You can’t plan these things. That’s what years of a nomadic life had taught Ruby Heartwood throughout her late teens and early twenties. Sometimes you think you’re moving on and sometimes the One in Charge has other ideas.
First, Ruby misses the sign pointing toward the highway and keeps going along a local route for about fifteen minutes before realizing that she is headed away from the highway. It isn’t until she passes the yellow Hobbit house that had caught her eye yesterday that she realizes her mistake. She doesn’t have GPS. In her mind there is something antithetical about a psychic using a disembodied voice for directions. Even Dan, her son-in-law and early adopter of navigational aids back in the early days of Garmin, has given up badgering her about her stubborn unwillingness to use this one, to his mind, vital travel convenience. To Ruby, giving in and using Waze would take away the beauteous sense of adventure that getting lost affords. What next? They’re already touting driverless cars. Would the human race eventually lose its ability to navigate, to drive, to be one with the machine? Such thoughts always bring that dire Zager and Evans song “In the Year 2525” to mind. We won’t use our legs or arms. Even now the ability to parallel park is on its way to extinction. Unlamented.
Second, she realizes that, in turning around, she’s just arrived back at the point where she started, the state park at the lake. “Apparently I’m going around in circles.” She’s had the company of the Hitchhiker for what? Two hours? And already Ruby finds herself talking out loud to her. There is some pleasure in that.
If there is a third sign, Ruby will stop trying to escape Harmony Farms. Given her profession, Ruby is a firm believer in signs and portents.
And just like that, a third sign that the place is calling her to stay.
A bright poster nailed to a telephone pole:
FARMERS’ MARKET AND MAKERS FAIRE SATURDAYS 10–2 TOWN GREEN
Ah, “Faire.” So perfect. “Well, why not stop for a couple of days and set up the old tent?” People always brought their dogs to these sorts of outdoor venues; could be a good chance to see if this new skill set extends beyond the Hitchhiker and Boy, who are a couple of dogs who have had traumatic events, which could be what has made them so open to her.
The Hitchhiker agrees, so Ruby dials the contact number on the poster and reserves a spot for herself at the Faire.
Ruby pitches her conical tent with a practiced hand and the fresh June breeze takes hold of the pennant at its apex. She then goes inside the tent and closes the flap, tying together the ribbons that hold it shut. Quickly, she slips on her caftan and slides off her jeans from underneath. The caftan is a ground-sweeping gold brocade perfection of everyone’s idea of a fortune-teller or a seer. Putting it on, Ruby is instantly in character. Sometimes she thinks that there is true magic in the cloth, that, like Mickey putting on the Sorcerer’s hat, she becomes what she pretends to be. She may have the gift of prognostication, but it is, after all, mostly acting. Ruby zips up the robe, pulls out her hair clip and shakes out her hair. Once upon a time she’d worn a curly red wig to look the part. Now, her own graying locks give her enough cred as a crone to bring in the curious. Adding a little more mascara and eye shadow complete the look Ruby has cultivated over the years. She kicks off her comfy Skechers and pushes her feet into the pointy-toed boots that look more like the footwear of a fortune-teller. Just a little witchy.
Dressed, Ruby pulls the tent flaps wide, revealing her square table and two folding chairs. A crisp white cloth covers the table, long enough to hide the ugly card table legs. The finishing touch to the staging is a decorative teapot and matching cups. Her most precious possession. Her purloined tea set. She has never used it without first muttering a curse on the man whose mother she stole it from. The man who raped her.
The final touch is the sandwich board with what Madame Ruby offers: PSYCHIC READINGS, TAROT, TEA LEAVES, OR PALM. There is room at the bottom of the board to add Animal Communicator, if, indeed, this gift extends beyond the Hitchhiker and Boy. She’s hoping that someone with a dog will venture by and she can test the waters.
Okay. All set. Bring on the crowds. Ruby pulls one of the two folding chairs into the sunlight, sits down, and busies herself with a knitting project she’s picked up and put down a million times over the past year. The knitting performs two purposes. One, it gives her something to do besides blankly stare at the slow-moving crowd, and two, by focusing on the work in her hands, it gives the impression that reading your fortune today isn’t the most important thing on Madame Ruby’s agenda. The cable-knit cardigan is. Not the twenty lovely bucks that she’d discreetly take from your hand. Never look hungry. Never look like the outrageous fee you’ve plunked down for the privilege of setting up a tent has depleted your ready cash to a concerning level.
