Page 36 of The Sun and the Moon
There is a sliver of room exposed through the window I am trying to peer through, so I can tell that they have entered the Reading Room and haven’t yet taken their seats. The table where Moira does her reading is in view, even if their heads will be obscured behind the window shade. None of the candles have been lit yet, Moira hasn’t grabbed her deck, and I can see Sydney standing in the doorway as if waiting like a vampire to be invited inside.
It is typical of my mother to insist on giving a person who has never otherwise expressed interest in the mystic arts a free, unrequested tarot reading in a thinly veiled attempt to learn more about the person for her own benefit.
I press my fingertips to the edge of the outer windowsill, feeling the coarseness of the wood grain. It’s a familiar sensation, one I remember well from when I was a little girl who wasn’t allowed in during my mother’s readings. I turned a lawn chair into a stepladder so I was high enough to peer through. I made up stories about what was happening in the readings when I could only see the cards, the hands shuffling, the shifting of torsos in chairs.
“Cadence?” Rick’s voice comes from behind me, startling me into the begonias. Flowers find their way into my mouth as I flop backward in surprise, nearly losing my balance completely.
“Rick!” I exclaim, spinning around on one foot and gripping the side of the house.Fuck fuck fuck.We can’t be chatting here at the window with them right on the other side. I know from years of haunting this spot that sound from the outside carries. I’ve been discovered more than once and reprimanded for it.
He’s wearing a Universal Studios–branded blue button-down with a matching navy-blue windbreaker over it. Beside him on the lawn is a skittish-looking brown-and-tan Chihuahua attached to a thin leather leash.
“You must be Chicken,” I say, climbing from the bush and crouching toward the creature. Maybe if I fawn over the dog, his owner will ignore the weirdness of finding me in the bushes outside my mother’s house.
“You know about Chicken?” Rick asks, his voice immediately bright with a mix of pride and surprise. I extend my hand, palm down, fingers curled, for the dog to sniff.
Which he does, staring straight into my eyes as if reading my mind.
You’re up to something, the look seems to say. But then his tongue whips out from between two gnarly teeth to take a tasteof my hand. Whatever I’m up to, he’s decided not to be bothered by it.
I know about Chicken because Sydney told me about him, but I can’t very well say that when Sydney and I supposedly met last night and the topic of Rick’s dog did not come up during dinner.
“Moira mentioned him,” I lie, feeling more confident in the falsification than in the real story. Moira never mentioned the dog, but Rick is less likely to question that. And if he does, I can always double down should Moira deny it.
“She did?” He beams. The dog doesn’t budge. I stand, coming face-to-face with Rick.
He has a sharp, strong jaw and the brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. His have more silver tint than his daughter’s, which are almost violet. He has tan skin and a sturdy build. A dignified, handsome older guy, almost stodgy until he smiles and mischief takes over his face.
Which is what he’s doing now.
He grabs up Chicken to smack a kiss on the top of his head. “I got this fella when Sydney’s mom passed. Scrawny one-year-old rescue with the saddest eyes you’d ever seen,” he says, pressing his nose to the dog’s head affectionately. Chicken looks anything but sad now. In fact, he’s got a bit of a belly on him, indicating the plush life he has likely led since leaving the shelter. “I thought he would be good company for Sydney.” His lips twitch down, a momentary frown.
There’s a ping-pong of feeling in my chest at the thought of young Sydney needing this dog as a distraction from the loss of her mom.
“And she named him Chicken?” I ask, biting back a smirk at the idea.
“That was a joint effort between us. The pup was scared of everything. Couldn’t even walk him at first because even the slightest surprise sound would set him trembling.” He scratches beneath Chicken’s little chin, where I can see a plethora of gray hairs have sprouted in the dog’s beard. “On one of the walks, after a particularly bad reaction to one of the police helicopters always flying overhead”—he rolls his eyes, and I snort a laugh; citizens of Los Angeles are united in their hatred of the LAPD, but especially of the LAPD surveillance helicopters that are constantly patrolling even the more suburban neighborhoods—“Sydney picked the shaking beast up, clutching him to her heart, and said,You’re just the cutest little Chicken.” His eyes are fully misting up. “And the rest is history.”
“But he lives with you and not Sydney?” I clarify.
“He’s an old man,” he says, setting him back down on the grass to sniff. “And as an old man myself, I understand what he needs. Plus her schedule is more unpredictable, takes her away for stretches.” He shrugs. “Makes the most sense for him to stay with me.”
“Well, and now Moira,” I add.
“I do stay here an awful lot, with my lease up at the end of the month and everything. Easier to make the transition slowly rather than all at once.” He flashes me a smile. “Old-guy stuff.”
“I get it,” I say, and I can’t help but smile. “I’m more set in my ways than most people my age. Living alone for so long kind of does that to a person.”
He nods, his eyes steady on mine. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting stability.”
I don’t need him to approve of my choices, but it feels nice that someone does. I don’t want to linger on the feeling, or in thisconversation too long, so close to the Reading Room window. But it’s not a bad idea to engage Rick in conversation—he might inadvertently drop some important clues about the bank docs or their relationship.
There’s a part of me that wonders if the documents I saw her working on today are related to her sudden interest in love and marriage. Rick is a stable guy. With a good, steady income. And he’s a former successful pilot who likely has a 401(k). Even though he retired from piloting early, it’s more likely that a buttoned-up guy like him would have socked away funds, would have good credit, would be a better candidate for a loan than Moira.
Her one good financial move was paying off the house. But as long as I’ve known her, she’s spent carelessly, traveled extensively, and not treated her credit as something to maintain.
I start walking around to the front of the house. “How are you feeling about this weekend? A big engagement party. I can only imagine what the wedding will be like.”
He follows, Chicken sniffing as he does. “The party was all Moira’s idea. I would have been happy just getting hitched at the justice of the peace and then telling our dearest friends and family.” He chuckles. “But she hadn’t ever planned on an engagement, let alone a wedding, and she wanted to do it all the way up.”
