Page 29 of Total Dreamboat

Felix

I would never have predicted that one of the best days of my life would involve a snorkeling trip during a Caribbean cruise.

But I like Hope Lanover so much it scares me. I like her so much I’m picturing her writing her novel in a hotel I design with a room just for her, overlooking her rose garden.

Or better yet, the sea.

I need to get a fucking grip.

I’m not doing myself any favors, spinning fantasies of some storybook life I can never have. Odds are I’ll never leave London. Odds are, I am living my dream life. The dream was surviving my old one.

I’m not sure I could handle more.

I’m not sure I deserve to.

But damn is it nice to indulge for a few minutes in the vision of an existence unencumbered by my real circumstances.

When we get back to the ship, Hope yawns and professes a deep desire “for a snooze.”

“Want to join me?” she asks.

I do, but I know I need to get my head together.

“I think I might go to the gym. And then I have a booking for a sports massage at six. Late supper?”

She yawns again. “I doubt I’ll be very hungry after that lunch. But why don’t we go on a date to the magic show?”

“I hate magic shows.”

“How?” she exclaims. “They’re the best.”

“I don’t like to stare into the face of evil.”

“Card tricks are hardly evil.”

“Fine,” I say. “But I will intercede if a magician tries to saw you in half.”

“My knight in shining armor. Pick me up at eight forty-five?”

I kiss her on the cheek. “See you then.”

And I truly can’t wait. I’m pained by the idea of four hours away from her.

Stop it , I command myself. This is ending in four days.

Working out and getting pounded into raw meat by a petite Thai woman helps clear my head. I feel less woozy with infatuation when I knock on Hope’s door.

Of course, all my feelings rush back when I see her. Tonight she’s in a flouncy, vintage, pink cocktail dress that would not be out of place at the Copacabana. I want to pull her onto my lap on a leather banquette while we watch Frank Sinatra croon in front of a big band.

Unfortunately, we’re headed to a magic show on a cruise ship instead.

Which does nothing to reduce the fact that I’m thunderstruck.

“You look amazing,” I say.

She twirls happily. “Thanks. I only wear this for very special occasions.”

“So, to see and be seen by magicians?”

“I love how deeply you understand me.”

Despite finding magic tedious—I truly do not care if a scarf turns into an egg—Hope’s unbridled delight at the performance brings me great joy.

She gasps when the magician whips his white cravat in the air and it turns into three doves. She squeals when, at the end of the show, the three doves are transformed into a small white Pomeranian.

“I wonder what the customs logistics of having pets on a ship are,” I muse.

“Um, they’re not pets. They’re manifestations of forces we can’t see.”

“And I thought I was the gullible one.”

The night’s host steps onto the stage and asks us to give a thunderous applause to the magician.

When we do, the magician takes off his top hat and throws it in the air, at which point it turns into a large white cockatiel, who flies toward the crowd, circles back, and lands on the magician’s shoulder.

“Abracadabra!” the bird squawks.

The magician gives it an affectionate kiss on the head.

Hope basically swoons.

“I think I found the man I’m going to marry,” she says.

“Trying to make me jealous?”

“No. That’s what Gabe’s for.”

I laugh in shock, but the quip reassures me. If it were true, surely she wouldn’t crack jokes about it. Besides, the way she was talking about his antics earlier seemed infused with relief that they were behind her.

“For those of you who want an extra dose of the occult,” the host intones, “I encourage you to go down to the Cigar Lounge, where our very own psychic, Madame Olenska, will be pleased to read your tarot cards.”

“Oh, we have to do that,” Hope says, shooting up.

“Um, I think I’ve had enough magic for one evening. Let’s go upstairs and watch the cruise ambassadors seduce their clients instead.”

She grabs my hand. “No way you’re getting out of this. Come on.”

She pulls me up and drags me out of the room.

We go down the stairs to the cigar bar, which is choked with the smell of smoke. (Despite being someone who smoked cigarettes for years and is currently addicted to nicotine gum, I can’t stand cigar smoke.)

“Ugh, I can scarcely breathe in here,” I complain. “Can I please be excused?”

“Afraid not. Look, there she is.”

She points to a horseshoe-shaped booth where a woman with a cloud of witchy gray hair is seated before an array of large crystals.

Hope charges toward her.

“Madame Olenska?” she asks.

“That is me, my dear. And who might you be?”

“Shouldn’t she know that already?” I say under my breath.

Hope kicks my shoe.

