“Martha!” we both said at the same time.
I held on to the beautiful material. “Eleanor, I have a proposition for you.”
“God, it’s been a long time since I heard those words. Makes me feel like I’m back in the sixties again.”
“Look, I’ll buy the fabric and you make the evening jacket. It could be our Christmas present to Martha. I’ve been wanting to do something for her for a while. She always brings treats into the store and never lets me pay her back.”
“What about you? You feed us coffee every day.”
“Well, yes, but it’s my store, and I benefit. A lively atmosphere attracts customers.”
I let the smooth silk slip beneath my fingers. Every time Martha moved there would be a hint of raspberry beneath the shimmery lemon and green.
It would be the perfect foil for her vibrant hair.
• • •
When we arrived back in Millbury, Eleanor hurried over to A Stitch Back in Time to brew up the tea to color the lace.
It was still only 4 p.m.
I stared at the psychic reader’s shop. It didn’t have the typical neon sign hanging outside. That would never be allowed by Millbury’s zoning codes. Instead there was an elegant purple and gold wooden circle: PSYCHIC ADVISOR, TAROT CARD, PALM READINGS.
There was also another sign, for Halloween, that said, WITCH PARKING ONLY, ALL OTHERS WILL BE TOAD.
At least this medium had a sense of humor.
What the heck. As if my feet moved of their own accord, I crossed the street and peered in the window, where silver stars hung from silver threads. Hippie tapestries were tacked to the walls, and I spotted a wine bottle where numerous candles had dripped down its sides, forming a colorful stalactite. It looked more like a dorm room from my college days than a retail establishment.
I opened the door and entered the dim interior. Candles burned on top of the bookshelves lining both walls and on the round table near the back.
“Hello?”
No one appeared, so I browsed through the books, which were mainly on witchcraft and how to read the tarot. More candles, mortar and pestles, and silver pentagram jewelry were displayed for sale on a table in the center, and cinnamon brooms were propped up against it, the spicy scent competing with incense sticks smoldering in a jar on the counter.
Talk about being back in the sixties again.
It was smaller than my place, but like Marybeth said, I probably didn’t need all the room I had now. With some consolidation and careful space planning, I could make this work.
Suddenly beads on a hanging curtain clacked together and a robust woman materialized, her face a mask of pancake foundation that was practically orange. Her head was wrapped in a tie-dyed bandana, but what little I could see of her hair was platinum blond.
She pointed a long purple fingernail at me. “You are here because you vant my store!”
“What?” I stifled a gasp. Was my avaricious intent so easy to read on my face?
“No? You have come for reading?” Her eyes, heavy with black eyeliner, almost disappeared as she squinted at me.
“Um. Yes, I think so.”
She motioned for me to sit at the table. Once we were both seated, she moved the crystal ball in between us and placed both her hands on top.
Here we go. What a crock.
She was silent for a few moments until slowly her hands moved across it, as if she were feeling each minute imperfection of the glass.