Page 13 of The Sun and the Moon
She’s the same Lola she always was.
I am the anomaly.
Lola squeezes once more before releasing me from the hug and walking over to the desk that also serves as a checkout counter for Kismet. She pulls the drawer open, removing that familiar navy-blue-and-white invitation. “I’m assuming you received yours.” She waves it around as she talks. “And that’s what has returned you into Los Angeles.”
“Ding ding,” I say as my nose catches a stronger smell of cinnamon and sugar.
“I’m baking snickerdoodles,” Lola says as if she can read my mind. “I didn’t know she sent you one—but I do know that she still talks about you all the time. Like you’re on vacation somewhere, and at some point you’re gonna come back. Return to your real life.”
My cheeks heat, and I shift on my feet, fighting the rising urge to bolt back through the front door.
“I humor her, of course,” she continues. “Because what else could I do? She’s Madame Moira, all-seeing, all-knowing, and, for me, financially providing while I chase my bliss.” She talks fast, her voice this husky, throaty tone that always sounds slightly congested or like she just woke up.
“Are the snickerdoodles part of that bliss?” I question. We never talk about Louisa, but I wonder if the snickerdoodles are somehow also her fault.
“Maybe.” She smiles. “This week anyway.” She leans back against the edge of the desk. “What I mean is, it’s good to see you, Cade. Even if you’re not really back.”
“I’m not back,” I confirm. My voice is clipped.
“Does she know you’re here?” Her eyes shift to the Reading Room door.
“Not even a little,” I reply.
And, as if summoned by the ghosts of Kismet in some sick loyalty to their master, the door to the Reading Room flies open. Moira emerges with a client, her hand placed soothingly over her shoulder. Her lips move, the tone too low to make out, and the woman nods, pats at her cheeks with a tissue. Without knowing anything about this woman—what brought her here or who she is—I feel certain Moira is helping her cope with grief.
They come here looking for answers. Who am I to deny them?
Kismet, Lola, Los Angeles, and me most of all—we’ve all physically changed with the time elapsed. We’re showing the signs of our age, the growing pains, the weather, the experiences and heartaches. But Moira remains the same. Her black hair hangs long and shiny to her waist. Her figure is slim, draped in a flowy green dress, a floral shawl slung over her shoulders. Her high cheekbones and strong jaw have served her well as she’s aged, acting as a framework for her freckled-but-still-glowing fair skin.
I turn away from Lola, wanting to face Moira head-on. Wanting to be ready, to feel sharp focus, have my feet firmly grounded so I can’t fall off-balance. I see it the moment she realizes someone else is in the room besides who she’s expecting to be there. Her nose twitches. Her green eyes—heavily lashed—blink rapidly as they lift, searching.
They land on me.
One corner of her lip edges up.
She releases the client, and her eyes shift to Lola as if to say,Get ready.
They return to me and hold. “The long-lost daughter returns.”
The client, who is gray-headed and small-boned, snaps her attention to me as well.
“She looks just like you.” Her voice has that elderly vibrato, and she clasps her hands together with awe.
“Spitting image,” Moira says, a bit singsongy.
People always say that, but all I see are the differences. My smaller, slightly rounder nose, my more delicate chin, my curly hair.
My soul, her lack of one.
“Hey.” The word feels weighty but also shallow. Entirely too small. Still way too heavy to hold. Her thick black brows—immaculately groomed—furrow, putting two small lines between them.Hay is for horses, I hear her say in my head.
“Lola, can you please help Elise with a tea bundle for emotional healing?” Moira asks, but she’s still looking at me. Lola shoots up from where she leans against the desk still, watching us like we’re a trainwreck. Which—fair. We kind of are. Her eyes dart back and forth, a wave of reluctance washing over her. She doesn’t let it take her under. I’m sure she knows she can’t argue with Moira.
That is a universal truth everyone besides me seems to agree on.
Lola guides Elise to the front living room, leaving Moira and me alone.
Together.