“I’m Hope,” she says. “And this is Felix. We were hoping you could read our cards.”

“It would be my pleasure,” she says. “Have a seat.”

We settle into the booth across from her.

“Who would like to go first?”

“He would,” Hope says with an evil grin.

“Ah, the skeptic,” she says.

“Sorry, is it that obvious?” I ask.

“I can sense you don’t trust the divine,” Madame Olenska says.

“I just don’t like magic tricks.”

She raises her brows at me imperiously. “The cards are not magic, or a trick. The cards merely reflect what’s inside you, apparent or not.”

“Good to know.”

“You will see. Do you have a question you would like me to focus on? An issue of concern?”

“Uh, no,” I say. “Not really.”

“You are new lovers,” she says, apropos of nothing.

“We are,” Hope says. She gives me a triumphant look like, see?

“We will focus then on matters of the heart,” Madame Olenska says authoritatively.

“Great,” I mutter.

“Now, I prepare the cards,” she says.

She closes her eyes and shuffles the deck with the dexterity of a dealer in Vegas. Eyes shut tight, she places both hands on top of the deck and hums. At length.

Just when I’m wondering if we’ve accidentally stumbled onto a very bad a cappella concert, she opens her eyes and spreads the cards out into an arc on the table.

“Pick one. Whichever calls to you.”

Nothing calls to me save for the door leading out of this room, so I slide out a card at random.

“Very good,” she says. “Now turn it over without reversing it.”

I do, and reveal a bright red heart with three evil-looking swords plunged into it.

“Jesus,” I say.

“Ah,” Madame Olenska murmurs. “The three of swords.”

“Doesn’t look auspicious.”

“A card of heartbreak,” she confirms.

I glance at Hope, whose brow is furrowed.

“The card signifies a betrayed connection,” Madame Olenska says. “Perhaps in the past, perhaps in the future. Maybe romantic, maybe not.”

“How conveniently vague,” I mutter, thoroughly unimpressed.

“We’re not finished. Choose another card to unveil further meaning,” Madame Olenska says.

I consider declining, but Hope looks eager for me to keep going, so I comply.

I take a card and turn it over. It’s a man holding two fistfuls of swords by their blades, attempting to sneak off as he looks over his shoulder at two more swords plunged into the ground behind him.

“Ah,” Madame Olenska says, as though this clears up everything.

“Another card hearkening betrayal, but in the context of the three of swords, the betrayal itself is the cause of the heartache. Were you cheated on by a lover, perhaps, my dear? For if not, the cards may point to a deep-seated fear that you will be, or—”

Yeah, enough of this shit.

“All right,” I interrupt her. “That’s me sorted. Hope’s turn.”

Hope looks at me with concern.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” I say brusquely. I don’t want to be rude but I don’t feel like getting into a conversation about my demons with a woman doing a carnival act.

Madame Olenska looks askance at Hope. “Do you want a reading, dear?” she asks.

“I do,” Hope says. “But, Felix, if you’d rather go—”

I’m conscious I’m causing a small drama with my reaction to this irritating farce, so I wave this away. “Please, go ahead,” I say.

Madame Olenska repeats her ritual with the humming and shuffling, then spreads the deck out again on the table.

Hope holds her hand over the deck, moving it back and forth before finally picking a card.

It’s an upside-down image of an old man and a family, overlaid with approximately one million gold circles with stars in the middle.

If the meaning is meant to be “chaotic nonsense,” it’s dead on.

“The ten of pentacles,” Madame Olenska says. “Upright, the card symbolizes prosperity and wealth. But here it is reversed, signifying financial strain or debt.”

I glance at Hope.

She looks stressed.

“I thought we were talking about matters of the heart,” I say to Madame Olenska. “This is about money.”

“Yes,” she says sagely. “But the two are often intertwined, are they not? The card could be a warning not to be seduced by the riches of a lover. Or a warning that you already have been. Let’s explore this. Pull another card, dear.”

Hope shakes her head and abruptly scoots out of the booth. “No, that’s okay. We’re late to meet our friends. Thank you very much for the reading.”

“It is when the cards provoke a strong reaction that they have the most to say,” Madame Olenska says sternly.

“You’ve been great,” I tell her, following Hope.

“Thanks again!” Hope calls over her shoulder.

“Well that was a crock of bullshit,” I say as soon as we’re out of earshot.

I expect her to laugh, but she screws up her mouth.

“Actually,” she says, “I don’t think it was. Can we get some air? I can hardly breathe in here.”