Midsummer's Eve

Books By This Author

Beware t
he River

(Southern Fiction
)

Midsummer’s Eve

(W
omen’s F
iction)

Lynna’s Rogue

(Historical R
om
ance)

According to
Sylvia Browne
,
we each have a spirit guide. She frequently consults her own personal angel, Francine, and claims to hold lengthy and rather profound conversations with her on a variety of topics. If I have a guardian angel, and that’s a mighty big if
,
let me tell you
, I’ll call her Tilly
. S
hort for Atilla the Hun. Because I promise you
,
if Tilly could flutter merrily around while the debacle of my life was playing out in glorious living Technic
olor, without once
lift
ing
a feather to intervene, then she has about as much compassion as her namesake.

Let me assure you
,
that not one day passed during Tilly’s nerve-wracking incarcerat
ion as my trustee
,
that she didn’
t gaze longingly toward the stratosphere and beseech, “Oh, pray tell
,
what did I ever do to deserve such cruel punishment? Please allow me to return to the pearly ga
tes and trade this crazed
mortal
for a less dramatic one!
Why,
I heard through the grapevine, just th
is morning, that Charles Manson
i
s in desperate need o
f a spiritual awakening
!”

T
hen again, perhaps I have misjudged Tilly. Thanks to me
,
the softhearted
,
ethereal being has most likely suffered anxiety attacks of biblical proportion and been rendered totally incapable of a return flight. I can imagine the panic-
stricke
n look in her gentle gaze
as she stood over me, since hovering was entirely out of the question, and realized, too late, that she had nervously plucked every last wing feather during one of my frequent bouts of near hysteria.

At times such as this, when I feel mired up to the ever increasing fine lines on my neck
,
and in danger of submerging in a malodorous
,
swirling cesspool, I run. Simply put. Those who know me well would feel compelled to agree that running has been a life long habit, which I perfected years ago. Those same friends have often been surprisingly quick to suggest I seek therapy for that issue, along with a few others that I can’t quite seem to shake.

However
,
the idea of lying on some therapist’s cold leather couch does little toward propelling
me into a cheerful mood. Although
,
I
have
often wondered
if a shrink could tell me
why
I have
no memories of my childhood. Not one.
Not a single memory of a best friend, a sleepover, or a secret crush.
Not even a sketchy recollection of sitting on jolly old St. Nick’s lap during my first thirteen yuletide seasons. Although my sister swears I was a Barbie fanatic
,
and my mom has a few
,
rather persuasive
,
pictures to support my infatuation with the curvy little plastic temptress.

A
t any rate, a
s was my usual routine during times of mind
-
bending stress, I took refuge in the safety of my Jeep
,
and sped
toward
Atlanta
to visit my college roommate. I hadn’t seen her
in years and I seriously need
ed
an extended vacation. Plus,
with each mile
I traveled from my sleepy little town of Twin Rivers, North Carolina
, I was putting much-
needed
distance between my ex fiancé
and myself. A
di
stance that I desperately need
ed
if I
was
to su
rvive the
hellacious break
up
that still b
rought
scalding tears to rush from
swollen, blood
shot eyes at the mere thought of the man who had so carelessly performed a Lizzie Borden on both my heart and dignity.

To be honest life, as of late, has been a living hell. Okay.
I just need a little time away from home to
figure out how to cope.
That’s all. It shouldn’
t be too terribly difficult.
After all, this certainly i
sn’
t my first rodeo in the arena of
getting shit upon
.    

A
ccording to the flashing gas pump symbol on the in
strument panel
,
I needed gas
.
Ther
e goes half my paycheck. But
,
since being stranded on
I-95
sounded like mor
e excitement than I could tolerate
today, I
took the next exit and
pulled into a gas station/souvenir store advertising peaches, pec
ans and free Disney tickets
.

