Page 38 of The Sun and the Moon
“That’s right,” she says, walking to the table with the tray. She pulls a leaf from the left side and situates the tray on top all in one fluid motion.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to move from my spot yet, but my gut says she’s coming over here. She’s not done taking this opportunity to talk about Cadence.
My instinct is confirmed when she crosses to where I stand and picks up the framed photo. Her eyes are gentle as they take in the image of her daughter. Sadness etches her features, and I imagine it’s likely she’s thinking of that time. A time before Cadence left home, left her behind, stopped trusting her and her premonitions, stopped letting her dictate her story.
“A wild thing,” she almost hums. “She always had this way of making nature feel comfortable.” She brushes her thumb over Cadence’s face in the picture. “Something in her understood the same something in nature. Kindred, connected.” She looks up, as if driving the point of her words toward me. She seems to be implying that I am a wild thing and Cadence and I should understand each other.
The annoying thing is, she isn’t wrong.
I couldn’t say it out loud, not with how wound-up Cadence is over the circumstances of our meeting, but she has this way of making me feel like my feet are on the ground. Like I could land and stay for a while.
Probably the same way the hummingbird felt in her hand.
I can’t follow this train of thought. Not just because I don’t think there is anything about me interesting or intriguing enough to usurp the permanent distaste Cadence has for her mother’s soulmate premonition, but because this close to Madame Moira I feel exposed. I don’t believe in supernatural forces any more than I believe in Santa Claus or God, but I am starting to believe in the power belief can wield. And Moira is a person who has been imbued with presence thanks to the many people (including herself and her skeptical daughter) who do believe in her ability to see the future.
Or, at the very least, the answer about the future they seek from her.
I don’t want to follow a train of thought about how grounded her daughter makes me feel, because I’m afraid that she’ll somehow know—read my mind, feel my feelings, whatever.
“It’s crazy that it let her catch it,” I say, trying not to sound too invested.
“Her,” Moira says, and I realize she is correcting me. “The hummingbird was a her.”
At that, I decide to move this whole thing along. At least away from the topic of her daughter capturing in hand the fastest-moving bird in nature.
Birdie.
Stop seeing coincidences and reading them as signs.
“Those cookies look delicious,” I say, walking to the table in a few fast strides and grabbing one up. “Snickerdoodles.”
“Lola is in a baking phase,” Moira replies, following me to the table.
I turn the cookie over between my fingers.
“She’s the one who got me on the dating site that led me to meeting Rick.” I nod, acknowledging recognition of the name and why I would know who she is.
“The wild card,” I reply. Her lips quirk. Referencing a direct quote from her daughter was probably not my most genius move. “Or something like that.”
“Exactly that,” she says, but thankfully doesn’t dwell on it. “And she is. Cadence isn’t wrong there. But Lola’s been loyal, sticking around even though she could leave if she wanted. Nothing’s stopping her.”
“She likely appreciates that you let her…” I look to the cookie, searching for the right words. “Follow her interests while on the clock.”
“I don’t own her time, not even when I’m paying her. People do what they want no matter how tightly you hold on.” This is an audacious statement coming from her considering everything Cadence has said. “Last month it was painting. Before that, learning French on Duolingo,merci,” she says in a flawless accent. “Lola is like a daughter to me. I don’t mind her searching, especially here, where I can keep an eye on her.” There’s some undercurrent to her words, as if there’s more she wants to say on the topic but not more she wants to reveal. “She could so easily get off track.”
Whoa, the puppet strings are showing.
I bite down on the cookie, reaching for the chair to tug it out from under the table. Can’t say anything that might put Moira on the defensive.
“Tasty,” I say, sliding into the seat. “Your instinct to let her do her thing is paying off.”
Moira chuckles, tugging her chair out as well. “My taste buds don’t complain. Just my waistline.” She motions to her svelte figure. I can’t figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to believe is suffering there. She drifts into her seat and picks up her teacup. She rests against the pintucked velvet cushion covering her high-backed chair.
I give her a tight smile and keep my backbone stiff as I reach for my own cup. The tea has a rich nutty color, the smell reminding me of fall. Crunchy leaves underfoot, spice in the air from all the baked goods. We sip our tea, and her eyes never leave my face.
“I see a lot of your father in you,” she says thoughtfully.
“I get that a lot, especially from people who didn’t know my mother.”
