Microsoft Word - FortunesFool.rtf (11 page)

of him. Thankfully he was half under a heavy table cloth.

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"This is your Saturn finger. Your most powerful finger. It's thicker and heavier than the others, and see how your Jupiter finger bends

towards it?" She traced up his pointer finger. He grunted. "This tells me you're sensible. Controlled, and you have unusual endurance. You are

almost too disciplined, but it leads to your great achievement." She lifted his palm up at her eye level, then rested it back down onto the table.

"Your Saturn mound is very high. You had a very troubled youth.

Illness? There's loss of a parent? Separation from your family. Your heart was broken." Her eyes were warm like the color of whiskey and then she looked back down again. "But you've overcome all that. You've worked hard to do so."

He didn't need her pity.

"Enough, this is not what I came here for." He pulled his hand back, but her grip was firm. He rose up and looked around to see if anyone

watched them.

"Stay, please. I'm not done yet."

He sat back down. "Make it quick." He lived his past, he didn't need any reminders of it.

"Maybe you would like to hear the interesting part?"

"Since I don't believe any of it, none of it is interesting."

"Well, maybe I can change your mind."

He looked at her, expectant, even though he was determined to

discount everything she said. Her eyes held something closer, though, as if she were weighing her words.

"Your hands are thick, they move easily, but can't be manipulated.

That means you have a lot of sexual energy, that you enjoy giving and

receiving pleasure." She paused, "But, your Plain of Neptune is low, which warns me that although you are perceptive, you don't like personal involvement, you like being detached." She brushed her hand over the back of his. "Your skin is warm and not too soft, but yet not rough and calloused. That means that you're a responsive lover, but you like to

assert yourself, too."

He reminded himself to breathe.

"Your fingers are thick. This means you love the sensual. Food,

comfort, and large amounts of carnal pleasure."

"And what would you know about carnal pleasure?" His voice came out rough and scratchy like charcoal embers.

"Enough to know what I'm talking about." Her dulcet answer

snapped his head back.

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He rose to her challenge. "Would you like to show me how much?"

"Five dollars isn't enough."

"Well, what if I made it twenty?"

She patted his hand. "That's sure a lot of money to a charity case

like myself, but I'm not a whore for any man, no matter my lack of

finances."

He stood up reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded wad of

bills, peeled five singles off, and threw it on the table.

"You know where to reach me if you need any more." He turned

away from her and walked over to the hearth where his brandy waited.

With one swallow he tossed it down and, grabbing his coat off the tree,

stalked out the door.

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The ice crackled under their feet as they walked up the steps. Abby

gripped the wobbly railing and held on for dear life as her feet slipped out from under her. Her mother grabbed her by the elbow, hauling her

up.

"I'll have to remember to put the ashes on the stairs." Her mother's voice was muffled from the scarf wrapped around the lower half of her

face."If we had the coal in the first place." Abby was too mad to keep the scorn from her voice.

"We could go and cut some trees down." Camille held on to her

other elbow and steadied her as she reached the porch.

Abby rolled her eyes. Of course Camille, the eternal optimist, still

chipper even with what they'd been through. Chop wood. Right. Like any

one of them could fell a tree.

Ever since her father's estate attorney paid a call to inform her

mother that there were no funds left unless they sold the house, Abby

became a cynic. Selling would turn them from poor to homeless. The

money would be eaten up in rent. At least this way they had a roof over

their heads. And her mother had something for her daughters, even if she had nothing for herself.

And there was the crux. For as much as strange and eccentric as her

family was, and as angry as Abby got at the ostracism it caused, her

mother was selfless in her motivations. For that, Abby stood as her

staunchest ally. She would even go so far as to admit that growing up the way she did sculpted her character. You learned very fast when you are

perceived as different to not judge others lest you be judged. Or, you

were eaten with anger.

Her mother unlocked the door and shooed them all into the vestibule

to hang their woolen coats and hats. Abby would have loved to keep hers

on. Her breath was still coming out in puffs of white.

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She stomped her feet on the floor shaking the clumps of snow off

her feet and bent over to unlace her boots.

"Maybe we should all sleep in my room tonight. That way we can

combine all the wood and make the room toasty?" Her mother looked at her so hopefully she couldn't say no. And she desperately wanted to. That odious man, Mr. Caden Dupree, infuriated her and she wanted to go

brood by herself. What she needed to do was berate herself for finding

him even more attractive. What was wrong with her? He was angry,

nasty, and callous without an iota of compassion.

But his hands said that wasn't the truth.

In his hands were strength, diligence, and sensuality. All of which

made for a potent draw. One that she wanted to dwell on, in private, for as long as she could, but that didn't look like it would happen. At least, not tonight.

She sighed. "That would be fine." She gave her mother a hug. "I'll get dressed and bring over my blankets."

"What fun!" Camille clapped. "We can tell each other all about our clients. I had some interesting ones." She shucked her boots off and started to head up the stairs but turned back to look at Abby. "I saw the Vice President of Boston Trust at your table, Abby. You must tell us

what happened with him." Her eyes lit up. "Maybe Mother can do a reading on you and see if he will ask for your hand!"

Abby turned to look at her mother, "Mother, please, no."

Her mother smiled and shook her head.

"Forevermore, Camille! Will you please stop trying to play the

matchmaker?" Abby stomped up the stairs and wanted to smack the

smirk off her sister. "Really. You would think I was stale cheese on the shelf the way you try and get rid of me."

