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Jack jumped back in. “‘He’s old…no young…no maybe middle-aged…’”
“‘Wait a minute,’” Kristy cried. “‘He might be a she!’”
“You definitely get the drift,” said Jack. “But Hunter was pretty impressed. The gypsy ‘saw’ that he’d cheated on a test and stolen his father’s Jamaican rum, and he was convinced she could tell the future.”
Kristy leaned back on her elbow and took another sip of her wine, trying to picture Jack and Hunter as spoiled teenagers.
“Which would have been fine,” said Jack, gesturing with his glass. “Except she laid out the tarot cards and told Hunter he was about to meet his destiny. Tragically for Hunter, his destiny wasn’t to become a rock star, it was to marry a young redheaded girl who would give him twin daughters.”
Kristy started to laugh, not sure whether to believe Jack or not.
“You laugh now,” he said. “But Hunter was convinced it was in the cards. So he decided he needed to steal her cards to change his destiny. We waited until she left the tent, then snuck back in. He paused for effect. “And that’s when the elephants showed up.”
“In her tent?”
He shot her a look of censure. “Ofcourse not.”
Kristy made a small circle in the air with her wineglass. “Well, of course there were no elephants in the tent. Because there isn’t anything weird at all about this story.”
“The elephants were outside on the grounds. But they were heading somewhere, and they shook the ground when they passed. And then one of them trumpeted, and Hunter nearly wet his pants.”
“I’m sure he appreciates you telling this story.”
Jack snickered. “He knocked over an oil lamp, caught the table cloth on fire and burnt up the tarot cards, the table and the tent.”
“I wonder whatthat did to his destiny.”
“Nothing. Six years later, he met a redheaded girl.”
“No way.”
Jack nodded.
“Did she have twins?”
“Nope. They broke up.”
“That’s not a very good ending.”
“My uncle paid the gypsy thirty-five thousand dollars for the tent.”
“Nowthat’s a good ending.”
Jack stretched out his legs and propped himself on his elbow. “She thought so, too.”
Kristy followed his lead, straightening her blouse and jeans, then removing the plastic cover to snag a triangle of gouda. “What about you? Did the gypsy tell you your fortune?”
“That she did.”
“What was it?”
He shook his head. “Uh-uh. Your turn to share.”
“My life’s boring compared to yours. Did your fortune come true?”
“Not so far.”
“Well, whatwas it?”
He helped himself to a slice of havarti and a small, round cracker. “What do I get in return?”
“Twins?”
“Ha!” He nearly choked on the cracker.
“What do you want?”
He stared at her intently for a moment, while the waterfall roared, the breeze waved the mesquite trees, and the birds continued to twitter amidst the big, empty desert.
Kristy grew hot, then cold, and then very confused by her intense desire to kiss him.
“I’ll trade you for a secret,” he finally said.
She swallowed. “I don’t have any secrets.”
“Everybody has secrets.”
“Not me.”
Except maybe the fact that she wanted to kiss him. She hadn’t murdered anyone or knocked over a bank. She occasionally didn’t answer the phone when she knew it was her mother—especially if it was a Friday night, and she had a sappy movie on DVD and a pint of triple fudge chunk in the freezer.
But he wasn’t getting that one. No way.
Jack watched her expression for a long moment. “Your first lover,” he said.
Her throat went tight, and her voice came out as a squeak. “What?”
“Tell me about your first lover.”
She drained her wineglass, stalling for time. “I don’t think so.”
“How old were you?”
“How old wereyou? ”
“Seventeen.”
“Really?” Despite herself, her curiosity was piqued, as was her imagination. She closed her eyes and gave her head a shake.
“How old were you?” he asked again, his voice husky against the birds and the breeze.
Kristy sighed. Fine. “Twenty.”
He reached behind him for the wine bottle and topped up both of their glasses. “Ah. Late bloomer.”
“No. An absolutely perfect bloomer.”
Jack grinned at her expression. “Who was he?”
