Prologue
JOSIE
The smell of antiseptic is always preferable to blood.
Blood means panic.
Blood means tragedy.
Blood means somebody's worst day has just become even worse.
Antiseptic means we've already started fighting back.
And after fifteen years as an ER nurse, I've learned to appreciate the small victories.
The small Midtown hospital where I work never lacks for patients.
Tonight is no different.
A teenager with a broken arm.
An elderly man convinced WebMD diagnosed him with seventeen rare diseases.
A toddler who swallowed a Lego.
Three stitches.
One concussion.
And one particularly dramatic gentleman who sneezed so hard he strained his back and is now loudly informing everyone within earshot that he's too young to die.
It's only Tuesday.
In other words, business as usual.
“Hey, Josie, Madame is asking for you,” Abigail calls from the nurses' station.
I glance up from my tablet where I'm finishing chart notes, and smile.
“Okay, just a sec.”
Abigail grins knowingly.
“Your favorite patient.”
“Don't tell the others.”
Madame isn't technically my patient.
She belongs to everyone.
And no one.
She's eighty-seven years old, widowed, mostly healthy, and has absolutely mastered the art of finding reasons to visit the emergency room once a month.
Sometimes it's indigestion.
Sometimes it's dizziness.
Sometimes she claims her aura feels itchy.
But what Madame really suffers from is loneliness.
And I understand that disease better than most.
She used to work as a fortune teller on Coney Island back in the eighties.
According to her, she once read the palms of three mobsters, a soap opera actress, and a man who claimed to be Elvis.
Personally, I suspect the last one was just some guy named Frank from Queens.
Still, she's a character.
And she's sweet.
She also insists on reading everyone's fortunes whenever the mood strikes.
“You're going to meet a tall blonde.”
“You should avoid seafood on Thursdays.”
“Your second husband will be terrible in bed.”
She's been wildly inaccurate so far.
Which somehow makes her more entertaining.
“There you are, Pussycat!” Madame announces happily when I step into her room.
I laugh immediately.
Madame is tiny and wrinkled, with frizzy white hair puffed around her face like a cloud and enough orange lipstick to paint a small house.
I adore her.
“How are you, Madame?” I ask, leaning down to give her a one-armed hug.
“I'm terrific, Josie. How are those pussycats?”
For years she's teased me about my name and some old cartoon I've never actually seen.
I just roll with it.
“They're great. Thriving. Living their best lives.”
She nods solemnly.
“Excellent.”
I glance at her chart.
“Looks like they gave you your vitamins.”
She sniffs.
“Terrible service. No tea.”
I gasp dramatically.
“The horror.”
“And no sandwich.”
“Outrageous.”
She pats my hand.
“I knew you'd understand.”
“Turkey on whole wheat and tea?”
“Oh, yes, please.”
I start toward the door.
“But first,” I say, pointing at her. “You got any news for me?”
Madame's eyes suddenly sparkle.
And I mean really sparkle.
Enough that I stop for a second.
“The stars have aligned, my dear.”
I grin.
“Oh, have they?”
She nods vigorously.
“You'll be meeting someone tall, dark, and handsome very soon.”
I laugh.
“Madame, that's what you've been telling me since Obama was president.”
“This one is different. He’s special.”
I smile indulgently.
“Sure, he is.”
“No, Pussycat.” She leans forward conspiratorially. “He is unlike any man you’ve ever met. Very tall, too.”
“Basketball player tall?”
“Taller.”
I snort.
“What, seven feet?”
Her expression becomes oddly serious.
“Close enough.”
“Okay, now you're just messing with me.”
“And dark.”
“Brooding dark? Like Mr. Rochester?”
“Darker.”
“Should I be worried?”
Madame's grin widens.
“Oh no, my dear.”
She reaches out and pats my cheek.
“You should be excited.”
I shake my head, laughing.
“Madame, I am thirty-seven years old. The only tall, dark, and handsome male in my future is probably another exhausted doctor with a caffeine addiction.”
“Not this time, Pussycat.”
Her voice is surprisingly firm.
“He's—he’s waited a very long time for you.”
Something about the way she says it makes a strange little shiver race down my spine.
I blame the lack of sleep.
“How long?” I tease.
She smiles.
“Oh… a couple of hundred years at least.”
I burst out laughing.
“Well, he must be moisturized.”
Madame cackles.
“Indeed. Very handsome, too. But mind the horns.”
“Of course. And I am so glad my imaginary boyfriend is attractive.”
“Not imaginary, Josie. This one is a keeper.”
I wave a hand.
“Okay, okay. I'll keep an eye out for the immortal supermodel.”
“Do that, Pussycat.”
I head toward the door.
“Tea and a turkey sandwich, coming right up.”
Behind me, Madame calls out one last thing.
“And Josie?”
“Yeah?”
“When he finds you—”
I glance back.
Her smile has softened.
“Don't be afraid to believe in magic.”
I laugh again.
Because magic isn't real.
Neither are handsome strangers who want to sweep a girl like me off their feet.
Honestly, I have a better chance of getting struck by lightning on the way home.
Besides, destiny only happens in romance novels.
“Sure thing, Madame.”
Then I walk out to finish my shift.
Completely unaware that before the night is over my whole life is going to change.