Page 80 of Own the Eights Gets Married
Usually.
She set off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of Jordan’s gym. It was the most direct route to get to the park. But it wasn’t the only reason she’d gone that way. An intrusive, foreboding thought she’d managed to ignore for the past two weeks, thanks to filling her days with work, work, and more work, reared its ugly head.
What if Jordan didn’t want to be with her?
What if he regretted proposing?
If she saw him, she’d know. She’d see it in his eyes.
This limbo they’d been living the last two weeks had provided a buffer, but the clock was running out. In a matter of time, she’d either be married or single.
She continued down the sidewalk but slowed her pace when a woman in a flowing white dress and bracelets stacked up her arms, whipped off a pair of Gucci tinted glasses.
“Pumpkin, what a surprise!”
Georgie froze, and even Mr. Tuesday seemed at a loss, cocking his doggy head to the side.
“It’s me, pumpkin,” purred the yoga-fabulous hippie, standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
“Mom?” Georgie asked with the same confused head cock as Mr. Tuesday.
Lorraine Vandedinkle was a Chanel woman. Her daily attire included tailored suits, expensive silks, and bras that cost as much as a down payment on a time-share. And diamonds. The woman usually dripped in the sparkling gems, that is, until now.
“What are you wearing?” Georgie asked, as the being that had taken over her mother’s body leaned in for a set of air-kisses.
“What the psychic energist suggested,” the woman replied.
“Where’s your assistant, Nicolette?” Georgie asked, glancing around for a competent adult to explain the complete one-eighty change in her mother.
“Nicolette and I parted ways. She’s a Sagittarius,” her mother whispered back as if it were a criminal offense to be born between November twenty-second and December twenty-first.
Georgie took in the giant crystal hanging off a chain around her mother’s neck and the pound of turquoise rings, clicking along with the bracelets.
“What the hell is apsychic energist?”
“Language, pumpkin!” her mother said, then stilled and raised her palms. “Did the universe, or did Buddha tell you to use coarse language?”
“Um…Buddha,” she answered, silently apologizing to the deity for throwing him under the bus.
“Then, curse away!” she answered with a grandiose wave of her hands.
Georgie glanced down the street toward her shop. It looked like the same neighborhood, but this version of her mother must have fallen through the space-time continuum.
“Could you definepsychic energist, Mom?” she asked, not knowing where else to start.
“Of course! Cornelia Lieblingsschatz set me up with her.”
Georgie’s brows knit together. “Why would the wedding frau set you up with a psychic energist?”
Her mother went allNamasteand pressed her hands together. “Cornelia, in all her vast wedding wisdom, saw that Bobby, Hector, and I have a gift.”
“For?” Georgie asked, stretching out the word.
Her mother’s features grew somber. “For perceiving and identifying psychic energy given off by wedding favors.”
Georgie watched Mrs. Yoga-Fabulous-Psychic-Energy-Vanderdinkle for a beat, then two.
Maybe her mother had eaten a tray of pot brownies?
