Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves(48)

Observing Gideon and Miriam closely, the way their bodies were turned more to each other, as if shutting out the rest of the world, Romy thought their relationship had possibilities that she could playfully use in their card layouts.

She turned over Miriam’s three cards and tapped the Two of Clubs. “There is opposition to yuir desires.” The young woman appeared so stiff and starchy, she would probably resist any change as threatening, as fearful. Next, Romy noted the Three of Clubs, adjacent to the Deuce. “But another chance will be given ye – financially.” And then, the Three of Hearts. “This represents a favorable outcome to happiness,” she summed up with an iridescent smile.

Always keep the inquirer happy.

With Gideon’s card spread, she turned over the King of Hearts – what her mum called the Suicide king because of the sword behind his head, making him appear as if he were stabbing himself. Next, the Seven of Spades, and, lastly, the Two of Hearts. Her finger hovered over, first, the King of Hearts, a fair-haired man with a good nature. She could run with that.

“Ye will be a fair ruler, if you ignore others’ advise. However, this Seven of spades, indicates a dire warning card. There will be two relationships. Still, the Two of Hearts shows support coming from a partner, if ye choose wisely.”

What codswallop. And from his expression, the rolling of his eyes, he felt the same.

All these readings at one setting were taking much more energy than she had anticipated. And there was still to go Duke, with his tetchy visage. “Yuir turn, Duke.”

She passed him the deck, their fingers brushing in the transfer, and it was as if static electricity had prickled the fine hairs on her arms. Their startled gazes clashed above their clasped hands, cupping the deck.

He took control of it, shuffled and, riffling through the cards like a man long familiar with them, then cut them into three piles.

She waited until he had slouched back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest, as if daring her, before she slowly turned the three piles over to view each card below.

All eyes were upon her, expectantly. As if this were some pivotal moment in each of their lives.

She dreaded what she might see unfolded before her – ridiculously dreading, needlessly dreading, because this was all a fabrication on her part, wasn’t it?

She addressed the Nine of Hearts, which caught her eye first. Restlessness. Then, the Ten of Hearts – someone who safe-boxed their strong feelings; still, there showed the possibility of wishes or dreams fulfilled. But the next one would factor in gravely with the Nine of Hearts. Lastly, she glanced at it. The fiery Queen of Clubs. What kind of story could she – should she – make of this spread?

She cleared her throat and tapped the Nine of Hearts. “All that ye have yearned for can be yuirs. All the restlessness vanquished from yuir life – if ye but risk sailing the High Seas every once and while, so to speak. But ye must heed the advice of the young woman with the fiery spirit in order for yuir dreams to come true.”

Duke’s cigar-brown mustache wobbled. “And I suppose you are the young woman with the fiery spirit?”

Around her and Duke, breaths audibly sucked in the remnants of the kitchen’s fragrant air.

She lifted one brow and grinned triumphantly. “But who else? Are ye not consulting me at this very moment?”

§ § §

Sally or Charlotte?

Which one?

They both could comfortably fit the hazy image that was Duke’s eternal longing for a home, a wife, a family.

But which woman?

A home. A wife. A clan.

So many past Christmases spent far from home. In New Zeeland’s squalid dives, with Algeria’s perfumed whores, and among Japan’s gaudy geishas.

Yet none of them in his wildest imagination, nor Edgar Allen Poe’s, for that matter, came close to this harridan, this creatively alive female, Romy Sonnenschein.

Not beautiful by society’s standards, but . . .

Later that Christmas night Duke’s hand gradually accelerated stroking his thick length for less than satisfying, relief . . .

. . . but, yet, he desired her. Desired her above the others.





§ CHAPTER TWELVE §




Rituals.

For Romy, they provided valuable stability in a crazy, unstable world. Evenings spent reading with the reluctant Duke, listening to the rumble of his low voice, inhaling his particular smell – citrusy soap, old leather, and fresh hay – was reassurance that all was in order in this tidy little corner of her world right now.

That particular morning, January 1st, 1939, she was still in the kitchen, long after breakfast, performing yet another ritual – preparing the traditional Irish dish for a New Year feast, filled with luck and abundance.

The seasoned corned beef was simmering, the cabbage boiling. She was dicing the carrots, potatoes, and onions – and then Duke had to stride in, his spurs clanking on the flagstones like the closing of a cell gate.

Naturally, she did not hear that clanking until he was almost directly behind her, but this time he was well out of the way of her paring knife, as she whirled at the sound of her name.

His brows lowered over puzzled eyes. “You didn’t hear me, did you.” It was a statement, not a question. “And you don’t have the radio booming.”

She shook her head and with an improvisation that surprised even herself, rebutted, “Nay, I suppose ‘tis its loud street music all these years that has deafened me ears.”