Page 33 of Nothing Less than Magic
“Is it always like this?”
“It’s usually pretty good, but this is holiday season, girl. Never a dull moment. Thank you, my dear. But you should get to going while the going is good. Otherwise we’ll get another rush, and I’ll have to pay you.” Sadie laughs, but it sounds more like a cackle.
“You sure?”
“Honey, this ain’t my first rodeo. Go ahead and enjoy yourself.”
“All right. But here’s my number if things get crazy again.” I reach out for her cell and punch in my digits. “Don’t hesitate to call; I could really use the cash.” I wink to show her I’m joking.
I pick up where I left off, visiting a rancher selling grass-fed beef, a local pot dispensary—which is even busier than Sadie’s shop—and a woman named Misty, who claims to be a fortune teller. She’s certainly dressed for the part in her Stevie Nicks getup, a tiered velvet dress and lace-up ankle boots. She is the only person here not doing a brisk business. I take pity on her and plop down in her chair just for shits and giggles. Her table is covered in a pink velvet runner, and there is a stack of business cards in the corner and a deck of tarot cards fanned out in the center. They look well-worn.
“How does this work?” I ask.
“You tell me,” she says, then looks me over like I’m the prized calf at the county fair. “You want your palm read, or your cards done? Or you can tell me a little about yourself. Maybe I can help. Because, hon, you seem a little lost.”
“Lost? I’m not lost.”
“Okay.” She shrugs, placating me. “Let’s do your cards, then.”
“I’m a marriage counselor. Well, I’m more like a motivational speaker, kind of like a life coach, but I focus on relationships,” I blurt, because now I’m questioning the wisdom of doing this. For some reason, I feel like I’m playing with fire.
“It sounds like you and I are in the same business, then,” she says, brushing a stray gray curl away from her face.
I hold her gaze to see if I’ve just been insulted, if she’s trying to tell me that we’re both charlatans. But I don’t see either laughter or malice in her eyes.
“Well, not exactly. I have a graduate degree in psychology. I’ve written books and you know . . . I’m pretty well-known in my circle.”
“Me, too.”
“You have a graduate degree?” Now I’m just being mean.
“I do. I’m a nurse practitioner. Or I was a nurse practitioner. Now I do this.” She waves her hands over herself, then juts her rather pointy chin at me. “Shall we get started?”
“By all means,” I say with false bravado.
She places a wooden sign on the table that says WITH ACLIENT, gets up, and walks to the back of her stall, motioning for me to follow her inside of a makeshift tent. I take one of the purple velvet chairs while she closes the patchwork flaps to give us privacy. The setup is pretty elaborate for a farmers’ market—if not a little odd—but interesting. I’ll give it that. She takes the seat across from me at a folding table that’s been draped with more velvet and clutches both my hands.
Her eyes are closed, and it takes all I have not to burst out laughing at how ridiculous she looks. Oh, if Lolly could see me now.
“I see the ocean,” she says, her eyes still tightly shut, like she’s concentrating or traveling to another dimension. “It’s green, no, blue. Very blue.” She opens her eyes and holds my gaze. “Do you live by the water?”
“I live next to a lake.”
“No, it’s not a lake. It’s most definitely the sea.”
“I can see the San Francisco Bay from my condo in the city.”
“Not the bay, the sea.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.” There is only so much I can humor her.
“I’m also seeing shells. Seashells.” Her eyes are closed again, and she’s deep in concentration. “Have you taken a trip to the ocean recently? Somewhere on a beach?”
“Nope.”
“Wait.” She pauses. “Shells. Then sea. Shellsea. Ring a bell?”
She knows damn well it’s my name. She has to. “My name is Chelsea.”
