Page 135 of Always Meant for You
When did Sally Young learn to edit photos?
“Your booth?” Cal says. “I didn’t think you had a booth. I thought you were selling your pies at the Martinez stand?”
I nod.
What are the sisters up to?
Sally’s pursed lips morph into a wide grin. “Yes, they’ve got the pies covered. But we have another booth. A horoscope and future predicting booth.”
For what feels like the millionth time, I share another stunned look with Cal.
“Betty came up with it!” Margaret adds. “We’re going to predict people’s futures based on their horoscopes and charge them five bucks to do it.”
“Mm-hmm,” Betty hums.
I stare at the square on the sheet containing a few Zodiac symbols, then read the copy beneath the image. “Meet the old Young sisters and learn your destiny.”
“You know about people calling you the . . . ?” Cal trails off.
Margaret lifts her chin and gives him a cheeky grin. “The old Young sisters thing?”
Cal shifts his weight. “Yeah.”
The sisters chuckle.
“Oh, honey, we know,” Margaret says, resting both hands on the table like she’s about to deal cards. “We run the only diner in town. Been doing it longer than some people here have been alive. We know everything.”
Cal doesn’t laugh. He tilts his head instead, curiosity flickering beneath his usual reserve. “You knoweverything?”
Betty leans forward, her silver curls brushing her shoulder as she waves him in with two fingers. “Everything,” she whispers. The word hangs there, syrupy-slow and sticky with certainty.
My pulse skips. Do they know about Cal and me?
I glance at the man, then look away.
Betty watches me. That twinkle in her eye borders on psychic.
My chest tightens.
No. They can’t know. They’re three women with decades of gossip under their belts, an obsessive interest in moon phases, and—apparently—newfound graphic design skills.
I look down at the assports. Strip away the unfortunate headline, and the updated layout is impressive.
“You really did this yourself, Sally?” I ask.
“Sure did,” she replies, smiling wide enough to brighten her whole face.
I study the woman. “When I worked here, you wouldn’t go near the computer. You used to mutter threats at the credit card machine.”
“That machine beeped at me for no reason,” she says, huffing. “Now that I understand how these things work, I’m empowered. You should’ve seen us last week when your?—”
“Sally, honey,” Margaret cuts in, lifting a hand. “Mabel and Cal don’t need a full rundown of the senior tech revolution. We’ve got work to do. These farmers’ market passports aren’t going to fix themselves.”
She plucks a sheet from the box and holds it up. “There’s enough space to write in the missingP. It won’t be perfect, but it’s better than handing out something that says assport.” She pauses, and a wicked grin blooms on her lips. “Assports sounds like a dating app for colonoscopy patients.”
Sally snorts. “Or a coupon book for fiber bars and bad decisions.”
I bite back a grin. I forgot how much I enjoy spending time with these women.
