Page 11 of The Sun and the Moon
“We didn’t play coy—who has time for that?” he says. I assume it’s rhetorical. I shove the charger into the wall outlet. The computer slowly boots up once it’s connected to power.
“It really has been the most seamless, joyful journey. I thought I was out of chances to ever feel this happy again.” I’m tapping out the login password as he says this, which makes my stomach momentarily twist with guilt. “Moira said it was written in the stars that we find each other.”
I bite back a snort.
“That’s fun.” I know I am not nailing the tone of voice I want, but the pseudo-spiritual phrases this woman uses are setting my teeth on edge. LA origins aside, I don’t actually buy into this shit. “So, who asked who?” I cut to the chase because it’s clear Dad isn’t going to. My internet browser opens, and I typeMoira Connellyinto the search bar.
“It was really both of us,” he replies. My finger hovers over the Return key.
“How can it be both of you?” I ask, a little too accusatory.
“Well, Birdie, I got on one knee and she got down there with me. The sun was setting. Chicken was curled up on her porch. We’d had a bottle of wine between us, and she’d been helping me master three-card monte,” he says, referring to the well-known swindler street trick. “The perfect day. The kind of day I want to have for the rest of my life. I just dropped to my knee, and she laughed and joined me. She said no man was going to ask for her hand, but she sure could give it.” He laughs. I snarl and hit the Return key to load up the search.
The results are instant and fairly prolific. I will have to wait to dive in until I have him safely off the phone.
“Well, this is reallysomething,” I say.Weak, Sinclair, weak.
“Oh, Birdie, it is. And we would love to have you for dinner tomorrow—a fancy place she loves in her neighborhood. I’ll send you the details.”
“Fancy?” I ask, still too accusatory. Fancy is what you do for an out-of-town guest, not your daughter. He wants me to be swayed. He knows I’m not yet.
This sends a cold trickle down my spine. I hate disappointing my dad.
My eyes flick over the Google search.
Madame Moira
Psychic
Self-published author
Kismet: metaphysical shop and portal to your destiny
There’s that word again.Destiny.
“I’ll be there,” I say, clicking on the link that leads to Kismet.
?The deep dive does not make me feel better about Moira Fucking Connelly putting a ring on my dad’s finger. As far as I can tell, she is a snake oil salesman disguised as one of the Witches of Eastwick (probably Cher, because of the mane of black hair and searing green eyes).
“But for real, I need you to find out who does her work,” Joe chimes in.Selling Sunsetis still on in the background, but he has cleaned up the take-out debris to make space for me to set my laptop on the coffee table. “It’s better than every single one of them.” He points to the TV. “I am always in the market for a mentor.”
“This is the woman marrying my dad, and she’s wearing velvet,” I say. “On purpose.”
The photo on Amazon that accompanies her author page isthe same one as on the website for her metaphysical shop, right above the neon-purple button toBook a Reading Now.
It goes to a form. And as far as I can tell, it’s only for in-person readings.
I stare at the photo. She’s pretty.
“We don’t know when this photo was even taken,” I say. “Or how photoshopped it is—”
Joe points his finger to the screen below the pic where a photographer’s copyright is displayed in tiny yellow font:2023. “And as an avid Facetuner of all varieties, I can assure you that this pic has been hardly touched. You can see freckles. You can see tiny crows.”
She does have an ageless quality about her face, but not in a way that screams. If she’s had work done, it was really by a wizard, because she looks closer to forty than sixty. She also doesn’t look plastic.
Joe stands up and shuts off the TV, yawning and stretching like a cat.
“Bedtime,” he says. “Busy day tomorrow—lots of foreheads to flatten.” He smacks a kiss on the crown of my head. “Don’t stay up stalking her too late.”
