Page 13 of The Sun and the Moon

Rick’s eyes shimmer with love, adoration, a little bit of dazzled wonder.

It becomes clear that he’s been taken in by not only her beauty but also the air of mystery about her; Moira has captured his imagination.

Something she is especially gifted in doing.

This is a ride he wants to take, no matter how uncomfortable it gets.

Sydney’s posture has stiffened. Gone is the boredom, the shrug she was able to deliver only a moment ago. She’s on alert. And she’s right to be.

“It’s not hard to figure out. Dad was a pilot. He said pilots are superstitious. I’m the daughter of a pilot who became one.”

“But you don’t question it?” Moira asks.

“It’s not that serious,” Sydney says, clearly trying to maintain her chill demeanor.

“Oh, but it is.” My mother’s fingers graze the curve of the glass. “People seek out patterns, hold on to charms and mantras, interrogate tarot cards, all as a way to try to safeguard against a future that is unknown.”

“If this is some part of your sales speech—”

“Birdie,” Rick interjects, and then smiles awkwardly, nervous Dad mode engaging.

“I just mean, sorry—you’re a psychic. Don’t you sell certainty based on the superstitious, pattern-seeking nature of human beings by reading their supposed future?”

“No one sells certainty.” She smiles again. “But I do offer a certain comfort to people who seek my help.”

Sydney leans forward, the shimmery gold of champagne bubbling in her glass as she moves.

“Right. Fate and destiny and all that jazz is kind of your bread and butter,” she says, her eyes sparkling. I press the rim of my glass to my lips in an attempt to hide my smirk.

“My bread and butter?” Moira repeats. There it is again.

Mona Lisa intent on playing her games. “What a funny idea. I suppose if we want to put it in such crude terms, my bread and butter is more…” She twists the champagne flute in her hand, thinking.

“I would say it’s selling something more like hope. ”

Jesus Christ. I’m wishing we had launched into this conversation after the broken first-sip rule of toasting. Hearing my mother talking about herself like some kind of healer makes my stomach sour.

Sydney snorts. “And how is that different from my little birdie pin?” She flips her hair over her shoulder.

“I didn’t say it was.” Moira crinkles her nose.

Mayday! Mayday!

Sydney’s lip does a little twitch. It’s a tremor of nerve running through her face. “You said bad luck wasn’t real, but you yourself are basically a charm against it for anyone who comes knocking on your door.”

My mother’s eyes gleam with pleasure. There’s nothing she loves more than talking someone in circles until they come out on the other side believing in her powers of otherworldly perception.

“What do you imagine a person who comes to a psychic seeking information about, say…” Her voice trails off, as if she’s thinking of an example, but I know good and well that she’s not. Her eyes slide to me, and I glare back. “Their soulmate? What do you think they are actually hoping to find?”

“A time, a date, and a place,” Sydney quips. I am impressed she’s holding her own against direct questioning from a soul devourer.

“Funny.” My mother’s chuckle is melodic. “Really, though?”

Sydney considers her. Really looks at her.

“Answers,” she says, finally. “You tell them what they want to hear. Of course that gives them hope.” Sydney shifts in her chair, leaning in. “Just like my birdie pin makes me feel safe when I’m in the air.”

“You don’t question that, but you do question me.”

“I have to question you,” Sydney replies.

“Birdie, come on, now,” Rick says, giving her a very dad look that says, Don’t embarrass me .

Moira pats his hand, never missing a beat.

“Of course you do,” my mother replies.

I have the distinct urge to step in and help Sydney.

Take some of the heat. My mother is aware Sydney doesn’t trust her—and it has nothing to do with how she makes her money.

Or at least it’s not solely about that for Sydney, who is clearly protective of her dad, even if that should really be the other way around.

All of this has been Moira’s way of getting her to admit it.

“Shouldn’t we toast?” I say, holding up my glass in a desperate attempt to remind them that booze is considered social lube for a reason.

“The existence of luck may be debatable, but my thirst isn’t.

” I lift my glass, and Rick seems to be the only one listening.

Moira and Sydney are locked together like birds of prey battling it out midair for a carcass.

“Questioning is a good instinct,” Moira says. Sydney’s face pinches in annoyance and what appears to be a whiff of disdain. “Everything should be questioned. Examined and inspected.”

That’s rich coming from her. As far as I remember, Moira believes in absolute truth.

Hers.

“We should probably toast to the four of us,” Rick says, sounding nervous. He’s looking at me for help.

“Not everything needs to be questioned,” Sydney says, her eyes laser focused on Moira.

“Why on earth not?” my mother asks, the edges of her lips playing with the idea of a smile.

“Because some things are too important to pick apart.” Sydney leans back. She looks like she’s questioning something right now, and she really doesn’t want to be. A curiosity rises in my mind, wanting to ask what it is.

“When people come to me looking for answers, that doesn’t mean I tell them what they want to hear,” Moira says.

The Mona Lisa smile is back in full force.

“But they aren’t afraid to ask. They are there to listen, to work in collaboration with the Universe.

” She raises her glass. Ready to toast on her final words.

Round one is over. My mother may not know what game she’s playing, or that she’s also going up against me, but she definitely knows one is in motion.

“Everything that is meant for you will find you,” she finishes.

“Hear! Hear!” Rick says, audibly relieved as he twines his fingers with hers.

He clinks his glass with Moira’s before turning to us.

The last thing in the universe that I want to do is toast to a Moira win.

When I look over at Sydney, I can tell she feels the same, but any other action would make us look like jerks and could potentially alert both of our parents to the notion that we aren’t one hundred percent behind this engagement.

“Cheers,” Sydney says, her voice flat.

“Bottoms up,” I offer.

The musical chime of glass on glass signals the end of round one.

Moira is now in the lead.