Page 43 of The Sun and the Moon

Cadence

We’re standing in the lobby of the hotel, eyes peeled, looking out the doors at the valet, where the shuttle bus to the winery will arrive any minute. I’m watching my mother in my periphery, trying to imagine what it would be like to just be normal and feel normal around her.

It’s really hard for me to do.

“Oh, wonderful,” Moira says suddenly, and I assume it’s because the shuttle has arrived. But when I look up and out through the window, I see that I’m wrong. “I was wondering when you two would arrive!”

I follow the direction of my mother’s elated expression to see Kit and Julia walking in with some shopping bags from the Spice Merchant, each holding a Danish in hand. I make eye contact with Kit first, hoping her intuition about the cards isn’t the only way she’s empathic.

As Kit and Julia approach, their body language couldn’t be more different. Kit carries herself with an open ease, fluid, almost like a dancer. She’s smiling at us, seems genuinely happy to see us. Julia has the straightest posture I’ve ever seen.

“We’ve been here since last night,” Kit says. “We’ve been enjoying the festival. Thank you for the suggested itinerary and guide to the area.”

My mother beams.

“We’ve come a handful of times over the years,” Moira says, and I know from experience that this is my cue. She’s gearing up to introduce us in what will likely be a gushing display of politeness that is actually bragging in sheep’s clothing. “This is my daughter, Cadence.”

I am an awkward penguin. “Hey.” Julia covers her lips with her Danish to hide her smile.

“Madame Moira’s daughter,” Kit says, chill in the face of her fiancée, who’s almost losing her composure. “It’s wild that you have a daughter.”

Surprise flickers in Moira’s face. “How so?” I hear a razor in her voice that I hope isn’t discernable to them.

“You have to know—we all kind of thought you were a witch growing up,” Kit says, and I chuckle.

“She is,” I say without thinking. Moira cuts me a look. “You literally have an altar in your Reading Room.”

“And witches don’t have children?” Moira questions. It feels directed at all of us.

“You were more like a fairy tale character to us,” Julia replies. Matter-of-fact. “Predicting soulmates, reading futures. We’re just surprised you also had this very human, totally normal thing like a daughter.”

“I can’t decide if I’m flattered by the assessment,” Moira says. She is . There’s nothing this woman likes more than her own folklore.

“So how do y’all know Madame Moira?” I ask. If I don’t ask, I don’t doubt it will occur to my mother later and I’ll be cornered.

Kit leaps into the story I already know, animatedly explaining in great detail how she and Julia reconnected at a wedding and fell madly in love, realizing the Twin Flames prediction.

But my attention is firmly on Moira as she eats up the praise, confirming to me that she did invite them to her party for this reason.

She is still the star of the show.

The shuttle pulls up outside just as Kit finishes and I am stammering through my reaction, trying not to stick my foot in my mouth.

“Enjoy the rest of today,” Moira says as we walk away. “The party will hopefully be unforgettable.”

Unforgettable.

Engagement parties aren’t unforgettable.

But weddings are.

?We climb into the shuttle, and even though it’s empty, Moira doesn’t put a seat between us.

I fight the urge to move, forcing myself to focus on the concept of a path forward.

But I’m thinking about Lola’s theory that the engagement party is actually a surprise wedding, and it’s making it really hard to give my mother the benefit of the doubt.

I can imagine Moira doing that for the spectacle, lying to close friends and her daughter just for the plot and nothing more. But it’s hard to believe Rick wouldn’t tell Sydney. Even if she would be thrilled for him, I don’t think she would be thrilled about him lying.

I am not an expert on her yet, but from what I have learned of her so far, she seems like someone who wears the truth on her sleeve—our lies this week notwithstanding. She seems openhearted. And she really does seem to adore her dad.

“Do you ever think about it?” Moira’s voice cuts though my mental chatter.

“Think about what?” I ask, annoyed already even though I don’t know what she’s referring to.

“Your soulmate prediction,” she says. I don’t know why it would surprise me that she’d bring that up right after coming face-to-face with one of her success stories. She wants to get a rise out of me, because that was always her way to prod me to open up.

Piss me off and the walls come down.

“What about it?”

“Meeting Kit and Julia doesn’t make you wonder, not even a little bit?”

“I’ve met dozens of your so-called successes, Mom, and never once have I entertained the idea that you should get credit for how I may or may not stumble upon the person I want to spend my life with.”

