Prologue
“Oh honey, su-gah, I see sweet things ahead for you.”
“Really?” Mandy Keeling found there was something really fascinating about listening to the predictions of a very confident psychic.
Especially since Beckwith Tripp had so far predicted a long life, an increase in personal assets, and sweet things for her. Of course, that could mean anything from receiving a cute greeting card to inheriting a candy shop from a previously unknown ancient aunt.
“But what do you mean?” Mandy knew it was blather, hogwash, coddle, but that didn’t stop her from leaning across the coffee table as Beckwith stroked her palm between his huge hands. There were worse ways to spend an utterly miserable February day in Greenwich Village with her three roommates.
In fact, it was highly entertaining.
“That’s not very specific,” Allison Parker said, skepticism dripping in her voice. “I could tell your fortune, Mandy, if all you’re looking for is vague assurances. Or better yet, I’ll run down to Hunan’s and buy you a bunch of fortune cookies.”
Beckwith, wearing a vintage Hermès scarf, shrugged a broad shoulder. “I’m like Ripley, honey. Believe it or not. Doesn’t matter to me.”
What was unbelievable was that he wore that scarf better than Mandy ever could. She always had something of an absentminded, windblown look and was a far cry from elegant, as her mother had told her often enough. Yet Beckwith was incredibly put together, the scarf artfully knotted, his trousers pressed, loafers shined. “Can you give me more details, Beckwith?”
“I can be as specific as you want. You’re British, born and raised.”
Allison snorted. “Gee, what gave it away? Not the accent or anything.”
Jamie Peters, who believed in anything involving crystals, karma, or the supernatural, and who had brought Beckwith to their apartment, shushed Allison.
Mandy shifted on the floor, the seam of her jeans digging into her calf, and decided it didn’t really matter if Beckwith was a few billiard balls shy of a game. There was something exciting and amusing and hopeful in hearing about her future, however vague. At twenty-six, she had been confronted lately with the rather alarming feeling that she had frittered away her twenties, living off her parents’ money and coasting breezily through each day.
It was time for a change, she knew that, but up to this point she had been avoiding giving it any serious thought. Beckwith’s appearance was fortuitous, in that maybe his predictions could give her a push in the right direction.
Caroline Davidson’s eyebrows had shot up almost to her blond hair, pulled back in its usual tidy knot. “How long is the session?” she asked.
If Mandy had to guess, Caroline was worried that she might get stuck with a hefty psychic fee. It wasn’t unheard of for her to forget to ask the price of things and then find herself unable to afford it.
“As long as it takes. And this is no charge, of course. Jamie is a friend, and this is a favor to her.”
Jamie fingered her necklace, a silver J, and jutted her bottom lip out. “Come on, y’all, just give it a chance. Heknowsthings, I’m telling you.” She squeezed Beckwith’s arm in reverence. “He’s a professional.”
“I’m also a high end leasing agent so let me know if any of you need a new apartment anytime soon.”
Now that was an important connection to have. Apartment hunting in New York was brutal.
Allison’s eyebrows shot up and she pressed her lips closed.
Beckwith didn’t look the least bit offended by Allison’s cynicism and Caroline’s reluctance. He gave Mandy a smile, his hand still making those same smooth, warm glides across her skin.
“Born and raised on the country estate, quite a bit of money, Daddy works in the big city, gone all the time, Mom has horses...and I see women, lots of women, talking, laughing, standing, passing teacups—and you, legs together, back straight, hands in lap.”
Mandy’s throat went dry, and goose bumps rose over her flesh where he was touching her. Beckwith stared at her, a faint smile playing about his mouth.
What he had said...it was her childhood, summed up in one sentence. Her father always in London, carrying on the Keeling tradition as head of the financial division of a world banking conglomerate. Mother alternating between raising her horses and hosting various charitable and social events. There were always women in their house, The Acres, soft, muted, proper,and Mandy expected to behave properly, sit quietly, or entertain Mother’s guests with her rather dubious piano talents.
“Yes, sweet things ahead for you. Your life will change, but in a good way. Selfless. Enriched. With a man who makes you just melt.”
Ben. Mandy wondered if Beckwith meant Ben, the man she’d been seeing for six months. She didn’t think of him as her boyfriend, because it seemed ridiculous to label a man in his forties that way, but that’s what he was. And she thought maybe he was going to ask her to move in with him.
That would make her happy, wouldn’t it? Ben was kind, stable, albeit a little distracted sometimes. He was a fellow Englishman in New York. He was punctual. Respectful. Intelligent. She cared about him, of course, but she wasn’t sure if she was ready to live with him, or if he could ever make her melt. Soften a little, maybe, but melting seemed a bit beyond Ben’s reach.
“Pastries.”
Mandy blinked. “What?” What did Ben have to do with pastries? When she thought of him, cream puffs and tarts did not come to mind. Ben was a biscuit.
