Foods, Fools and a Dead Psychic by Maria Swan (best books to read for students TXT) 📕

twice the social life I have. My Sunday afternoon is yours. If you want, we can try the Mall or you may even like Stein Mart, across the street from the mall. I found a real cute top at half price.”

“That’ll be fun. If we’re lucky, we’ll make it out of here before Tommy shows up with another one of his sad stories. By the way, that Kassandra is a riot, isn’t she? The way she described the usual participants at Psychic Fairs, she had the detectives in stiches.” She paused. My turn to redeem myself.

“She had nothing but good things to say about the — about the therapist you are working with. She had told me he was a celebrity in the world of psychics, the ones with real degrees, I mean.” I stopped. Brenda smiled at me. Whoa, I felt like a mountain of worries just rolled off my back.

“How about we leave around one o’clock. I’ll drive. And, remind me to share what little I know about Angelique.”

I’ve no clue how I made it to one o’clock without calling Kassandra or wearing out the floor where I paced back and forth to kill time. While the changes in Brenda were all super positives, I missed her snarky attitude. Again that little voice in my head told me to wait. I was getting used to that voice – maybe it was called maturity?

Brenda did find her dress at Stein Mart and only needed one size larger than usual. Interesting. Maybe she had already dropped some inches. I proudly flashed the email offering a 10% discount I’d received on my phone for being a Stein Mart subscriber.

The collective sense of urgency that seems to permeate shoppers when December hits was alive and well in every parking lot, every store, big or small. As the sun started to set, the holiday lights came on, giving even gas stations a festive look. It all begged for a happy hour detour to end our day gloriously and — to speak ‘Angelique’ in a public place where I couldn’t possibly make a fool of myself, right?

While we were both intrigued by The Covenant, a brand new restaurant that replaced the old vitamin store at the corner of Shea and Tatum, we headed to Z’Tejas where the covered patio seemed to hold the answer to our immediate mood, and the appetizers and drinks held no secrets after all our frequent visits over the years. We left Brenda’s purchases in her Honda and sat in the smoking section of the narrow, outside patio, with a great view of the busy surroundings. Brenda’s hand riffled in her bag before her derriere fully adjusted to the rattan chair. Cigarettes. Her tension was readable.

“I left my smokes home,” she said. “On purpose.” The hand on the table shook. “Maybe I’m pushing too hard. I’m setting myself up for failure.”

I searched for words of comfort, found none. This was supposed to be my time. My moment of happy discovery when Brenda would tell me that there was no marriage. Angelique was Tristan’s stepmother, or his aunt, or anything but his wife. Scenes reminiscent of old movies with young women having to give up the man they loved to marry the old rich man chosen by her impoverished family flashed through my mind in spite the fact there was no correlation with anything related to the Dumont’s marital status. Meantime, Brenda’s nicotine needs reached the drama status. Tension must be contagious. I found myself shaking.

“Brenda.” I breathed deeply. “I think we should get up and drive home. We’ll be there in five minutes. You can have a cigarette and we can share a glass of wine and a piece of cheese so we don’t mess with all that you’ve accomplished so far.”

At first she just blinked, then it must have sunk in. She stood, still visibly shaken, turned to the smiling waitress heading our way. “Miss, I’m so sorry. We have an emergency; we must leave. Please excuse us.” She laid a $5 bill on the table and pushed me toward the small gate opening onto the street. We drove in silence. About six minutes later, Brenda lit her cigarette. She blew the first puff of smoke with the same expression I probably wore after a particularly satisfying orgasm. I went to the kitchen to get a bottle of Pinot Grigio from her refrigerator. I had to get the right mood back for our Angelique chat. That’s probably where I was when Bob Clarke knocked on the door. When I got back with the two stem glasses he was discussing Christmas lights for Brenda’s front yard Palo Verde tree.

He nodded at me. I rested the Pinot and the glasses on the low table by the couch, picked up my purse and headed home. I doubt Brenda even noticed my exit. And Dior seemed as bamboozled by Bob as Brenda was. I suspected Bob of using that bacon trick like Jack Nicholson in the movie As Good as it Gets; not that it really mattered at this point.

EIGHT

M IS FOR Monica, and also for moody.

M is for Monday. Make that a double M, for Monday Morning. Put it all together and what do you get? Monica is moody because it’s Monday morning. The end. Well, not really. More like the beginning of a new week. And what a way to start the week. I don’t know why but I found myself driving south on the 51 instead of Tatum Boulevard.

On a Monday morning. Shoot me now.

Everything was going south, not just me. My Fiat didn’t handle as smoothly as usual. Maybe it’s true that we attract what we project. I read that in a book. So now my car acted moody, just like me. I got off on Glendale Avenue and drove surface streets to the office where I parked next to Scott’s truck.

“Morning Scott. Lots of new listings?” Scott was in charge of installing and removing our real estate signs.

He