Camille laughed. "Well, you are on the shelf, but you smell

exquisite from all that bathing."

Mother started chuckling and the sound made Abby smile, too.

"Well, water is free but if we ever have to pay for it, I'll make a fine Limburger."

She slipped into her room before her sister could make another

remark and started to undress. Wherever the conversations led tonight,

she needed to keep them away from Mr. Dupree. If her mother ever

found out how she taunted him she would refuse to let her read again.

Not that Abby would mind never reading another palm, but she did break

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a code of conduct for her own personal gain. Even if it was just to

torment. And she did gain. Five dollars worth.

She had slipped the money discreetly into the top of her boot, and

now she stood undressed in the middle of her chilled room with it in her hand. If she gave it to her mother, which she wanted to do, she would

have to answer questions which would lead to her lying. If there was one thing Abby knew about herself it was that she could not lie to her

mother. Whether it was psychic ability, or the fact that she could read her daughter's face, her mother knew the moment Abby tried to lie. Too

much had already gone wrong in their family for her to start heaping

broken trust into the cauldron.

Maybe there would be some way she could buy something they

needed with the money. Like coal, or food later on in the winter.

She looked at the bills on her bed and felt sick. What was even

worse than taking it, was what she saw in his hand. Amongst all of that

control were shadowed bits of his past, and his true character. His lines concurred with her intuitions, but for the most part she ignored what

people's hands said. Even though she had been taught how to read palms

as soon as she could comprehend the subtle differences, she never put all her faith in what she saw there.

It was enough to know that taking that money had been the worst

thing she had done, and that for all his arrogance, he didn't deserve what she had done.

She picked the money up off her bed and tucked it into a bureau

draw. Guilt was not a feeling she was accustomed to and it sat on her

heavily.

There was a light knock on the door. "Abby, you ready?"

Her sister's voice came muffled through the heavy wood.

"I'll be right there, go on without me."

"May I come in?"

Abby heaved a sigh. This huge house left to three women and she

still could never find a moment alone.

"Yes."

Camille slipped in, her mended wrap snug around her shoulders

with her hair braided like a rope down her back.

She sat down on the edge of Abby's bed and stared at her.

Abby sighed, untied her stockings, and started to roll them down.

"What would you like, Camille?"

Camille started to play with the hole in Abby's crazy quilt.

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"Stop. Grandmother and I worked hard on that."

"I could embroider a ribbon rose here to cover the hole." Camille smoothed down the velvet nap.

"That would be nice." She stopped to fold up her stocking and

looked at her sister. "Can you loosen my laces?"

Camille went around to her back and started pulling the strings out

just enough.

"Ready?" Camille moved to the front and Abby took a deep breath and held it. Camille unbuttoned the busk, and the whole corset came off

in one piece.

Abby slowly let her breath out and took another, then rolled her

shoulders. "Camille, what would you like?"

"I saw Mr. Dupree give you some money."

* * * *

He could feel it start, that lightning ball that crackled at the base of his spine and worked itself up to his scalp until his whole body tensed

and fixated with it. Almost, just there, dangling out of reach, but then it dissipated.

What was her name? Abigail. Her hands. He focused on how her

hands caressed his, how they mimicked the teasing of a high paid

courtesan. He had no idea his palms could be so sensitive or that they

were routed to his cock.

She'd taken him aback with her dark charred voice and her subtle

sexuality. How she told him the kind of lover he was with complete

understanding, but face of an ingénue.

He wanted her hands again. But on his cock, where they were meant

to be, stroking him with that smile that made him hard.

Almost there, almost there. His eyes were slammed shut and Abigail

told him how he loved the sensual, how he gave and received pleasure.

He wanted to see her naked. What she looked like in climax.

There. There…now, yes, yes, yes…His scalp tingled and he grunted

as spasms wracked him.

"Well, you took forever and a day tonight."

Funny, when had her voice begun to grate on him, sounding

petulant and coquettish?

He should have told her not to speak under any circumstances,

because it killed any relaxation he gained.

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"Shut up, Beatrice." He pulled out of her and walked over to the wash basin, ignoring her staged moue.

"What was wrong tonight?" She rolled over onto her stomach and looked at him over her shoulder.

You. You were wrong.
You
are
wrong.

"How long have we had this arrangement now? Five years?" He

glanced at her as he washed himself off.

"Yes." A shadow crossed her face, but she reined it.

He frowned. She was never a good actress.

No use for it, though. He'd been thinking about cutting out long

before now. He liked her, but he was starting to want more. Whatever it

would be, Beatrice was not the one he wanted it with. It made him feel

bad because she'd been there while he worked himself up, and he made

sure she got her share of that hard work. He was always fair, but feeling bad about decisions didn't get them done.

"Is there another woman?" Her voice was soft and broken.

She surprised him. He never thought she held that much emotion for

their relationship. But that was a lie. Otherwise he would have cut it off weeks ago.

Remembering Abigail while he was here reinforced how stale his

fling with Beatrice was. There was nothing of substance in his

arrangement with Bea, so there was no use in maintaining it.

He found her when they were both poor and just barely off the

streets. Only he had just started a good job at Boston Trust as an errand boy, running papers for the presidents and CEOs of the larger Boston

businesses. He took care of her, always making sure she had food, and as soon as he could afford to, he bought her clothes and eventually the

house. Not out of undying emotion, but a sort of one hand washing the

other. Because, although he didn't love her, he didn't want to see her sick on the streets pimping herself to handfuls of diseased men.