Chapter 5
Five
“Tough times?” Mary’s tone is one of blatant curiosity rather than genuine concern.
I force a tight smile, handing the school secretary the new check—from my personal account—to cover the one that bounced for the barbecue.
“Just an accounting error,” I lie. “You know how it goes.”
She eyes the check then looks at me, lips pursed as she leans across the desk of the school’s front office and sends a whiff of her pungent perfume my way. In an indiscreet whisper, she says, “Barry told me.”
Right.
Mary the secretary is married to Barry the banker.
“Oh.” I pick up a rogue pencil from the floor and twirl it mindlessly between my fingers. “Yes. A big accounting error.”
She makes an exaggerated frown. “I watched stories like that on 20/20,” she says.
“Lost everything. They found out later the lady that gave the money away had Alzheimer’s though.
” She pauses and dips her chin, looking at me over the top of her glasses.
“Your mom have something like that going on?” Before I can respond, she adds, “Barry said he saw your car parked at Dr. Mott’s after you left the bank. ”
I snap the pencil right in half, making us both look at the splintered yellow wood.
“Sorry,” I murmur, setting the two pieces on her desk. “She’s just fine. A mole.” At once, the lie my mother told herself makes perfect sense. “It was great to see you, Mary. Is there anything else you need help with before school is out for the year? You know I’m happy to help.”
“You just take care of finding that money.” She tosses the check into a basket of papers. “We’d hate to see Miss Bennie not be able to come back because of something so awful.”
She says it like it’s just that easy. Like I didn’t spend all night trying to figure out how we can scrounge up every dollar possible. Like the whole rest of my day isn’t a planned series of stops in hopes of scraping together every cent I can find for this very reason.
“We’ll be fine,” I tell her. “She’ll be back.”
The look on her face tells me she doesn’t believe my promise any more than I do.
“You should buy a lottery ticket.”
On the off chance she’s right, I stop at a gas station and buy a scratch off.
I lose four dollars.
Standing in the beaded doorway of Psychic Sylvia’s and holding a crystal ball, it’s hard to imagine anyone purposefully coming in here for serious guidance.
There’s fog sputtering across the floor, a stick of incense leaking a snake-like trail of smoke, and a flickering neon sign advertising Spirit Guide. This place is my worst nightmare.
Behind a glass case displaying premium tarot cards and bundles of overpriced sage, Sylvia stands. Her box-dyed red hair is tied back in a bandana, and she’s wearing a purple dress so large it could double as a tent.
“No refunds,” she says, infuriatingly indifferent after hearing my sob story.
I gesture with the ball. “Please.”
“No. Refunds,” she repeats. “It belonged to Jeane Dixon.”
I do not growl like I want to.
“Give it time,” she says in a drawn-out spooky voice. “I see the right buyer finding you.”
I hate her.
“Didn’t you hear me?” I ask, trying to stay calm. “My mom has—” I grip the ball. “Was not of sound mind when she bought this. We’re broke. That’s dirty business.”
Sylvia shrugs, casually pulling a ciabatta roll along with the largest jar of mayonnaise I’ve ever seen from somewhere behind the counter. She opens the lid, spoons out a heaping pile of mayo, and smears it on the roll. Sick.
“Sandwich?” she asks.
“No,” I snap, both annoyed and disgusted. “Refund.”
She takes a bite of the mayo-monstrosity, crumbs scattering across the display case as white clings to the corners of her mouth.
“Iris told me about you,” she finally says. “You’re the serious one.”
I frown.
“There’s the one who can’t laugh—you—the one who can’t stop working, and the one who doesn’t know who she is.”
That tracks with my sisters, but . . .
I scoff, grip shifting on the ball. “I can laugh,” I defend. “Ha. Ha.”
She guffaws. “Oh please, your aura is practically begging me for a good time.” Her eyes narrow, mine follow suit.
“And you’re in denial.” She moves to take another bite but decides against it, saying, “And don’t get me started on your suppressed desires.
