Page 7 of The Sun and the Moon

Cadence

Kismet sits deeply and comfortably on a rolling half-acre lot.

A dense fir tree curtains the roof, its long arms reaching around to cradle the edge of the river rock–accented front porch.

Painted dark green, the trim a soft gray, it’s more weathered than it was the last time I saw it.

The front room on the second floor that used to be mine still overlooks the street, its curtains open and one of the windows slightly ajar.

It has a perfect view of the Arroyo Seco Canyon and all her many whispering ghosts.

As a child, I would sit on the porch for hours, watching wildlife that lived in the fir or visited just to eat from the bird feeders or built nests under the safety of its needles in the spring.

The swing still creaks in the corner. The door is still red.

The roof looks in need of repair from all the affection the fir bestows on it.

This place was never just my home. There were always customers trailing in and out of the front living room: shoppers seeking crystals, tarot decks, Moira’s tailor-made spell boxes, suitable for all occasions.

There was Louisa, Moira’s longtime best friend, who had a revolving door of boyfriends and a daughter, Lola, a girl a few years younger than me.

There were the ghosts, which I never saw myself, but after hearing Moira’s stories about them all my life, I was convinced they were real.

I’ve been back in LA over two hours—half of that spent in traffic on the way to the hotel—but it still hasn’t quite sunk in yet.

This place—this city, this house, the canyon behind me, the hills to the northeast—once, I loved it like a best friend.

It was my stomping ground. Full of danger and wonder, hope and possibility.

I don’t know how long it took for it to change all the way, to become something menacing, more foe-like, but I know the reason why it did.

I shove my phone and wallet into the back pocket of my black jeans and tighten my denim jacket, hands in the pockets like that will ground me for the advance up the front steps.

My booted foot against the wood sends a creak into the air, a startlingly loud sound in the quiet of this warm early-fall morning.

A flock of doves let out a mournful coo as they fly to the sky.

I amble over the porch, fingers gripping the heavy metal door handle, nostrils flaring as I exhale my nerves.

I didn’t call ahead. I couldn’t bear to hear the sound of her voice through my phone after almost four years of silence.

She doesn’t know I’m coming. This may be the last upper hand I have for a while.

Inside, the air is dense with incense; the light from the stained-glass windows that flank the door breaks through the smoke and dust. A bell dings and from another room—the kitchen, by the direction—a young woman’s voice calls, “Coming! Hold on!” I hear clamoring.

“Fuck! My finger!” More clamoring and chaotic sounds.

My eyes trail over the living room, full to the brim with her wares.

At the far end, an ornate maroon door is shut firmly.

Above it on a hand-painted sign are the words Reading Room .

Even though I can’t see inside, my mind conjures the image.

Rows and rows of bookshelves messily stuffed with her personal mementos, her journals, her decks, her favorite literature.

A small round table, two chairs on either side, covered in velvet and lace. Candles. Incense. Moira.

A redhead with wide, bright eyes shoots out from behind the swinging door to the kitchen, yanking me from my revelry. She’s sucking on the end of her finger, face screwed up in pain. When her eyes land on mine they go buggy.

“Oh my God,” she exclaims. “Cadence Connelly.”

“Hey, Lola,” I say, unsure if I should wave or not. My hands jerk, clenching into fists in the pockets of my denim jacket.

“Thought you might be dead.” Then her eyes narrow. “You’re not, are you?”

Kismet.

Just like I remembered it.

“I’m not a ghost,” I say.

“If you say so,” she replies. We hold each other in a stare-off.

She’s twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven now.

She’s dressed in a midriff-baring Blondie t-shirt and denim shorts over stockings.

She’s got one ear pierced all the way to the cartilage.

She has a nose ring, wrists weighted in clinking stacks of bracelets, and a tattoo of a poppy snaking up toward her rib cage.

Louisa, her mom, vanished when Lola was sixteen. Moira may know where she is but has never said. She let Lola move in, gave her a job. She wanted me to treat her like a sister, but I was in college when it all went down, and also, I’ve never been very good at that sort of thing anyway.

The whole family thing .

Lola lunges for me, and I instinctively jerk back, away, but she’s wily, fast on her feet, and she grips me in a tight hug. Her hair smells of hemp and cinnamon.

