Page 28 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

THIS IS ALL A LOAD OF OLD BOLLOCKS

Simon

I’m uncertain how I feel about Lana arriving and taking over parental duties at the carnival.

On the one hand, the boys will remember this day with her rather than with me.

But on the other, I did buy them a month’s worth of food before Lana arrived. And I pulled myself out of a drunken stupor to do it.

Plus, being without the boys gives me more freedom to do exactly what they expected I’d do, which is to sign autographs for people as Bea and I make our way through the artist tents and toward the games.

The locals will eventually stop asking as I become more familiar, and it is far easier to oblige the requests than to give myself a reputation as a crank.

And who wants to be a crank?

Certainly not me.

“Are you two dating?” a younger woman with round cheeks asks Bea at one point as I’m signing autographs for two older gentlemen.

“We’re trying to see how much trouble we can cause,” she replies before I can say a word. “You know he got me tossed in jail for a hot minute?”

“I heard your apology dinner was completely ruined because Jake rigged the bathroom door to lock you in.”

“I have no idea why the door broke, but clearly, things happen when Simon and I are involved.”

I slide a glance her way as I finish with the two gents.

She’s wearing that devious smile that somehow makes her dimples even more attractive.

And I desperately wish to know what else I said to her last night as she was cooking me willy—corn dogs.

The Beste memory came out of nowhere, and it was accompanied in my head by rainbow disco lights and a dancing cartoon crocodile.

Certainly not a solid memory.

Eventually, we reach the edge of the arts and crafts booths, and we have a rare moment where no one stops to talk to either of us.

And that’s when I spot it.

An enclosed tent.

With a bright sign declaring Madame Petty’s Fortunes .

I nod toward it. “Have you ever—” I begin, but Bea cuts me off abruptly.

“No.”

“No, you have never, or no, you do not wish to?”

“Both.”

“Truly?”

“Ryker and a bunch of his friends went to see her three weeks before the fire, and she told him his life was about to get hot. Daphne went right before she was disinherited, and Madame Petty told her that she needed to hoard cash. My mom went once, and two weeks later my grandma died.”

“Did Madame Petty predict your grandmother dying?”

“I don’t know for sure, but at the visitation, I was hiding with some friends because I didn’t want to look at her body, and Madame Petty came in, and I swear I heard her tell her friend that she called it.

And what’s really eerie is that she was twelve.

Not even kidding. She started doing fortunes like other kids do lemonade stands, and everyone humored it because it was funny. Until it wasn’t.”

“Does Madame Petty only predict bad things?”

“No, Daph went back to her after the great disinheriting, and apparently Madame Petty told her that she’d do great things in her life.

And Griff was at a bachelor party where she was booked, and Madame Petty told him that he’d find the love of his life near death—wait.

Yeah. That one was dark too. We’re still not sure if she meant he’d save her or if he’d lose her, but I definitely have more anxiety every time he travels.

Which is basically every week. Why are you smiling? Why are you smiling bigger ?”

“If Madame Petty can truly tell the future, do you not want to know what your future is to prepare for it?”

“You believe in fortune tellers?”

“Not a bit. But I do believe in fun. And in the unorthodox. And in puzzles.”

People continue to glance in our direction, but no one stops us as I steer Bea toward the fortune teller’s tent.

“You’re doing this one alone,” Bea tells me.

I cluck like a chicken.

“I prefer to live my life without guessing what’s coming next,” she insists. “I wake up enough nights as it is, worried about my brothers being out in the world on their own. I don’t need to fret about myself too.”

“Do you truly?”

That earns me an exasperated glance. “Wait until your boys are driving, then come tell me it doesn’t give you an entirely new level of anxiety.”

“Perhaps Madame Petty will have good news.”

“Doubt it.”

“Is that her real name?”

“No.”

“Did she pick it after the musician, or the racing driver, or because she’s terribly petty?”

“You can ask her that one yourself.”

The tent is exactly what one would expect of a fortune teller.

Round, with ivory walls hung with twinkling lights intermingled with greenery that is distinctly simpler and more natural than the greenery my mother used to hang at the holidays.

The tent isn’t large, but not so small that— “Did you tell me last night that you dislike small spaces?”

She squints at me. “Seriously, Simon—how much do you remember from last night?”

Not answering this question is likely in my best interest. However, I would like to know what I told her.

The way she was watching me as we all ate suggests I said things I shall regret…once I know what they are.

