2. Cheribelle #3
The woman opened her mouth to object. I didn’t blame her, but I held up my hand to give her pause.
“But if you wish to know the truth, and only if you wish to know the truth, the fates guide you to check the deleted logs of any of your household tablets or other ways to send messages. Be absolute in your certainty before you do, because what you find, or do not find, will likely change your entire perception of your relationship.”
There. That was probably about the most moral solution I could give her without damaging the reputation of my mother’s business or tanking a marriage without proper evidence.
If her husband was indeed cheating, there would definitely be evidence on those devices.
People often deleted such things when they were being sneaky, but forgot that everything stayed in the trash folder for a month or more.
I’d learned that from a catfishing documentary I’d watched while learning how to knit.
“Oh my god! I didn’t even think of that.
Thank you so much. I have... a lot to think about.
But thank you for giving me clarity. And thank the fates, of course!
” She reached into her purse and set a twenty on the table.
“I hope it’s not rude to tip, but here you are.
I will definitely be by again. For now, I think I need some time to myself. ”
“I agree that would be the best. I’m glad I could provide you with what you were looking for. Remember, no matter what happens, you deserve kindness, thoughtfulness, and a partner who enhances your life, not detracts from it.”
“Yes. Thank you. I think after so many years together, I let myself forget that. Maybe I got too comfortable. Or maybe he did. But... Well, we’ll see how things go, won’t we?”
“Yes, you will.”
She gave me another little nod before hurrying out. Her emotions were still swirling wildly, but the dread and anxiety had dimmed, replaced by golden shimmers of resolution squiggling through the air in whirling spirals.
Once I heard the bell above the door chime, I relaxed and pulled off my robe.
“Well, Hudson, I think that went rather well!” I called out.
While it was much easier to pretend to be a psychic online with all the resources that were available on the internet, I was sure I’d done good.
Had I fibbed in order to do it? Done a little deceiving?
Yeah. But I told myself it was okay because even if I was shimmying onto the not-so-truthful side of things, I was helping.
And that was what mattered, right?
I’d had this very same debate with myself dozens of times when I decided whether to open Haus de Donmoue once more, and I wasn’t really in the mood to go through it again. Instead, I took off the remainder of my getup and headed to the kitchen to grab myself an energy drink.
Oh, looks like you’re running low. Better put it on the grocery list .
Nah, I’ll remember!
Don’t listen to that voice, that’s the ADHD lying to you.
Oh, also I need cooking oil. And maybe a new hat?
I should see if they have a new flavor of energy drink. It’s been a while since we’ve had anything other than the watermelon lemonade.
Wait, what am I doing again?
Right. Energy drink. Grocery list.
Deciding to be responsible, I wrote it on the whiteboard on my fridge, then cracked open my drink and headed to my craft room, where Hudson lounged on one of the higher parts of the wall gym I’d built.
Sometimes I couldn’t believe it had been three years ago that I’d found her mewling in a discarded paper bag behind my favorite taco truck, bloated from worms, eyes matted shut, and half-bald from flea-based alopecia.
I’d been sure she wouldn’t survive. But I’d tended to her, nursed her, held her, and she’d pulled through.
Ever since, she had been my faithful companion.
“How are you doing up there? You kind of made a scene with my client back there.”
“ Mrrrrp. ”
“Yes, I know it was rude when she asked why you were white, but I told her off, don’t worry. You’re the best familiar an empath could ask for.”
Although my abilities didn’t work the same with animals—I wondered if it was because they were largely color-blind—I could see little ripples of contentment filling the air around her.
“Aw, that’s my girl. Here, lemme get you a tube treat, then I’ll put your favorite show on while I do crafts. How does that sound?”
“ Meeeeerp! ”
“My thoughts exactly.”
I put my drink down and hurried to do just that.
Once the tube was devoured, and I’d spent ten minutes figuring out where my energy drink had gone, I finally sat down at my desk to finish preserving the flowers from my mother’s funeral.
I was using resin for some, drying some for potpourri, and turning the rest into inlays for a scrapbook I was making about Annie.
Not Ophelia, but Annie. No frills. No performance.
Just the best mom I could have ever asked for.
I was sure that, as the days continued to march on, I’d find other ways to turn the remnants of our last goodbye to her into keepsakes, but for the moment, I let my mind spread out and my hands move.
After all, I had an hour until my next client—a video call—and there was no way I’d lose track of time again.