Heather Graham - A Season of Miracles

“Behave, now,” Kelly admonished.

“Behave? Good heavens, Mother. I want this witch to go wild, have a little fun.”

“She can’t go too wild, and you know it.”

“Why not? I’m buying her the biggest Guinness in the place the moment we get there. But don’t worry, because I’ll be there, protecting her.”

Jillian grinned. Connie was the closest thing to a sister she had. In school, Connie had been a class ahead of her, and from the start, she hadn’t been in the least intimidated by the Llewellyn power, money or prestige. She had allowed Jillian to see the streets of New York, the real streets. They had gotten into a few scrapes, but they had also gotten out of them. Thanks to Connie, she had seen harsh things firsthand: prostitutes on the street turning tricks so they could afford another line of cocaine, AIDS victims dying with no hope, kind priests, rabbis, laymen and women determined to help them.

“You are going to let loose, right?” Connie asked her, angling her dark head in question as she studied Jillian.

“You bet I am!” Jillian teased back.

“You can drink like an Irish potato digger, cuss like my pa, and trust in me to see that you’re okay.”

“Aye, and that I will,” Jillian agreed, putting on the appropriate accent. She was good with accents and loved the theater. She still played with the idea of heading out to audition for Broadway one day.

“All righty, then. Jillian and I are on our way out, Mother.”

“Toast me, ladies.”

“We will,” Jillian promised, as Connie dragged her out the door. They flagged down a cabdriver, who, despite the absurdities rife on the street that night, kept staring at them in the rearview mirror.

“See?” Connie teased. “He’s watching you.”

“Hey, you’re the princess tonight.”

“Sad but true, everyone loves an evil woman best,” Connie advised.

In a few minutes they reached Hennessey’s Pub, down in the Village. Though the place was rocking, it was doing so in the nicest way. The music was loud, but not too loud. The band was Irish-American, playing mostly rock, some folk, all with a wee bit of the Old Country thrown in. Drinks had been flowing, but not to the extent that too many drunks were weaving around. For the most part, the clientele was in a good mood. Many people were in costume, from the group dressed as the different colors of M&M’s to the brawny exercise guru in the Carmen Miranda skirt, bra, sandals and fruit headdress. He greeted Connie by name right away. Connie introduced him to Jillian—no last name—as Sergeant Tip Guyer of New York’s finest. Connie did the introductions, and the cop instantly offered to treat them to a couple of beers while telling Connie that she could find her “old man” just inside by the bar, watching ESPN.

“Can you imagine? A party—and they’re watching sports,” she said with disgust. “Tip, if you think you can reach the bar, we’ll take you up on those beers.”

Tip nodded, flashing an appreciative smile at Jillian.

“He can’t believe his good luck,” Connie said, when the man had gone.

“His good luck?”

“Getting to hang with you.”

“Oh, Connie, please.”

“Not because of who you are—just because he wants to bask in your gorgeous nearness.”

“Connie…”

“And there’s good old Joe, not even noticing us, just watching the game.”

“I’m sure he can’t hear too much, with all the music, so he has to study the TV closely,” Jillian teased. There was a tap on her shoulder. A giant leprechaun was asking her to dance, but she wasn’t ready for that quite yet, so she declined politely and asked him to come back in a while.

“Dancing is fun, and you’re out to have fun,” Connie reminded her.

“I intend to dance. But you’ve asked Carmen Miranda to bring us drinks, remember?”

And then she saw the tarot card reader.

“Hey, look, there’s a fortune-teller.”

“A fortune-teller? What fun!” Connie said.

“She’s great.” Tip had rejoined them, bearing glasses of ale. He passed them over as he went on. “She’s interesting. She has you lay out the cards, then she tells you what they mean and how the future might affect you. I have a confrontation coming in my future.”

“How unusual—for a cop,” Jillian teased.

He shrugged. “A nonbeliever. So many are. But she’s really good. It’s not just hocus-pocus. Maybe she’s a psychologist by day, desperate for more interesting characters by night. She told me to watch my temper. Can you imagine?”

“Yes, Tip,” Connie said thoughtfully, “I’m afraid I can.”

As Tip and Connie started discussing the idiocies he saw on the streets of New York every day, Jillian had the strangest feeling. It was as if she knew him. Of course she knew him she told herself; Connie had just introduced her. But she felt as if she had known him before. A long time ago. Was it true, she wondered, that you recognized people in life who you might like, who would be your friends, given half a chance?

Suddenly she noticed that the conversation had stopped and he was staring at her, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away from her. “Look at you, looking so solemn. Lighten up. It’s Halloween. Ghosts and goblins and ghouls. Okay, maybe that’s a bad example. Think Christmas. Santa Claus. Ho, ho, ho. Pine trees, packages, Christmas carolers—”

“Really bad traffic, people shoving each other in stores over the newest toy craze, badly wired lights sizzling families to a crisp.”

They all spun around. Connie’s husband, Joe, had joined them. Despite his words of doom and gloom, he spoke cheerfully.

“Back to Christmas,” Connie said sternly. “Pine trees, packages, the girls giggling, Santa Claus—and miracles.”

“You don’t really believe in miracles, do you?” Tip asked.

“And why not?” Connie demanded. “There are plenty of strange things in this world.”

“And the next, too,” Joe said with a depth of sincerity that caused his wife to stare at him again.

“What is this? We’re not here to ponder the next life,” she protested. “We’re partying. Think good times only.”

“All right,” Joe said. “Let the good times roll. But let’s test out the world of the occult. We won’t say a word to the tarot card reader. I’ll go to her with Jillian on my arm. Connie, you go with Tip. We’ll test her powers.”

“She doesn’t claim to have powers,” Tip reminded him.

“Tip, did I ever tell you how good you look in that color bra?” Joe teased him.

“Ah, honey, you’re going to make me blush. But go ahead—test her out. I’ve already seen her. I’ll escort Connie, then you come along with Jillian. You’ll see.”

Carrying their drinks, they joined the line for the tarot card reader. She was a beautiful woman. Her skin was a tawny copper color, her eyes a hazel that gleamed golden in the candlelight. She was dressed for the part in gypsy attire—a sweeping, multicolored skirt, a gold-colored peasant blouse, and a scarf in various shades of gold and copper tied around her head. She was, according to the glittery name plaque in front of her, Madame Zena.

From her place in line, Jillian sipped her Guinness and watched as the woman laid down the cards. The customer, a pretty young woman in a harem costume, tapped one of the cards in dismay. “Oh no, that means death, right?”

Madame Zena shook her head patiently. “It’s not just the cards themselves that speak to you, it is their arrangement. These cards warn you…” She looked up, staring at the girl sternly. “Were you planning on taking the subway back out to Brooklyn alone?”

“Brooklyn—yes, it’s where I live. I’m a Fine Arts student.”