“So you think there could be someone out there you’d want that with?” This question throws me off guard. I feel my face contort and am immediately aggravated that I can’t hide it from her.

“Of course I want someone like that,” I say, sighing.

“A soulmate?” she presses. She’s trying to steer the conversation. I don’t have to let her.

“Is Rick your soulmate?” I ask, crossing my arms to close my body off from her. Doesn’t mean she can’t read me like a book, but at least it makes me feel in control. She smiles, looking away from me, out the window, as if seeing him reflected in the glass.

“Rick is the closest I’ll ever get,” she says simply.

“What does that mean?” It almost sounds like she’s taking accountability for her shitty personality and how it cuts her off from parts of existence she might otherwise have access to. But no, that can’t be.

She inhales, nudging me with her shoulder in a playful way that grinds my gears. I lean away from the contact, but she presses on.

“My life, it’s not easy for most people to understand.

” She fiddles absently with the zipper on her purse.

“And men—even harder for them than just people.” A snort of laughter escapes my lips, and I hate myself for it.

God, I really suck at this detached thing.

“I can be aloof and manipulative, qualities that you have repeatedly made clear are hard to be around.”

“Understatement,” I grunt, but the tension in my arms loosens.

“I can’t say I know how to be any other way.

” She sounds exhausted, and for the first time in a very long time, I let myself look at her, see her.

The tension in her jaw, the creases around her eyes, the way her hands are always moving.

Restless, touching her hair, pinching a crease in her pant leg.

For a flicker of a moment, the light touches the top of her head, illuminating the tiniest hint of gray.

For a moment she looks vulnerable, and I feel almost sorry for her.

“But Rick, he doesn’t seem to mind that so much,” she continues. “In fact, I think he appreciates it. He isn’t surprised by much. He understands the quest for…” Her voice drifts. Her expression is dreamy. “Magic. He’s not boring—no, he’s even surprising.”

“Even to the psychic?” My tone is almost playful.

“Even to the psychic.” She smiles at me, her eyes steady on mine. “I know you don’t believe me, and that’s okay. I’m just glad you’re here.” I roll my eyes and blink to keep the sudden pressure of tears from unleashing. “Cadence, I’m so glad.”

“Me, too,” I say, instantly, no question. It’s like we’re playing that game where you clear your mind and say the first thought that comes to the surface. The most honest.

She reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “Mom, stop it.” I twitch, not pulling away.

She smiles; I smile. I wonder if we’ve always looked alike when we do that, and I have just been too stubborn—too hurt, closed off, and angry—to see it.

?Whimsy Winery is beautifully quiet this early in the day.

We’re standing beneath the broad, worn, and weathered barn doors of the barrel room, where the engagement party will take place.

It opens onto a limestone patio, with brightly colored lanterns hanging from the rafters of an arbor.

There are ten round tables set up around the perimeter, also in a distressed wood that suits the style of the place.

This is starting to look suspiciously like the setup of a wedding reception.

Moira walks up behind me carrying two small pours of white wine. The clarity and color varies slightly as she swirls them around the bowls of the glasses.

“We have to choose a white for the open bar,” she says, holding them up. “You know I’m partial to reds, so.”

“You want me to try these and pick one?” I ask, scowling at the glasses. “It’s barely after noon.”

“Twelve forty-five, fully in the lunch window.”

“Alcohol at lunch is served with food.”

“Do you want to help or not? You always liked white—”

“No, I’ll help.” I reach for the glasses, taking one in each hand. “I just had to protest so I don’t feel like an alcoholic.”

Moira laughs, a husky, full sound in her throat. It’s incredibly rare to get that kind of laugh out of her. I’ve maybe managed it a handful of times in my life. I let myself be pleased at the honor as we drift to one of the high bar tables just inside the barrel room.

“What’s this one?” I lift the glass holding the paler white.

“Sauvignon blanc, but a blend. And the other is their chardonnay.”

“They’re known for the chardonnay, so right off, I’m feeling biased.”

She winks. “Let your taste buds choose.”

It’s so close to something she used to say to me all the time.

Let your intuition take the lead. I feel those words ripple between us now like water someone has just dropped a pebble into.

I let the ripples touch my skin. Feel the ease of the idea wash over me.

It’s exhausting fighting so hard all the time.