One Less Problem Without You (20 page)

Gee, why would that be?

“Good idea,” I said. “Prepare yourself for a considerable bill.” Because that's how it would have been if I'd been telling the truth.

He laughed.
That,
of all things, gave him a genuine laugh. “Bring it on. Just come home pretty.”

Ew.

“I'll think about it,” I said. He could never accuse me later of having lied, then, could he? He couldn't say I'd specifically promised to return to Virginia, as I had no intention of ever doing so.

In fact, he could never accuse me of anything again, because he'd never be able to find me. This conversation might have bought me a few days, but now I had to buy myself a whole new life.

“So I'll see you in a couple of days?” he prodded.

“Whatever you want.”

“Thursday, then. I'll tell everyone you're on a girls' trip or something.”

“Perfect.” Like I had girlfriends. He'd successfully isolated me from everyone. Funny, though, his own cover story showed how unlikely he was ever to figure out the truth. “Bye, Leif.”

“Be good,” he said, a command, not a playful comment.

“Right.”

I left. I drove until I stopped at the edge of the Potomac River. There was a large harbor a few blocks west, at the end of Wisconsin Avenue, all lit up like a party all the time, but I was in a quiet little nook by a lock that ran parallel to the river. Laughter and voices carried out over the water, people having fun, enjoying themselves, enjoying each other. I used to be one of those people.

They had no idea this tortured, foolish woman was just a few blocks over, trying to get rid of a life she'd spent years building.

How many times had my bubbly voice risen above the group's din, or my own laugh spiked the nighttime loud enough for someone across the river to hear? Had a broken woman ever heard me, envied me?

I did, now. Broken Di envied the young, unbroken Di.

I took a deep breath, pressed the power button on my phone hard, to shut it down completely, just in case there was some sonar technology I was unaware of, and then threw it as hard as I could into the river.

Did I mention I used to be on the softball team in high school? Well, I'd lost quite a bit of talent, but at least the thing went far enough that, given its density, it would never wash up on shore.

And with it went Diana Tiesman. Twenty yards out and six feet down.

Better it than me. Hopefully he hadn't already traced it.

I got back to the apartment above the shop and discovered that no, the toilet was in fact
not
too gross to puke in.

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Prinny

It had been a long, gorgeous, successful day at Cosmos. The weather had been beautiful, bringing lots of foot traffic by and into the shop. Even with Gail, the part-time cashier who was always ready to work in a pinch, Prinny had spent the entire afternoon feeling overwhelmed. Gail didn't know much about the merchandise, but she was fast and efficient at ringing up sales. Normally that was enough. But today they'd outsold their previous year's best by nearly threefold, and it was only 6:00
P.M.
when
she
came in.

Prinny knew who she was immediately, probably could have sensed her without so much as a glance in her direction. As a matter of fact, she probably could have sensed her
faster
without a glance, since today she was sporting chunky platinum highlights in her light chestnut hair—a passé look that she somehow managed to rock—instead of the glossy dark lion's mane she wore in the picture on Alex's desk.

The picture of them on some beach at night, their happy faces illuminated by the camera's flash.

It had always struck Prinny as odd that he had chosen a low-quality snapshot to frame instead of the usual wedding picture or otherwise posed shot, but looking at the woman's face now—a serious, sexy, narrow blend of aristocratic features—she knew exactly why he liked the picture he'd chosen: They looked happy.

This woman, beautiful as she was, didn't look happy. She had the sort of chronic Resting Bitch Face that rarely looked happy.

“I want a psychic reading,” she said.

Prinny reached for the book under the counter. “I can schedule an appointment for you with Ada. When would you like to come in?”
Anytime but now,
she thought frantically.
Say you'll come back.

“Now,” Britni Spencer-McConnell said. “I'm here now.” She waved an arm airily toward the sign on the door. “It says walk-ins welcome.” There was nothing bitchy or argumentative about her tone at all, yet the commanding air of it made Prinny recoil inwardly.

Thank God she didn't reach out to shake hands or something,
Prinny thought. She was positively repelled by the woman. Not her fault, of course. She didn't marry Alex with the plan that it would someday break Prinny's heart.

“I'm afraid our system is down and we're only accepting cash this evening,” Prinny tried, hoping to stave her off that way.

“No problem.”

She wanted the reading and she wanted it tonight and there was no changing her mind. She was impulsive, spent a lot of money this way. The less available something was, the more she wanted it.

“Oh.” Prinny straightened. “Okay, then.” There was no winning this one. She signaled to Gail. “I'm going to do a reading in the back. If you could just keep an eye on the register?”

“Sure thing!” Gail chirped, like nothing in the world was wrong.

Like Prinny wasn't about to see a whole lot of stuff she really shouldn't see.

Prinny didn't usually do readings. Weirdly enough, she got a kind of stage fright and sometimes just froze up and seemed fake. Or she thought she must seem fake. Who believes in a seer who is all nervous and sweaty and
um
this and
ah
that?

It wasn't just that she was extremely self-conscious, though that was a considerable part of it. One of the things she remembered most clearly about her childhood, though she couldn't explain it, was that she had hidden a lot. Found hiding places in every single room. Behind the large drapes in one room; in the cabinet beneath the bookcase in another; behind her headboard, which was tricky, but under the bed was too obvious; she'd even literally hidden inside the dryer, just like so many urban legends had warned against. But no one had turned it on, and she was positive that even if they had, she would have been able to kick it open.

Anyway, yes, she was self-conscious, and yes, that contributed to her problems with being “onstage,” even in front of one single person for whom she was doing a reading.

