“I don’t see any misfortune in areas of real estate,” Madame LaRouche muses, pulling Maggie’s hand closer to her face. “So I think your bar should be fine.” She flattens Maggie’s fingers and pretends to find something new to examine. “As for the financial decisions you’re making, they seem to be the right ones. I see prosperity in your future.”
“Good.” Maggie nods, her shoulders sagging in relief.
“But now look at this.” Madame LaRouche points to one of the lines on Maggie’s palm. “This is your love line. It’s long and strong, and yet it branches. See that?”
Maggie bends her head to inspect the spot. “What’s it mean?” Her voice is breathless. She’s caught in LaRouche’s thrall.
“Could be two things,” LaRouche says. “Could be you’ll have a great love in your life, but your journey together will not be smooth.”
Despite knowing this is complete and utter bullshit, I feel my heart rabbit out in my chest. My lungs compress until no air gets in. So much for my military training and the ability to regulate my heart rate and my breathing.
“Or?” Maggie prompts.
“Or it could mean your great love will be split in two.”
“Split in two? How?”
LaRouche shrugs. “Impossible to say.”
Of course it is. The vaguer the better. This time I roll my eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t pop out of my head and go bouncing across the ground.
The fortune-teller curls Maggie’s fingers closed and reaches across the table to pat her cheek. “But don’t fear, child. Once you deal with your past, once you let go of all those things that weigh your heart down with guilt and shame, you’ll find happiness. I see that clearly.”
Maggie stills. LaRouche’s ambiguous declarations about the past—which, of course, is part of her whole schtick—have obviously hit a soft spot.
I frown.Allthe things that weigh down Maggie’s heart with guilt and shame? I know she feels guilty about what happened to her parents, but is there something more? Not that night in the swamp, surely. None of that was her fault. It wasmyfault. If I hadn’t run off and left her and Luc to—
“Thank you, Madame LaRouche.” Maggie cuts into my thoughts when she pushes out of the chair. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s a bit wild-eyed.
“This was your idea.” Luc gives me a shove toward the abandoned seat. “So you’re next.”
Pulling an Andrew Jackson from my wallet, I slide the bill across the table. The fortune-teller is quick to shove it into her bra. No backsies.
“And what is it you seek?” she asks me.
“Just tell me what you see.” I’m not about to make her job easy on her. I lay my hands atop the table, palms up.
Madame LaRouche narrows her eyes, and I notice for the first time that beneath all that khol eyeliner, her irises are the most amazing shade of turquoise. When she tilts her head to the side, they catch the sunlight and sparkle eerily.
“As you wish.” She takes my hand and pulls it toward her face. Her fingers are dry and callused. They skim over my palm with a featherlight touch.
“I see you are a man of contradictions,” she says. “You have seen your fair share of hardship and you will see more ahead. You are struggling with something. And I see—”
She cuts herself off and sits back. Sparing Luc and Maggie a quick glance, she leans forward and whispers, “Do you want me to tell you what else I see?”
I don’t believe in this baloney. Not at all. And yet I yank my hand away. “Nope. That’ll do it for me.”
“Oh, come on!” Maggie cries. “That was nothing! You have to let her finish!”
“Luc’s turn.” Vacating the seat, I give Luc a slap on the back.
“No, thanks.” He shakes his head. “No disrespect to you, Madame LaRouche, but I reckon I’ll choose my own fate.”
The fortune-teller dips her head in acknowledgment.
Maggie crosses her arms and feigns a charming pout. It’s a skill passed down from Southern momma to Southern daughter along with the secret of good shapewear. “Y’all are no fun,” she harrumphs.
“Come on, Maggie May.” Luc tosses an arm across her shoulders and steers her into the heart of the French Quarter. “Let’s go help Cash pick out his countertops.”
I glance back and find LaRouche watching me closely. When she blows me a kiss, I turn away, chills streaking up my arms.
