Nora’s gaze meets mine, and her lips tip up into a sly smile as she lifts her hand and gives me one of those Queen of England waves. I lift an eyebrow and return the wave, like for like, and her smile broadens. Her severe eyebrows are softenedby it, and her dark eyes look warm, like the center of a chocolate lava cake.
She’s radiant, and…
Yeah, I’ve got to look away. Immediately. Today is doing weird, unwelcome things to me.
I snap my gaze from hers to continue my search for the little old lady, and spot her sitting at one of the round tables. She’s seated next to another not-so-little-and-old lady, this one with mahogany skin and rainbow-framed glasses. A white teapot sits in front of them, along with one single teacup, face down on a saucer.
They’re chatting up a storm, but as soon as I approach the table, the conversation stutters to a stop.
Nothing I’m not accustomed to.
“I was told to report for tea leaf reading?” I say to jog Dottie’s memory. For all I know, she may be deep enough in her silver years to need such promptings.
“And you did,” she says, beaming. “You’re a man of your word, just like your father.” She nods to the woman seated beside her. “This is my good friend, Ann. She’s going to help us.”
Two people are needed for a tea leaf reading? That seems implausible, but it would no doubt be impolite to say so, so I settle for introducing myself.
“Is this the one in the secret relationship?” Ann practically shouts, right at the point when Barry Manilow’s crooning cuts off.
Several people swivel to ogle at us, including my father, who’s seated two tables away next to the new Mrs. Applebaum-Peebles.
I should probably say something—nowould be an excellent choice. But my cheeks are flaming, which probablysuggestsyes. I lower into the chair next to Dottie with so much force I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.
“Well?” Ann asks as if I’m the one who’s hard of hearing. “Are you?—”
“No,” I finally manage to say.
I may not like lying, but my answer is factually true. I am not in a secret relationship, or a relationship of any variety. The only woman in my life right now is Cookie.
I glance back, hoping my father heard my denial, but he’s no longer paying us any attention. His eyes are fixed on his wife.
Some of the stress eases from my shoulders. He mustn’t have noticed after all.
“That’s a pity,” Ann says as Dottie pours tea into my cup, acting completely innocent, even though she clearly spilled the “secret” about my supposed relationship. “I’m in a secret relationship too.”
Dottie pinches her lips together. “Dear, you arenotin a secret relationship with George Cronin. The man you’ve been conversing with is one of those fishermen.”
I know who George Cronin is. He was one of the biggest action movie stars in the 1970s and 1980s. He’s slipped from the spotlight almost entirely, but my grandfather used to watch his movies from his burgundy-upholstered armchair and make comments like, “You got this, George,” and “Watch out, he’s going to hit you with that hair dryer.” They weren’t very good movies, but a lot of people liked them, and if he managed his finances with any degree of competency, no doubt he is very wealthy and probably not looking for love on the same apps as Ann. Still, I don’t see what fishermen have to do with the situation.
“Fishermen?” I repeat, my brow furrowed. “Are you talking about ‘catfishing’?”
“You have your story, and I have mine,” Annsays. “George hasn’t once asked me for a dime, and even if he is catfishing me, I’m not going to complain about having photos of silver foxes blowing up my phone all day long. Now, drink your tea down, son. Nearly every drop.”
I do as I’m told, if for no other reason than that I can’t be expected to speak while drinking. After I take a few sips, both women staring at me with anticipation, I can’t take it anymore, and I gulp the rest.
“Oh, he can’twaitto see what’s in those leaves,” Ann says with a grin.
Indeed.
Dottie claims my cup and turns it over on the saucer, rotating it a few times before turning it right side up.
She looks up at Ann. “It’s exactly as I suspected.”
They peer into the cup together, so intently that I feel an uptick in my own interest. What are they seeing in there?
Against my better judgment, I lean in between them and peer into the cup. But all I see is a clump of wet leaves, about as appetizing as dinner was.
“We’re meant to help you with your secret relationship,” Dottie tells me, pushing the teacup away.