I’ll have to sage the place when you leave just to see straight. ”
Kill me.
I blow out a sharp breath; she takes another disgusting bite of her sandwich.
“Fine, I’m serious,” I admit, blowing my bangs out of my eyes. “Seriously pissed you conned my mother into buying this glorified marble.”
She regards me the entire time she slowly chews another bite, the ball getting heavier with every second that passes.
“She had some of this when she started seeing me,” she says, wiping the crumbs off her hands. “Your mother.”
“Okay.” I don’t want to know the things this woman has told my mother. “That’s nice. But if we co—”
“She suppressed her desires too.” She takes another bite, chewing slowly, watching me watch her. When she swallows, she says, “Had two dreams locked inside of her.”
I scoff. “That does not sound like my mother.”
“Means she was better at hiding it than you are.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means—” She sets the sandwich down on the counter. “That you need to make a change, just like I told her she did. She listened to me—not entirely, given the state you’re in.” She gives me a judgmental look. “But she’s more aligned with her true self than she was when we started.”
If aligned leads to hiding a brain tumor and losing our entire bank account, no thanks.
I give her a tight smile. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
“You’d be wise to. And—” She stops abruptly, pointing a sharp purple fingernail into the air and closing her eyes as she drops her head back. “I’m getting something here—”
Because my lips refuse to stay closed, I mutter, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
She either doesn’t hear me or doesn’t care, because she continues, almost convulsing with whatever she’s getting.
“Ahh, yes. I’m seeing a woman.” She opens one eye to look at me and I frown.
“Angry.” The eye closes. “And she has—” She sways back and forth.
“Gone down a path that—” The eye reopens, this time giving me a once-over before reclosing.
“Isn’t right.” Both eyes spring open, and she smiles wide. “That’s on the house.”
Again: Kill me.
“Noted.” I gesture at her with the ball. “About the ball.”
In her pause, the whir of the fog machine and buzz of the neon sign fill the air and make me itch.
Finally, she says, “I’ll give you a hundred dollars and throw in a free reading.”
“Full price, no reading,” I counter.
She takes a long blink, showcasing the gold glitter on her eyelids. “No.”
If I didn’t need every cent, I’d drop the damn thing on the fake fog-covered floor and let it shatter.
Instead, I pass it to her. “Fine.”
She clicks around the register to open the drawer, handing me a hundred-dollar bill—no doubt a fraction of what my mother paid—and I shove it in the front pocket of my overalls.
“Your reading,” Sylvia calls as I’m spreading the beads of the doorway to leave.
Over my shoulder: “Keep it.”
“The seekers of control are the most ignorant of all,” she says anyway. “The solution is in plain sight, but only if you’re looking.”
“Noted,” I grumble before exiting the building.
“Tell your mom I say—”
The slamming door is a blessed thing for cutting her off.
My stop at the local jeweler barely recovers more than the crystal ball and brings the realization we’ll never be able to make this work.
Of all the inventory, our most valuable pieces need very specific buyers; that takes time.
We need money for the roof in two weeks.
We’ll never be able to generate the cash we need.
I need to think outside the box. Maybe get a part-time job.
Tourist season is coming. Summer brings loads of people to the vineyards and, in turn, our store. The sign we have is old, but maybe a new one could encourage new customers. We’ve been talking about it for years; maybe now is the time for updates.
Then I remember: we don’t have money for a new sign. We don’t have money for anything.
I barely convinced the roofing company to give me a two-week extension for the money we owe them.
I looked into loans, but Jonathan was right—of course he was—nobody wants to give us a dime.
He was also right when he said we might have to sell.
If I remove how much I love the store from the equation—which is the least important aspect of business from every logical stance—every calculation says that’s the best idea.
And yet.
No matter how many times I list out the pros and cons of keeping the store and recognize that the cons far outweigh the pros, I simply cannot.
There has to be another way.