Right now my thoughts weren’t with the fishies, though, but instead on what Hector had said about the olive ranch. Those poor people. Planting trees to harvest from was a long-term proposition. It would be the same with pecan trees or peaches. Farmers were in it for the duration, especially tree farmers.
A pelican lit on the railing near the people fishing and cocked its huge head, hoping perhaps for a free snack. Such a strange-looking bird, resembling a dinosaur more than a finch. I resumed my strolling and people watching. A gray-haired couple in matching shorts and jackets power-walked past me, clearly locals on a mission to get their heart rates up in this fresh, salty breeze. Two moms pushing sleeping babies in strollers chatted as they ambled.
I slowed at the sight of a shop painted blue and white with a windowed octagonal tower, possibly meant to resemble a very short lighthouse. A cutout of a hand hung from a bracket sticking out from the wall, framed by a curvy border reading, MADAME ALLEGRA, PALM READER. PAST, PRESENT, FUTURE TOLD. The fingers and lines on the palm bore esoteric labels. I’d never been a woo-woo type, as Alana once put it. But, hey, I was on vacation. This could be fun, and nobody was in line. I pulled open the door, jangling a bell hanging from it, the sound reminiscent of the bell on my store’s door back in South Lick.
Inside the tower, the room was filled with ornate statuary. Paintings of vaguely spiritual subjects filled the walls. From in here I realized the openings high up in the tower were stained glass windows, some depicting signs of the zodiac, like a scorpion and a goat. Others were harder to figure out, except one that showed a spray of cards. In a corner of the room, two chairs sat at right angles with a small table between them. A low lamp cast a warm, intimate light and the air smelled of sandalwood, as if incense had been burned in the past. Nowhere was a posted list of prices.
A woman wearing a rainbow-colored turban pushed aside a heavy curtain covering a doorway. “Welcome, friend. I am Madame Allegra.” She had a vaguely Eastern European accent, which might or might not have been real, and her eyes were heavily made up to dramatic effect. She stood in front of me, a beatific smile playing around her mouth, her hands clasped in front of the white robe she wore. A heavy necklace featuring stones in all colors was her only ornamentation beyond the turban.
“Thank you. I wondered what it costs to have my palm read.” Even as I spoke I noticed her gaze subtly checking out my clothes, my bag, my sandals. This woman was a detective of sorts, gathering data so she could later claim to know something about me.
She quoted me a price and gestured with a flourish toward one of the chairs. I nodded and sat, rubbing my hands on my skirt. Her first pronouncement would probably be, “You ate bosillos in your very recent past.”
She took both of my hands in hers and examined the backs. It was an intimate act, to feel her long, smooth fingers and cool palms. I nearly pulled my hands back, but a curiosity had seized me. What would she see? Did she notice the scar from when hot oil had splashed onto my knuckles from a sausage that had exploded on the grill? Could she feel the strength in my palms from years of wielding hammers and saws, not to mention coaxing a bicycle uphill? What did she think about my only ring, an engraved silver band I wore on my right pinky?
Turning my hands palm up, she spent a long time looking from one to the other, finally laying down my left hand and taking my right in her left. “You are right-handed.”
I only nodded. She’d seen that my right hand was more worn, had more calluses, was stronger.
“Your left hand indicates your potential. Your right is what you have done with it.” She closed her eyes for a moment, mascara-laden lashes stark against her pale skin.
The noises from the pier were muted. I had the sense of being in a time out of time, removed from reality. I wasn’t sure I liked it.
Madame Allegra opened her eyes and began tracing the lines on my palm with her index finger, another intimate gesture. Her nails didn’t extend beyond her fingertips and were painted a silvery white.
I hadn’t understood how sensitive the skin on my palm was before now, and I realized I’d never really looked at the spidery lines. I’d heard terms like life line and heart line, but had no idea what they meant. I supposed she would find meaning in the places where the lines crossed—and where they didn’t.
“You are a visitor,” she began. “You have had great pain in your life, and have survived danger.” She paused.
So far? All true. And vague enough to apply to anyone. My not-woo-woo credentials remained intact.
“Your heart line is long and straight. You are in touch with your emotions and are able to have a strong love for someone.”
Abe. Interesting she would say that in the absence of a ring on my left hand.
She ran her index finger across the second horizontal line. “You pay attention to detail and are organized, but sometimes you take risks.”
Accurate. Still, I truly had no idea how she could tell that from lines on my hand.
She traced down the line that ran from my middle finger to the bottom of my palm. Her finger halted where it touched the line curving around the base of my thumb. “During the next few days more danger will arise,
