“I hope so,” said Markus with a grin.
If Gabby could send men to a cult, it would involve patriarchy deprogramming, followed by instruction on how to wash dishes and find things for themselves.When you walk into a room, look behind and under things. You are more likely to be able to find your things if you put them away. If you see a mess, do you 1) tell your wife, or 2) clean it up yourself?
That might be the final test. That and refilling the ice cube tray.
On the upside, at least she wouldn’t be lounging around with Markus all day, stewing in their mutual sexual frustration. Not to mention, they would cover more ground if they split up.
“We have wedding planning together, at least.” Her schedule listed a meeting with Naomi, the wedding planner, at 2:00 p.m.
With a smug grin, he said, “Nope, I’ll be fishing.”
“For real?” This cult wasn’t the least bit revolutionary.
For a second, her ire rose because there was no way she was planning this wedding on her own, but she stopped short. There was no point going bridezilla when the wedding was fake.
“Do your best to keep your emotions out of it,” Markus said, “Pick a dress and a cake, stay focused on the primary objectives.”
The primary objective was going in and out of focus.
With a sigh that might or might not have indicated understanding, Markus locked eyes with her. For a second, it seemed like he was going to say something, to acknowledge the discomfort of pretending to get married when they were struggling with their own issues. Just as he was about to say something, a device dinged.
“What’s that?” Gabby glared at the offending alarm. If only they could be as device-free as the rest of the guests. To spend a day without a phone constantly begging for attention would be bliss.
“I planted a listening device on Sheridan’s patio.”
“Is that legal?” They weren’t supposed to be listening to American citizens.
“It’s a FISA order, on the authority of the White House.”
Of course it was. It was about the president, technically, but even to Gabby, it seemed like a reach.
Markus set the phone on the table between them and cranked up the volume. The sound quality was good. The unmistakable whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of a ceiling fan on Sheridan’s lanai provided the background.
“Do you want some tea?” a female voice asked. That was Sheridan.
“I need something stronger than that,” a woman with an Australian accent responded.
“That’s gotta be Jasmine,” Markus said.
Why did an Australian accent always make a person sound fun?Well, the accent and the gajillion photos of Jasmine frolicking on the beach. It was so ironic that one of the most famously beautiful women in the world was selling a product line called Inner Beauty.
“Do you want a reading?” Sheridan asked, her rural accent contrasting with Jasmine’s down under. “I mean, I came all the way here.”
“I’d prefer a divorce lawyer,” Jasmine said, “but why not?”
“Well, in that case, I predict a divorce.” It was nice the way Sheridan just let things be what they were—sad, happy, tragic—no judgment or attempted fixes or coddling. She was a “just the facts, ma’am” psychic.
Markus guffawed, and Gabby took a sip of coffee and leaned back. This was better than TV.
“Well, I’m going to shut my eyes and tell you if I see anything else.” There was a moment of silence, probably while Sheridan shut her eyes and invited a vision. “Well,” Sheridan said, “I have a very clear vision of your future with Genesis. I’m not sure what it means.”
“What’s that?” Jasmine asked, her voice edged with curiosity.
“I feel hot, and I see flames.”
“Well, they’re not flames of passion,” Jasmine said, her voice 100-proof sarcasm. “You sure you’re not having a hot flash?”
“Maybe you’re not feeling passion, but he did just fly me halfway across the world to impress you.” There she was with those facts again. If she quit being a psychic, she could be a lawyer.