The Hitchhiker settles herself right into the scene, as if she has been Ruby’s familiar forever, not for two days. Ruby has sprung for a dog bed and the dog is curled up in it, just inside the tent. If Ruby had thought that she might bark, or otherwise be a nuisance, she’s pleased to be proven wrong.
There is only one wrinkle. There are only a handful of strollers passing between the two rows of nonfood tents, the “Makers” tents where her neighbors offer wooden boxes and woven place mats, wind chimes and the ever-popular hand painted floor cloths. Everyone else on this June Saturday morning is intent on the fresh-baked pastries and the free trade coffee and the suspiciously out of season organic tomatoes and sunflower stems.
Ruby lifts her eyes from her knitting and nods to anyone passing by, a knowing nod, not quite friendly, not quite hostile, very mysterious. Most avoid eye contact, but that is natural. She begins to play a game with herself, seeing if she can intuit which one of a trio of teens will pause long enough to laugh with her friends and say she’ll do it for fun. Ruby doesn’t really enjoy giving teenage readings, it’s too easy. It doesn’t take a fortune-teller to know that there will be body issues, parent issues, boy—or girl—issues, and the raging hormones sometimes broadcast things she really doesn’t want to mention. It was said that the girls of Salem fame were afflicted not by demons but by group think. The power of suggestion. Not only that, but if a reading takes place within sight of a teen’s companions, they telegraph the information that Ruby uses. Easy peasy but never pleasant. Jealousy. Bullying. Lost virginity. Plus, in recent years, they wanted to get a selfie with Ruby and she really detests that.
The giggling trio, arms linked together, keep going. The central girl, built on the lines of a lacrosse player, is the one Ruby thought might be the most likely candidate. Indeed, the girl looks back over her shoulder at Ruby and smiles but does not try to break loose from her companions.
The lovely scent of apple turnover wafts on the light breeze right into Ruby’s face. Well, no harm dashing over to Betty’s Blessings and then to Bob’s Free Trade Coffee. It isn’t like she’s going to keep anyone waiting. Ruby pulls her coin purse out of her knitting bag. The ground hasn’t yet dried from the night’s heavy mist, and the heels of her boots sink into the turf. Maybe it is time for a different style of footwear. Besides, these old boots are pinching her feet. The Hitchhiker leaps to her feet and toddles along beside Ruby, happy to be moving.
The turnover is still hot and when she takes a bite, she burns her mouth. The coffee is hot as well and no help. She’s standing there, willing herself not to spit out the bite of pastry, waiting for the pain to lessen when a woman comes up to her. She has a faux smile on her face, as if she’s about to take great pleasure in imparting bad news. “Are you the one with the psychic tent?”
“Ah, ah.” Ruby tried to mime that she’s in a bit of a crisis, but the woman doesn’t seem to notice.
“I don’t think our policy is to have something like that. It’s not a craft.”
The mouthful of hot apple has gone down. Tears in her eyes, Ruby shakes off the pain, dashes a finger beneath her heavily made-up eyes, and wipes away the tears. “Actually, it is a craft. Like being able to sing or build boats. Not everyone can do it.” She thinks, but doesn’t add, and the tent isn’t psychic. I am.
“Cynthia Mann. Selectperson and member of the Farmers’ Market and Makers Faire committee. I disagree.”
The Hitchhiker sits, points her nose at the woman, narrows her eyes. She’s too small to look aggressive, but she clearly is taking offence at the selectperson’s umbrage. “I don’t like this one.”
Ruby hears the thought and agrees with the dog’s assessment. “I’m Ruby Heartwood and I paid my money.”
“That was an oversight.”
“That’s absurd. And, if you’ll excuse me, I have customers.” Ruby makes herself walk away from Cynthia, dignity and hauteur intact. Sometimes the magic works, and, miraculously, there are two twenty-something women in front of her tent.
“I’m here. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“Oh, we weren’t…”
“Of course you were.” Ruby’s tone is carefully modulated to calm the reluctant client, much as one would speak to a frightened little bird not quite confident the crumb in the palm of her hand is worth the danger. “May I surmise that you are a soon-to-be-bride?”
The shorter of the two nods her head vigorously; as if of their own accord, her little hands with the ginormous engagement ring clap together. “How did you know?”
Points for the professionally observant. “You have a certain aura.”
“That’s what everyone says. That I glow!”
The bride’s companion, just behind her, grimaces slightly. A little jealous, perhaps? Or, no, she’s the pal who has already seen six of her closest friends walk down that aisle. She has the jaded look of a perennial bridesmaid, trying loyally to gin up enthusiasm yet again.