“Not as much as I wish,” I reply.

“That’s a vague answer that could mean anything from nothing to I don’t want to tell you .”

“I’ll tell you the truth if you come with me to have our fortunes read.”

This tent, and a fortune teller who calls herself Madame Petty ? I’m intrigued.

Fascinated.

Excited to see what other inspiration could come from this town by way of a psychic medium.

I don’t at all believe she can tell the future, but I am terribly curious what she will say.

Bea stares at me, then at the tent, lips pursed.

And a guilt knife stabs me in the kidney.

Metaphorically, clearly.

Pinky wouldn’t let anything actually stab me.

“Will you wait for me while I have my fortune read?” I ask her.

Her brows furrow for the slightest moment, and then she heaves a mighty sigh.

“Fine. Fine . I’ll go get my fortune read with you. Only because if I don’t go with you, Daphne will probably drag me later. But if it gets creepy, I’m out, and we’re never discussing it again.”

That makes me far happier than it should.

She’s still the woman who set me up as a lackey in her lovers’ quarrel.

But I don’t believe she’s a bad person.

Simply a complicated one.

I can appreciate complicated.

I’m rather complicated myself.

“Marvelous.” I glance back at Pinky. “Do you need to check this out, or are we free to enter?”

“You’re free to come in,” a wispy voice says from inside. “I’ve been waiting for you, Mr. Luckwood.”

“That’s not creepy at all,” Bea murmurs.

Pinky steps around us and lifts one of the tent flats to peek inside, then gestures that it’s safe for us to enter.

“Come in, Mr. Luckwood. Ms. Best. It is good that you came to me today.”

I glance at Bea.

She’s cringing, but she slips inside the tent as Pinky holds the flap up.

I follow.

And then I’m smiling again.

This is both exactly what one would expect and also completely at odds with what one would expect.

More tiny white lights twinkle on the inside of the tent, and a mixture of scents fills my nose. Sandalwood, sage, rosemary—it’s a fascinating combination.

Madame Petty herself sits on the opposite side of a low, round table topped with a black cloth. There is no crystal ball, but I do spot several decks of tarot cards among the lit candles and other talismans on a small shelf beside her.

Her blond hair is tied up in a messy bun, and she’s wearing a Grateful Dead T-shirt. Her cheeks are smooth. Her forehead too.

Bea was serious. This woman cannot be more than thirty years old. Likely younger.

Unless she’s engaged in witchcraft to disguise her age.

Which I don’t believe in, though I do admire people who do.

It would be lovely to believe in magic.

“Please sit,” Madame Petty says, gesturing to two large deep-purple cushions on this side of the table.

Bea glances at the candles.

Candles.

Yes.

She dislikes fire. I remember that much from last night.

“Could you—” I start, but Bea puts a hand to my arm.

“It’s okay,” she says.

“You don’t like fire,” Madame Petty says to her.

“Not exactly a secret,” Bea replies.

“And how is Ryker?”

“You tell me.”

“I see him seeking satisfaction and peace in a green area…”

“He’s a farmer,” Bea mutters while we both settle onto the cushions. “You just described the job that everyone knows he does.”

“And we are here to talk about you, not your brothers.” Madame Petty smiles at Bea. “You wish to know how many children you two shall have.”

I succumb to an unexpected coughing fit.

The light flickers inside the tent, extra sunbeams suddenly bouncing about the interior as though someone’s opened a window.

Madame Petty looks behind us. “The future is often surprising,” she says to someone over our shoulders. “Coughing, choking, and gasping are natural responses to what I’m likely to discover.”

I glance behind me and spot Pinky, backlit in the doorway as he peers in on us.

Bea looks at Pinky too, but she rolls her eyes at him.

He briefly studies me, smiles, and shuts the flap again, plunging us back into dimness.

While I’ve had my back turned, Madame Petty has extinguished all of the candles, and the interior of the tent is quite blurry to me now.

I failed to bring my glasses, as I didn’t expect to be in a dark room. Everything is hazy inside.

Everything except Madame Petty’s voice.

“Beatrice, shall we discuss your future first?”

If it’s possible to feel a person stifle a sigh, that’s exactly what I believe I’m feeling Bea do right now.

“Let’s get it over with,” she says.

Madame Petty’s figure nods. “Good, because I’ve been feeling something ominous brewing for you for a while now.”

“That was last weekend. Jail. Bet you heard.”

“No, it started before that.”