But wait, I envisioned a bright light at the end of this tunnel. There will be pecan logs! Lord
knows I have a weakness for th
e things. Even though when I was a child and my family had taken our annual Myrtle Beach excursion
,
my cousin had bought three pecan logs for a dollar at a roadside
convenience store
. It was only after he had eaten
two
,
and
ha
lf of the third one
,
that he
noticed little white worms swimming around in the creamy white center. I couldn’t bring myself to eat one in the forty years since, but now I was salivating like a mad dog just thinking about the pecan wrapped nougat as I pulled up to the gas pumps. After putting the Jeep in park, I was pulling the keys out of the ignition when a sign jumped out from the surrounding
political
propaganda and immediately grabbed my attention.

Lady Wonder 

Psychic

A psychic? There’s a thought. How does one know if a psychic has a real gift or is just another scam artist looking for a quick buck? Was it possible for someone to predict the future?
For real?
Perhaps tell me how to plan for the next catastrophe in my life before it swallowed me whole? Intending to find out, I cruised past the pumps causing the flashing gas symbol to emit a pesky little tone.

Now let me just say this from the get go. I am a huge believer in fate. In my opinion, nothing happens purely by chance. There is a reason for everything. Even for my life being the pronounced travesty that it is. The fact that I needed gas and pulled into this little South Carolina town, then into this gas station, must have been predestined. And the fact that there happened to be a psychic housed right next to the gas station? Well, it was definitely a
sign not to be ignored. Hey, I’
ve never been to a soothsayer. What could it hurt?

I pulled behind the double
wide trailer with what looked like a brand spanking new silver Lexus ES 350, and a sparkling black Hummer with those expensive rims that spin when the vehicle isn’t moving, parked under an aluminum shed. The thought crossed my mind that being a medium must be quite the lucrative busin
ess and she certainly had the “
location is everything
”
down pat. Either that
,
or she was married to
Snoop Dogg
.

Then I noticed 6 cars
,
ranging from a shiny new Mercedes to a beat up old pick up truck
,
in a dirt lot behind the shed. At least an inch of dust settled on the Jeep
,
as I rode down
what must
be a frequently traveled, heavily rutted road
,
and parked beside a red Dodge Neon that looked like a child had taken ta
p dancing lessons on the
hood.

Okay,
forg
ive me for being catty. However
,
if I could afford a Lexus and a Hummer with fancy wheels, I could certainly afford a load of gravel or oyster shells for my driveway. One of my pet peeves is a dirty ride. 

As I strolled to the doo
r I noticed a sign,
which read “No Children”. Good! Now don’
t get me wrong. I love children. Especially
the ones you can send home. At any rate,
the sheer volume of sound they produce immediately puts my brain in migraine
mode. I just wasn’
t up for it
this morning.

I opened the door slowly, having no clue what to expect
,
and found at least 12 members of what I assumed to be th
e local society
,
squeezed into the waiting room. At first glance, th
ey didn’t strike me as being a
Sunday go
to meeting
church crowd. T
hen again, most
churches I have attended tend
to
frown upon the art of fortune telling
altogether
. This looked like a well-seasoned bunch of folks. Not exactly what I would call card-carrying members of the KKK, more like one of the seedier biker gangs. You know the ones that have fundraisers for needy children, but are a little rough around the edges and will never fit comfortably into polite society. And wou
ldn’
t you know it? Three of the room’s inhabitants
were children.

Perhaps the folks in the
room were illiterate and couldn’
t be blamed for their noncompliance of the rules.
Gaz
ing around the room,
I quickly assessed a problem. Seating. It stands to reason that if the guardians of the trio of rambunctious children had obeyed the sign and left the kids at ho
me, where they belonged, all
the adults would have found a seat.

As it was
,
it was standing room only, so I found an empty wall and leaned against it without anyone in the room so much as glancing my way
. Unfortunately
,
I had the great misfortune to
land
beside a sitting preschooler
,
who was steadily popping and snapping gum in her jaw with a fervor that would have made a Fourth of July firecracker jealous. And what about the other two darling little toddling angels? Well, they seemed hell bent upon using my shoe as a ramp for their miniature skateboards. Their mother, assuming they
had
inherited their carrot colored hair from her, was a few pounds shy of morbid obesity and devouring every word in
People
while loudly snacking on a bag of salt and vinegar flavored pork rinds.