A Season of Miracles. Heather Graham
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up on those beers.”
Tip nodded, flashing an appreciative smile at Jillian.
“He can’t believe his good luck,” Connie said, when the man had gone.
“His good luck?”
“Getting to hang with you.”
“Oh, Connie, please.”
“Not because of who you are—just because he wants to bask in your gorgeous nearness.”
“Connie…”
“And there’s good old Joe, not even noticing us, just watching the game.”
“I’m sure he can’t hear too much, with all the music, so he has to study the TV closely,” Jillian teased. There was a tap on her shoulder. A giant leprechaun was asking her to dance, but she wasn’t ready for that quite yet, so she declined politely and asked him to come back in a while.
“Dancing is fun, and you’re out to have fun,” Connie reminded her.
“I intend to dance. But you’ve asked Carmen Miranda to bring us drinks, remember?”
And then she saw the tarot card reader.
“Hey, look, there’s a fortune-teller.”
“A fortune-teller? What fun!” Connie said.
“She’s great.” Tip had rejoined them, bearing glasses of ale. He passed them over as he went on. “She’s interesting. She has you lay out the cards, then she tells you what they mean and how the future might affect you. I have a confrontation coming in my future.”
“How unusual—for a cop,” Jillian teased.
He shrugged. “A nonbeliever. So many are. But she’s really good. It’s not just hocus-pocus. Maybe she’s a psychologist by day, desperate for more interesting characters by night. She told me to watch my temper. Can you imagine?”
“Yes, Tip,” Connie said thoughtfully, “I’m afraid I can.”
As Tip and Connie started discussing the idiocies he saw on the streets of New York every day, Jillian had the strangest feeling. It was as if she knew him. Of course she knew him she told herself; Connie had just introduced her. But she felt as if she had known him before. A long time ago. Was it true, she wondered, that you recognized people in life who you might like, who would be your friends, given half a chance?
Suddenly she noticed that the conversation had stopped and he was staring at her, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from her. “Look at you, looking so solemn. Lighten up. It’s Halloween. Ghosts and goblins and ghouls. Okay, maybe that’s a bad example. Think Christmas. Santa Claus. Ho, ho, ho. Pine trees, packages, Christmas carolers—”
“Really bad traffic, people shoving each other in stores over the newest toy craze, badly wired lights sizzling families to a crisp.”
They all spun around. Connie’s husband, Joe, had joined them. Despite his words of doom and gloom, he spoke cheerfully.
“Back to Christmas,” Connie said sternly. “Pine trees, packages, the girls giggling, Santa Claus—and miracles.”
“You don’t really believe in miracles, do you?” Tip asked.
“And why not?” Connie demanded. “There are plenty of strange things in this world.”
“And the next, too,” Joe said with a depth of sincerity that caused his wife to stare at him again.
“What is this? We’re not here to ponder the next life,” she protested. “We’re partying. Think good times only.”
“All right,” Joe said. “Let the good times roll. But let’s test out the world of the occult. We won’t say a word to the tarot card reader. I’ll go to her with Jillian on my arm. Connie, you go with Tip. We’ll test her powers.”
“She doesn’t claim to have powers,” Tip reminded him.
“Tip, did I ever tell you how good you look in that color bra?” Joe teased him.
“Ah, honey, you’re going to make me blush. But go ahead—test her out. I’ve already seen her. I’ll escort Connie, then you come along with Jillian. You’ll see.”
Carrying their drinks, they joined the line for the tarot card reader. She was a beautiful woman. Her skin was a tawny copper color, her eyes a hazel that gleamed golden in the candlelight. She was dressed for the part in gypsy attire—a sweeping, multicolored skirt, a gold-colored peasant blouse, and a scarf in various shades of gold and copper tied around her head. She was, according to the glittery name plaque in front of her, Madame Zena.
From her place in line, Jillian sipped her Guinness and watched as the woman laid down the cards. The customer, a pretty young woman in a harem costume, tapped one of the cards in dismay. “Oh no, that means death, right?”
Madame Zena shook her head patiently. “It’s not just the cards themselves that speak to you, it is their arrangement. These cards warn you…” She looked up, staring at the girl sternly. “Were you planning on taking the subway back out to Brooklyn alone?”
“Brooklyn—yes, it’s where I live. I’m a Fine Arts student.”
“From Omaha,” the guy behind her teased.
“Don’t go home on the subway alone,” the reader warned.
The young man put his hands on her shoulders. “She won’t,” he said protectively.
“But you’ll be ridiculously late if you come back to the dorm with me.”
“I’ll sleep on the floor. Janice won’t mind.”
“All right, all right, Madame Zena—can you tell me about my midterms?” the girl asked.
Madame Zena leaned forward, then tapped on a card. “You passed. But barely. If you want to stay in New York and avoid Omaha for the next few years, you’d better get cracking.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The girl slid from her seat, her eyes wide. She was a believer. Jillian had to admit to being pretty impressed herself.
“She goes for the obvious,” Joe whispered.
“How so?” Connie demanded in a soft hiss.
“The kid is obviously a student.”
“Maybe, but there are colleges in Manhattan, too, you know.”
“She made a good guess.”
The young man had sat down in front of Madame Zena. He grinned. “Am I going to get lucky tonight?”
“Lucky?” Madame Zena queried. “Are you going to survive the drunks driving around the city tonight? Yes, you’re very lucky. Will you be smart enough to avoid the big pothole on Willoughby Avenue and avoid a broken ankle. Yes, again, if you pay attention. That will be lucky. Are you having sex? Not a chance. Janice is going to be there, and she’s going to throw you a pillow on the floor.”
Those standing around Madame Zena’s table all laughed. Madame Zena smiled, tolerant of the laughter. Jillian decided that the woman was very good at what she did, that she wasn’t psychic, she just used some good solid sense on her clients.
There were a few more people before them in line. Jillian watched, enjoying what she heard, along with the Guinness. Tip refilled their beers while they waited in line and the band kept playing.
Finally their turn came. Tip led Connie forward. Madame Zena studied her briefly, her amber eyes intent. She looked up to the line and motioned to Joe. “Come sit with your wife,” she said.
“You told her,” Joe accused Tip.
“I did not,” Tip protested.
Madame Zena noticed Jillian. Her lashes flickered,