But even more than that, she was acutely aware of how important it was that she get it right. People counted on this. Admittedly, there were many false psychics out there—far more fake ones than real ones—because it was easy to prey upon a person's need for validation in any or all areas.
You're doing great, just keep going
or
Sit it out, the good will come, the bad will pass
 … Those two statements were usually true, but there was an important distinction between them, and when faced with an emotionally vulnerable person, Prinny was always afraid she was going to overcompensate one way or the other to make the person feel better.

That's why Chelsea was such a great reader. Way better than she thought, by the way. She'd spent years trying to understand what would make a character act a certain way. That was what made her readings so wonderfully raw and real. Every satisfied customer felt like a triumph for Chelsea, Prinny knew. And was that a bad thing? If it validated her passion for acting
and
genuinely served those who came in for help, was it wrong to let her think she was a faker even when she wasn't?

That was the kind of crazy moral question Prinny was faced with every day.

Like now. Reading Alex McConnell's wife.

“This way.” Prinny led Britni to the small room in back that she'd embellished so warmly for readings. The peach walls glowed softly under indirect lighting, and the room smelled of a strange mixture of peony, rose, and tobacco from the candle Diana had recently made as an experiment in the use of spent herbs and essential oils.

“This is sweet,” Britni murmured, taking in the surroundings. “Very quaint.”

Quaint
.
Sweet
. The words niggled, even though, from anyone else, they would have been a perfectly nice compliment. As it was, Prinny had to force herself to sound gracious. “Thank you so much. Please have a seat. Would you like some tea?” A wicked little joke crossed her mind about hemlock tea, and she chastised herself for even thinking it.

Though, could something like hemlock tea be made? Not that Prinny was serious, but was it possible for a person to just buy hemlock and soak it in boiling water and serve it to someone? And if so, would that be truly fatal, or were the stories of Aristotle and the so-called hemlock brew exaggerated for the sake of drama?

“No tea,” Britni said. “I don't suppose you have wine.”

“No, sorry.” Not for public consumption. But why not? Why on earth didn't they? Lord knows she got that question all the time.

She was tempted to offer Britni a glass of the wine she
did
have in the back, just informally, but she wasn't sure that was legal.

“That's all right.” Britni sighed. “Dean and DeLuca is my next stop. I suppose I can make it a few more minutes.” She gave a small, unamused laugh.
I'm kidding but not really
.

Prinny found herself wondering why anyone who was fortunate enough to be married to Alex McConnell—to get to see him all the time, last thing at night and first thing in the morning, if she wanted—would have such a seemingly urgent need for wine.

Definitely not a happy woman. Not depressed, either. Bored. Terminally bored.
Prinny got a flash of the feeling, and it choked through her ribs.
Nothing could give Britni McConnell pleasure even though she kept on trying to buy it.

“What brought you in here tonight?” Prinny asked.

“Oh, I don't know. When I saw the sign out front tonight, it felt like fate or something. I have a … friend … who has mentioned this place a few times.”

“Is your friend a customer?” Prinny's question was sincere. The connection to Alex was obvious, but she couldn't quite see him chatting about Cosmos, or Prinny, around the house.

“Not really.” She didn't elaborate, and there was no good reason to ask her to.

And there was nothing beneath it to pick up on.

Prinny took out her own tarot deck, as opposed to the one Chelsea usually used, and set it on the table. “Shuffle.”

She was nervous suddenly. Afraid of her truths, the ones she knew and the ones she didn't know.

A lot of people got that feeling. It was like waiting for a doctor to give test results—even though there might be a hopeful outcome, the fear of disappointment was always there.

She took the cards and shuffled them in silence. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and Prinny longed to open the door, but they were too close to the rest of the store. She and Chelsea never did private readings with an open door.

Yet still Prinny felt somehow deceptive doing this. As if she should make some admission to Britni, tell her she knew Alex or that she was likely the reason Alex had mentioned the store, or that she wanted Alex and that she hoped with all her own little black heart that she was going to read a divorce in the cards, which went against every standard and principle she had for reading.

But Britni shuffled on, oblivious to Prinny's frenzied thoughts; she was just trying very hard to sense the right time to stop. She wanted this to go well.

When she'd finished, she set the deck down.

“Cut three times to the left.”

She did.

Prinny put her hand on top of the deck and closed her eyes. “Now say your full name.”

“Britni Marie Spencer. But people call me Brit.”

Prinny frowned, opened her eyes. “Spencer?”

“That's right.”

“But I thought you were married.” That was stupid. Why did she even say that? Maybe Britni went by her maiden name. Or maybe that “was” her married name, for all Prinny knew. Prinny was letting her personal knowledge get in the way of things.

Britni—Brit, now—apparently didn't notice anything weird about the comment and simply gave a laugh. “I am. Wow, you picked up on that fast.”

“No, it's just—”

“That's one of my big questions. What's going to happen with my marriage.”

Ask who Roberto is
.

“Who is Roberto?” she asked, though usually at that point she would have asked if Roberto was the husband because she wouldn't have known otherwise.

Brit looked at her with shock, her face draining of color. “I—I beg your pardon?” Her immediate instinct—to bluff, to lie, to come up with any other answer—filled the room like fog.

“Who is Roberto?” Prinny asked, though the answer was coming clear to her.
Roberto is the boyfriend. Unclear if Brit can love, but she wants him. She wants to marry him. He excites her. She wants to know if she's going to marry him.
“He's not your husband.”

Will be. Will be
.

Cold washed over Prinny. She'd read for friends before, so it wasn't normally a problem to know a few personal facts about her questioner, but she'd never had the experience of knowing far more
facts
than the questioner realized.

Would it have been more ethical to say right up front that she recognized Brit from the picture on Alex's desk and therefore couldn't be impartial? Maybe. But that would have opened a whole new can of worms and possibly even gotten Alex into hot water for something he didn't do or have any knowledge of.