insurance, I couldn’t afford to fork over hundreds to go rafting with other desperate singles.
No, not “desperate,” I reminded myself. Organized.
But still, there was something I didn’t like about the idea of paying a membership fee. It seemed so…forced. I wanted to be organized, but I also wanted to preserve a bit of the illusion that I would meet Mr. One-in-a-Million by fortuitous chance.
I flipped back through the pages toward the Culture section, stopping briefly in the personals at Men Looking For Women, but then deciding to save that entertainment for later.
The Culture section had everything from music clubs to art gallery listings, and went on for pages and pages. I browsed through it and found a college production of Shakespeare’s “Cymbeline”, performed on the Reed College lawn; a jazz group scheduled for a night at Pioneer Courthouse Square; and myriad events that made me feel like I was getting old. They sounded so loud. And smoky. Ugh.
I bought an Oregonian for its Friday pull-out A&E section, and found a hike along a trail in the Columbia Gorge, organized by Portland Community College, to observe spring wildflowers and wildlife. Five dollars, bring your own lunch and water to the specified meeting point.
They all held possibilities for meeting a man, although you can’t talk during a play. I might be able to drag Louise or Cassie along with me to the jazz night at Pioneer Courthouse Square, but I didn’t really like jazz. But guys seemed to, so maybe. The hike—maybe, although my hunch was that guys would prefer to think of themselves as the type of outdoorsmen who didn’t need a guide.
On the other hand, wouldn’t it be nice to find someone who enjoyed nature for reasons other than shooting deer and drinking beer by the fire?
I’d always liked those naturalists on television, the men who talked with calm, knowledgeable assurance, and had the patience to wait for hours behind a bit of shrubbery for the chance of seeing an otter or black bear. Any guy who would go on a guided nature walk in the gorge had to be a nice guy.
Some instinct had me glance up from the paper, and there was Robert, not fifteen feet away, headed for the second tunnel that led to the food court. He turned his head and saw me, and I felt my cheeks heat. I smiled weakly at him, feeling like a dog caught eating the cat’s food, and he gave me an uncertain little wave and then kept going.
Damn. He probably thought I’d been lying about the appointments, to avoid eating with him. I folded up the Willamette Week and the A&E section, and picked up the clothes, feeling like a clod. I shouldn’t have dawdled here, when I knew there was the danger of his coming by and seeing me. Stupid, stupid.
Why did emotions have to create so many delicate webs of pain, so easy to blunder through? And how many would be destroyed, both my own and others, by the time I’d found my Mr. Right?
Maybe there was a reason love and war were so often mentioned together. In both cases, the casualties were legion.
“This is you, the Page of Wands,” Cassie said, pointing to the tarot card in the center of the layout. We were sitting on the floor of Louise’s eighth-floor apartment, later that same day. Louise had invited us over to dinner, and Scott would be coming by in time for dessert. The apartment was filled with the scent of baking lasagne, likely made with five or six exotic cheeses and half a dozen vegetables I’d never heard of. Louise liked to try recipes from trendy cookbooks.
Louise was already looking more healthy now that she was working days: the shadows were gone from beneath her eyes, and her skin had a touch of color beneath her darkening freckles.
Louise’s apartment is in a new-ish building in the heart of downtown, the rent partially subsidized by her well-off parents, who slept better at night knowing that their daughter was in a safe place, with security cameras in the halls and a man at the desk in the lobby. Counselors at crisis lines did not make much money, and Louise would be living somewhere like I did if not for her parents. I envied her modern bathroom and the balcony with a view, but I liked where I lived with Cassie and wasn’t sure I’d trade.
“Why the Page of Wands?” I asked Cassie.
“Pages are for young women with lots of creative energy. They tend to be action-oriented.”
“Okay.” I shuffled the deck, the oversize cards awkward in my hands, and then Cassie laid them out in what she called the “gypsy spread.” My question for the cards was what my love life would be like in the next four months.
“These cards on either side of you represent aspects of yourself,” she said. “Seven of Swords—you have plans, but don’t know how to put them into effect, or whether they will succeed or fail. The Emperor—you are taking action in the real world.”
“That fits well enough.”
Cassie looked up at me with a grin, henna-red hair loose and slightly tangled, that and her elflike eyes making her look very much the part of the fortune-teller. Louise sat to one side, arms crossed over her chest, observing with a half smile on her lips. She claimed to not believe in spirits or supernatural forces, and said that the only useful thing about tarot cards was that they served as a good projective test for people’s psyches. You saw in the pictures what your personality allowed you to see, and nothing more.
Me, I chose to believe the cards only when they told me what I wanted to hear.
Cassie went through the aspects of the past that had brought me to the present situation, and then the “forces beyond my control.” Among them was a card with an angel standing with one foot on the ground, one in the water.
“Temperance,” Cassie said. “Sometimes this means that your angel is near, helping to guide you.”
“She is?”
Cassie shrugged. “You would know better than I. The interpretation of the cards is more for you to figure out than me.”
“Do you believe in guardian angels?” I asked, curious. I didn’t, but why then did I always get teary-eyed when I watched Touched by an Angel on Sunday nights? That I liked that show was one of my most closely guarded secrets.
“Sometimes I can feel my grandmother watching over me,” Cassie said.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. She talks to me in my dreams, too.”
“Huh.” I didn’t know quite what to say to that. I turned to the psychological expert. “What do you think, Louise?”
She shrugged. “If it is comforting and does no harm, there’s no reason a person cannot believe what they wish.”
“I thought counselors referred to that type of thinking as delusional,” I said.
“In psychology, we say that no personality trait or behavior is a problem unless it causes problems for the client.”
I chewed that over for a minute. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Then again, some people are just plain nuts.”
“That’s very helpful, Ms. Counselor.” I turned my attention back to the cards.
“These here represent the natural course of future events,” Cassie said. “There is friendship and merriment,