“And you?” Ruby directs her attention toward the second young woman. “Glad your friend has found happiness and wondering when it will be your turn. Oh, no. Wait, am I sensing that there is,” dramatic pause, “someone on the horizon?”
The second girl, blessed with a highly readable porcelain skin, shrugs even as her cheeks grow patchy with redness. “No.”
“Still early days?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me!” Bride-to-be smacks her companion’s arm. “You’re holding out.”
“No. Maybe.” Little fireballs of emotion appear on her cheeks, but she’s smiling.
Enough of giving this away free. “Why don’t you decide which one of you would like a reading. Or I can do both of you.” Ruby steps aside to let them talk about it. “Twenty for tarot or tea leaves. Or, I’ll do you both for thirty-five.”
“Together?” they chorus, and Ruby can see that there are some details each would prefer to keep from the other.
“No. That’s not possible.”
“Okay. Thirty-five and don’t tell Rodney.”
Presumably the groom.
“What is foreseen in Madame Ruby’s tent stays in Madame Ruby’s tent.”
After a lost three minutes of deciding who should go first, the bride enters Ruby’s tent.
A slow trickle of customers becomes a respectable flow as the morning wears on. After the bride-to-be and her pal, Ruby counseled the jobless, the childless, and the tired; the hopeful, the confused, and the skeptical. All in all, a typical day in the life of a fortune-teller. The apple turnover is long since forgotten and Ruby thinks that a break is in order. There is a food truck parked on the perimeter of the grounds, a fairly long line suggesting that it’s a decent choice beyond the organic whatever the vendors are serving.
Ruby slips off her boots, puts on her Skechers, and closes the tent flap. She is surprised to see that it’s already one o’clock. The market only goes until two, so maybe it’s enough that she’s had a good morning, maybe she can break early and treat herself to a nap. Reading stories fabricated out of body language is an exhausting pursuit. But a taco first.
“Not yet. Talk to him.” The Hitchhiker is standing, her boxy little spaniel nose pointed toward a man with a golden retriever pulling him along.
The Hitchhiker bounds out of the tent and right up to the golden, effectively stopping the dog in his tracks.
“Nice dog,” Ruby says as the guy tries to get around the Hitchhiker.
“Oh, thanks.” He gives her one of those half-smirk smiles that so many give her. The unbelievers.
“I can read him, if you’d like.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re having trouble with him.” Not a question, it’s pretty obvious.
“He’s just a little rambunctious.”
No time like the present to practice a little persuasion. Ruby flicks the long skirt of her caftan aside and squats to put her hands on both sides of the dog’s large head. He smells of having just been bathed. “I want to go swimming.”
Bam. That was quick and ever so clear. Ruby stands up. “When was the last time you took him to the lake?”
“Um, I don’t. He stinks if he gets wet.”
“Well, he’d like to go swimming.”
The guy roars with laughter.
“He’ll behave if he gets the kind of exercise he’s bred to have.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Like a sled dog heading for Nome, the golden yanks the man back into motion.
“I tried.”
“I know.” The Hitchhiker pokes her nose into the back of Ruby’s knee. “Trouble here.”
“Not only isn’t this a craft, but your dog should be on a leash.” Cynthia Mann is fairly crackling with moral authority.
“Ees not my dog.” Ruby wonders if this cranky lady remembers that Inspector Clouseau bit. Evidently not, as Cynthia looks pointedly at the dog in the tent and then at Ruby. In no way does Ruby feel like a dog owner. This dog is nobody’s pet. She’s an independent sort of beast. “I’m closing now, so I’ll bid you good day.”
Cynthia, believing that she’s won the skirmish, marches off.
Ruby is ready to call it a day, but first she’ll find the committee treasurer, Ariel Hippy Chick or something, who runs an essential oils booth, and pay for next week’s spot. She isn’t going to let that pretentious long drink of water with the sour puss derail her train. Even if it means staying in Harmony Farms for another week.
With the Hitchhiker by her side, Ruby hands the dreadlocked white girl her fee for next week’s market. “Same spot if I can have it.”
“Of course, we always like to have our vendors feel comfortable in their location. I’m so happy it worked out for you.” She has that wide beaming smile of a person who wants oh so sincerely for you to feel you have her entire attention.
“Oh, it has. Very much.”
Go ahead, Cynthia Mann, Ruby thinks, try to push me out now.