With a quickly erased dark look, Jason extracts his hand and excuses himself. “I need to get my luggage.”
“I’ll collect it,” Mick offers, not missing the swift transformation from worried misgiving to a warm smile on Cynthia’s face. This woman knows things.
She’d only held Jason’s hand for a moment, but an instant’s all that’s necessary to receive a clairaudient impression. Inaudible to everyone else, Cynthia heard the distinct crash of waves growing in volume until it filled the air like thunder. She knows with certainty that it was precognitive in nature, a glimmer of something in advance of its occurrence. Something ominous.
“I’ve got it, man, thanks anyway,” Jason says, backing away before turning to go collect his luggage.
As Mick watches Jason’s retreating back, trying to decipher his own feelings, the incoming flight from Boston is announced.
Emma returns unobserved, taking in the way Mick’s hands rest on his uneven hips—the left a few inches higher than the right. It would be hard to miss those masculine, denim-covered legs set in that determined stance. Hair, the wilder side of conservative, curls around his ears. His profile has a chiseled quality about it, with strong, imperfect features.
“Hi Mick, I’m back on time.” Emma’s smile is contagious as she rolls up and joins the group.
“That you are.” He smiles, noting that her presence does something delightful to his insides. Watch it, mister, he reminds himself. If you don’t let anyone into your life, you won’t have anyone to lose. Past experience has been clear about that.
Emma turns to Cynthia and shakes her hand. “I’m Emma Benton. I just arrived from San Diego.”
“Hi Emma, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Cynthia Winters; I’m here from Tucson.”
“I can see you brought the sunshine with you,” Emma responds to the older woman who takes her hand in both of hers and turns it palm up.
“Oh, are you a palm reader?” A mixture of excitement and intrigue lace Emma’s voice. “I’ve never had my palm read before.”
“It’s just a little hobby of mine,” Cynthia says, studying the outstretched hand.
“What do you see?” Emma asks, an eager lift in her tone.
“The head line, here,” Cynthia says, trailing her own finger along the lower of the two lines running horizontally across Emma’s hand, “is bound to your life line, showing both caution and sensitivity. The forked end to the head line, here,” she points, “indicates mental flexibility, plus the gift of seeing other people’s viewpoints.”
Holding high the name-board for “F. Davies,” Mick feigns concern in locating the last arrival while at the same time, trying to overhear what Cynthia is saying to Emma about her palm. Not that I believe in fortune-telling, he assures himself.
Jason returns with a suitcase in each hand, and a backpack slung over his shoulder. “Should I put them here?” he indicates the baggage trolley with his head.
“Yes, that would be great,” Mick answers, as the tall, willowy woman continues reading the volume that is Emma’s hand.
Cynthia’s forehead creases a little. She leans in close so that only Emma can hear and points to a line of tiny dots on her palm.
“That’s odd. I’ve never noticed those before,” Emma says.
“Dots aren’t always this well pronounced on a palm. They can represent concerns about ill health or relationships, but that’s not what I sense for you. They can also serve as a warning sign.” Before releasing Emma’s hand, Cynthia gives it a gentle squeeze. “We’ll talk more later,” she whispers.
Really God? Fran mentally asks a supposedly loving deity as the airplane wheels touch down. I’m heartbroken that I can’t have children and you seat me next to a woman with a toddler and a newborn on an almost six-hour flight?
She turns to the exhausted woman in the window seat. “I hope the rest of your trip goes well. Can I get anything out of the overhead compartment for you?”
After placing the woman’s bags and children’s paraphernalia into the seat where she’d been sitting, Fran waves at the little girl, Sarah.
Sarah pries up three fingers on her right hand with her left hand and announces with pride, “I’m fwee.”
With the back of her hand, Fran wipes a tear from her cheek and steps into the aisle, joining the crowd of passengers heading toward the front of the plane. Her head is pounding like a kettle drum. She doesn’t enjoy flying but has learned to tolerate it over the years. When Fran started traveling for work, she discovered that sitting behind the first bulkhead in the aircraft eliminates another passenger reclining in your lap, you gain an extra bit of leg room, and are among the first to deplane.
Simple and straightforward, Fran is a practical woman. In fact, her most recent performance review at work indicates that she’s “Terrifyingly efficient and organized.” After hooking her glasses on the neck of her circumspect, navy blue sweater set, she heads toward the baggage area, stopping at the restroom along the way.
She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror while waiting in line and mentally wrings her hands. Dishwater blonde is an accurate term. She gets an even closer view when she washes her hands. Her hazel eyes take in hair that looks like it’s been beaten into submission and shellacked into place like a helmet with several layers of spray. I don’t want to do this anymore. I want something else—anything else will do.
After pasting a smile on her face, she continues to the baggage claim area. From a distance, she spots her name-board and continues on. Stopping in front of the man holding the sign, she extends her hand and introduces herself. “Hello, I’m Fran Davies.”
Their small group heads en masse to the parking area. Jason brings up the rear, taking mental stock of the females. This group consists of an older, gypsy-looking woman; a woman so rigid she’d make a great prison warden; and a beautiful gimp in a wheelchair.
Jason turns his attention