“Welcome home,” she says, tightening her grip. “Had to make sure you were solid.”

She’s the same Lola she always was.

I am the anomaly.

Lola squeezes once more before releasing me from the hug and walking over to the desk that also serves as a checkout counter for Kismet.

She pulls the drawer open, removing that familiar navy-blue-and-white invitation.

“I’m assuming you received yours.” She waves it around as she talks.

“And that’s what has returned you into Los Angeles. ”

“ Ding ding ,” I say as my nose catches a stronger smell of cinnamon and sugar.

“I’m baking snickerdoodles,” Lola says as if she can read my mind. “I didn’t know she sent you one—but I do know that she still talks about you all the time. Like you’re on vacation somewhere, and at some point you’re gonna come back. Return to your real life.”

My cheeks heat, and I shift on my feet, fighting the rising urge to bolt back through the front door.

“I humor her, of course,” she continues. “Because what else could I do? She’s Madame Moira, all-seeing, all-knowing, and, for me, financially providing while I chase my bliss.” She talks fast, her voice this husky, throaty tone that always sounds slightly congested or like she just woke up.

“Are the snickerdoodles part of that bliss?” I question. We never talk about Louisa, but I wonder if the snickerdoodles are somehow also her fault.

“Maybe.” She smiles. “This week anyway.” She leans back against the edge of the desk. “What I mean is, it’s good to see you, Cade. Even if you’re not really back.”

“I’m not back,” I confirm. My voice is clipped.

“Does she know you’re here?” Her eyes shift to the Reading Room door.

“Not even a little,” I reply.

And, as if summoned by the ghosts of Kismet in some sick loyalty to their master, the door to the Reading Room flies open.

Moira emerges with a client, her hand placed soothingly over her shoulder.

Her lips move, the tone too low to make out, and the woman nods, pats at her cheeks with a tissue.

Without knowing anything about this woman—what brought her here or who she is—I feel certain Moira is helping her cope with grief.

They come here looking for answers. Who am I to deny them?

Kismet, Lola, Los Angeles, and me most of all—we’ve all physically changed with the time elapsed.

We’re showing the signs of our age, the growing pains, the weather, the experiences and heartaches.

But Moira remains the same. Her black hair hangs long and shiny to her waist. Her figure is slim, draped in a flowy green dress, a floral shawl slung over her shoulders.

Her high cheekbones and strong jaw have served her well as she’s aged, acting as a framework for her freckled-but-still-glowing fair skin.

I turn away from Lola, wanting to face Moira head-on.

Wanting to be ready, to feel sharp focus, have my feet firmly grounded so I can’t fall off-balance.

I see it the moment she realizes someone else is in the room besides who she’s expecting to be there.

Her nose twitches. Her green eyes—heavily lashed—blink rapidly as they lift, searching.

They land on me.

One corner of her lip edges up.

She releases the client, and her eyes shift to Lola as if to say, Get ready .

They return to me and hold. “The long-lost daughter returns.”

The client, who is gray-headed and small-boned, snaps her attention to me as well.

“She looks just like you.” Her voice has that elderly vibrato, and she clasps her hands together with awe.

“Spitting image,” Moira says, a bit singsongy.

People always say that, but all I see are the differences. My smaller, slightly rounder nose, my more delicate chin, my curly hair.

My soul, her lack of one.

“Hey.” The word feels weighty but also shallow. Entirely too small. Still way too heavy to hold. Her thick black brows—immaculately groomed—furrow, putting two small lines between them. Hay is for horses , I hear her say in my head.

“Lola, can you please help Elise with a tea bundle for emotional healing?” Moira asks, but she’s still looking at me.

Lola shoots up from where she leans against the desk still, watching us like we’re a trainwreck.

Which—fair. We kind of are. Her eyes dart back and forth, a wave of reluctance washing over her.

She doesn’t let it take her under. I’m sure she knows she can’t argue with Moira.

That is a universal truth everyone besides me seems to agree on.

Lola guides Elise to the front living room, leaving Moira and me alone.

Together.

“I knew you’d come,” she says. It’s the only thing she could say, I guess, and yet I wish she had chosen different phrasing.

“That’s bold. I definitely didn’t have this on my bingo card for the year.”