Page 47 of The Trouble With Spells
“Well, you know good and well it doesn’t represent anything good,” she retorted right back, causing me to shake my head at her.
“And you know good and well it’s aimed at you and not an outside force.”
Tarot wasn’t just about what cards were turned over. There were a lot of other factors that came into play when reading someone’s cards, such as the placement of the cards and even which way they were turned up. The woman had been getting her cards read longer than I had been alive, and probably knew each card’s meaning better than I did.
“Someone woke up and chose difficulty this morning,” I snarked, scanning over the rest of the cards. “Moving on.”
“Just tell me if I’m going to win the pie baking contest at the Halloween Fair this year,” she said, a tad impatiently. Her eyes kept straying to Michael with obvious interest.
He was seated next to me, in the little corner section of the store that I had for private readings and had been busily tapping on his phone. However, Mrs. Hawthorne’s crackly voice had brought his nose up from his screen, and he was now staring at the cards laid out on the table with obvious interest.
Pursing my lips at her, I pushed my glasses up my nose. “You know that’s not how this works.”
She gave a harumph, her stooped shoulders shaking with the effort. “Your grandmother gave better readings.”
Michael sat up straight, his mouth opening, and I just knew he was gearing up to defend me. The thought had a thrill racing through me at his eagerness to come to my rescue, but I held up my hand to stop him. This was a little dance Mrs. Hawthorne and I did weekly.
“Then why are you coming here every week, wasting your money on me?” I sat back and held her gaze, my arms crossed over my chest. “I’m sure I can talk Gran into doing readings just for you.”
Gran had stopped doing readings years ago, when it became apparent that I was much better at deciphering the cards. While she could do basic readings and tell people what the cards meant, I could sense the cards. It was hard to explain, but it was like I could feel the cards and what they meant for the individual I was reading for. Small vibrations rolled off the cards and flowed their energy into my fingertips. Sometimes I even got brief flashes of the person’s life.
When my first handful of customers–under Gran’s watchful eyes–had all returned to rave about how my card readings had all been spot on for something happening in their lives, Gran had taken notice. Mrs. Hawthorne was one of Gran’s oldest friends, so she knew better than anyone about my card reading skills. The woman just liked to give me grief every time she came in.
“Bah,” Mrs. Hawthorne waved her age spotted, wrinkled hand, “you’re way better looking than Abigail. And I like you don’t take any of my bullshit. You dish it right back out to me. Keeps me young,” she tapped a card on the table, “wheel of fortune. It’s about my pie, isn’t it.”
I knew why she came most weeks. She was a lonely old lady, who had no family left, and the weekly outing tohave her cards read was her social time. Afterwards, she usually took tea with my gran in the kitchen, and the two old friends would chat for hours. Honestly, I enjoyed our interactions more than I let on.
Relaxing, I unfolded my arms. Closing my eyes, I held my hands over the card, feeling the strings of energy in the air wrap around me. A flash of a blue ribbon, and the scent of pumpkins and tantalizing Fall spices filled my nostrils. Blinking my eyes open, I smiled at her. “I see good fortune in your future.”
She cackled, clapping her hands and telling Michael with a wink, “That’s witch speak for me taking home another blue ribbon.”
“I didn’t say that,” I warned her, with no heat in my voice.
I finished her reading and pocketed the hefty tip she always added onto my usual fee. I had given up a while ago insisting that she didn’t need to tip me. Though it was always appreciated from the tourists, it just felt wrong taking it from someone that was a close friend of Gran’s. The woman had shushed me with a frown, insisting I take the extra money, adding, “I don’t have anyone to leave it to, so I might as well spend it all before I go. If I want to tip a handsome man a twenty, I damn well will.”
Yeah, there was no arguing with her and I never won when I did it.
“Now, how long have you two been shacking up?” she inquired, not even a bit ashamed at the personal nature of her question. “Abigail didn’t mention you were seeing anyone last time we spoke, Callum. And you snagged yourself an Endicott. Well done, you.”
Michael couldn’t keep the shock off his face, sputtering, “How do you know who I am?”
“We aren’t shacking up.” I scowled, entering her next appointment in our online calendar and writing her out a reminder card. She always insisted on the little card even though I knew her memory was still sharp as a tack.
“Because I’ve lived here my entire life, boy. I’m well aware of the Endicotts,” she informed him haughtily. “not to be confused with John Endecott, one of the founding families. However, your mother’s people date back as far as the Hawthornes in Salem.” Giving me a sly look, she added, “As well as the Spencers, too.”
Michael nodded, “My mom was a Williams before marrying my dad.”
“She was,” Mrs. Hawthorne nodded, “And Callum’s grandmother, Abigail, was an Osborne, before she married a Spencer. Loads of history standing in this room.”
“Well, we aren’t shacking up, so no need to tattle to Gran when she gets home,” I brought the conversation back around to her earlier question. “I’m just helping Michael out with a problem he’s having.”
Her shrewd eyes traveled between the two of us, and I fought the urge to not squirm under her watchful look.
“Is it a vampire problem?” She pointed a finger at my neck, “Because someone has been sucking on your neck, Callum Turner.”
She cackled at her own joke, and my hand flew up to my neck where my collar had shifted just enough that the hickey Michael had placed there earlier was just barely visible.
“Ah, to be young and in love again,” she smiled wistfully, making her way slowly to the door with the help of her cane. Waggling her fingers in the air, she called, “Toodles boys. See you next week, Callum.”
