning, too. You’ve captured the New England coast with an intimacy I haven’t seen before. It’s beautiful.”
My throat tightens as we join the line of people waiting to be seated for dinner. “Thank you.” I lean closer, brushing his hand with mine as I ask, “You really think my stuff is good enough to send to a gallery? You’re not just saying that to be nice?”
“I’m not nice,” he says bluntly. “I thought you would have realized that by now.”
“But you are,” I say, my pulse picking up as I hold his piercing gaze. “You’re very nice and you make me feel…”
I trail off, my anxiety levels rising until my heart is pounding against my ribs and I’m on the verge of saying things I shouldn’t. I try to swallow, but my tongue is suddenly dry and feels too fat in my throat.
What was I thinking? Now isn’t the time to tell Weaver that I count the minutes until I get to see him again, that I think about him all the time, and that my first thought when something good happens lately, is that I can’t wait to share it with him.
He’s not stupid. He’ll know what all that means.
He’ll know that I’m falling in love with him.
I’m on the verge of faking a laugh and making a lame joke about being ready for a drink after the stress of knowing he’s scrolled through half my camera roll.
But before I can, his fingers curl around mine. “You make me feel, too.”
My throat squeezes even tighter, but I manage to force out a soft, “I do?”
“You do,” he confirms. “More than I have in a long time.”
And then we’re at the host stand, being guided down the long table to two seats at the very end, where another couple is already settled and private conversation is impossible.
But his words linger between us, charging the air every time our eyes meet.
We make small talk with the other diners and share our mutual appreciation of the lobster bisque and fantastic seafood risotto, but there’s something simmering beneath the words that wasn’t there before, an awareness that things are about to change.
If we’re brave enough to let them…