Page 38 of Nothing Less than Magic
“I wish you would come back and talk to her,” I tell Lolly.
“The fortune teller? What in heaven’s name for?”
“To vet her.”
“Chelsea, you’re the brain trust in the family, not me. If anyone knows whether this Misty woman is full of shit, it would be you. Did you Google her, look up her reviews?”
“Do you think there are reviews for fortune tellers?” The idea of it sounds absurd.
“Why not? There are reviews for everything else. Have you ever looked at your own?”
“No, I never even thought of it.”
“Well, I have.”
“Really? For me? Were they good?”
There’s a long silence.
“Lolly?”
“They were a mixed bag. But who cares? Even Adele gets bad reviews.”
“You’re contradicting yourself. What’s the point of reading someone’s reviews if you don’t believe them?”
She laughs. “You’re too literal, Chels. Lighten up. All I’m saying is you can get a feel for this Misty woman’s credibility by reading her reviews. For example, if the vast majority say she was busted for check kiting a month ago, she’s probably not too reliable.”
Her logic may be twisted, but oddly enough, I see the wisdom in it.
“My personal trainer is here, so I’ve got to go. Chels, try to relax, okay?”
“I’m doing my best.”
“Do better.” And with that, she hangs up.
I go in search of my laptop, curl up again on the couch, and search for Misty the fortune teller. Believe it or not, she’s got reviews. Lots of them. And they’re pretty good, a 4.5 out of 5. I scroll through the reviews, reading.
“It was as if she could see straight inside of me.”—Nick C. of Nevada City.
“Misty said good news was on its way. And boom, two days later, I found out I was preggers.”—Josephine R. of Ghost.
“I’ve seen Misty on three different occasions, each time I was in a slump in my life. She helped me narrow down the source of my unhappiness and see into a bright future. I highly recommend her to anyone who is feeling a little lost.” —Carol M. of Auburn.
“Misty told me my husband was seeing another woman. Who does that? Seriously, who the hell does that? If I could give her zero stars, I would.”—Sandy T. of San Francisco.
I click out of Yelp, having seen enough. Before I close out altogether, I consider looking at my own reviews, then quickly shut my laptop down.
It’s only seven o’clock, though it feels later. It’s pitch dark outside, not even a sliver of light from the moon, which is hidden behind the mountains. Most nights, I can see even a partial moon glowing off the lake like a beacon. But tonight, the darkness is eerie, even foreboding.
I tell myself I’m being ridiculous and pick up the phone again. Uncle Sylvester picks up on the first ring, which catches me off guard. Usually, I get his answering machine.
“Chelsea, how are you? I’ve been meaning to call, honey, but my phone never stops ringing. Did Lolly tell you I’m casting the new James Bond movie?”
I don’t think she did, but I say yes anyway. “Who’s going to be the Bond girl?”
He chuckles. “That’s classified. But that’s not why you called. What do I owe the pleasure?”
If I didn’t know better, I would think he was taking a jab at me for being MIA this last year. But between Austin leaving me and my tense relationship with Lolly, it’s been hard. Sadly, Uncle Sylvester and I don’t have a whole lot to talk about. His world is making movies, and mine is saving marriages. The two rarely collide.
