At His Fingertips. Dawn Atkins
“I wasn’t able to get a fill-in.”
“That’s fine. Gives me time to catch up.” She nodded at the towers of proposals.
“We’re still getting calls from the newspaper article.”
“That’s good.” A feature in the Arizona Republic about the foundation had tripled the calls and applications. The story had even been picked up by papers outside Phoenix.
“I’d be happy to go through these,” Belinda said, looking through the top few.
“Let’s see how it goes.” Belinda knew even less than she did about grants and business. Esmeralda had to blaze a trail first.
“I’d love to help…really.” Her voice faded as she flipped through the stack. “Tomorrow, your nine o’ clock is a man you know….”
“Really?” Esmeralda’s heart jumped. Could it be Jonathan at last? Was her ex-husband finally showing up as predicted? You must begin anew with a man from your past were the exact words from three separate readings. Their marriage had ended abruptly and she blamed herself, so a second chance was perfect.
Belinda’s gaze shot to her. “Oh, wait. I’m sorry. It’s not the man from your past. At first, when he said he knew you, my heart flipped, too, but he’s a bartender from Moons. Jasper?”
“Oh, sure.” Esmeralda knew him through a hairdresser at her shop who also waitressed at the strip club. Before Jasper could start the stock group he wanted a grant for, he had to control the gambling impulse she’d read in his hand.
“I’m so sorry it wasn’t him.” Belinda had done one of the readings that picked up the man from her past message and seemed to feel responsible for his arrival. Esmeralda hadn’t mentioned Jonathan to Belinda—she was embarrassed enough about how eagerly she kept an eye out for the familiar dimples, the blond thatch and the big smile of her ex-husband. She really missed him. And she was dying to see him.
“He’ll get here when the time is right,” she said, showing a patience she didn’t feel.
“Shall I smudge your office?” Belinda asked. “Make some tea? Light your incense?”
“I’m fine, Belinda. Truly.” Belinda behaved as though assistant was code for slave. Absolutely not Esmeralda’s way. “Don’t you have a reading in a bit?” Belinda used Esmie’s salon station to see a few clients. “Why don’t you take off early?”
“Are you sure? I really want to help in any way I can.”
“You are helping. You’ve got the appointment calendar just right. The grant evaluation rubric and spreadsheet look great. The Web site’s coming along. The biggest thing is getting the books straight.”
Belinda cringed, ducking her head. “That. Right. I got some help from a friend of mine? Rico? If that’s okay? He did the books for Uncle Louis, so he’s showing me the basics.”
“Sounds like a plan.” She’d never met him, but if Rico worked for Olivia’s brother, he’d be trustworthy. She had some vague recollection that Rico and Belinda had dated, too. “So go. Leave early. Study the palms I gave you.” She’d given her several photos with interpretation for training purposes.
“If you’re sure?” When Esmie nodded, Belinda bounded away, her bracelets jingling, blond curls bouncing. She’d bleached and curled her hair to match Esmeralda’s. Wore similar clothes, too. Esmeralda found it embarrassing—and potentially disturbing—but she knew from Belinda’s palm that she needed a role model to develop security. Esmeralda would do her best to be that person.
She headed into her office for a head-clearing meditation.
Her cell stopped her. It was Annika, her temporary roommate, with an update. One of Esmie’s foster dogs had bitten a hole in the sofa she was holding for a friend; Esmie’s neighbor wanted to borrow her car; two friends needed advice; three people wanted palm appointments.
Sometimes Esmeralda’s life felt so full it seemed ready to pop, but giving felt too good to have regrets. The universe never gave you more than you could handle.
To clear her head for reviewing grants, she warmed her strawberry-scented shoulder bag in the microwave, lit strawberry incense, put Yoga Chill on her CD player, and hefted herself into a legs-up-the-wall pose.
She laid the steamy, sweet-smelling bag across her face so it rested on either side of her head, blocking all but a whisper of music. Air brushed her bare legs, since her skirt had fallen to her lap.
She breathed in slowly through her nose, out through her mouth, letting her thoughts gather one by one.
They were mostly worries. Could she nail the business aspects of the work? Would she make good grant choices? Would she impress the board at the first meeting? Olivia had hinted some board members were skeptical about Esmeralda’s skills. Would she even be ready in a month?
As each worry arose, she pictured a fat, fluffy cloud lifting it away across the blue sky of her mind. What about Jonathan? That was a hope, not a worry, at least.
She’d almost called him in San Diego, the last address she had. But she knew she should let the universe churn, not try to wrestle the prediction into what she wanted—her tendency. As with many psychics, readings on herself or those she loved were rarely accurate, consisting of wishful thinking and selective omissions. He’ll appear when he’s supposed to, she told herself and let a gold-tinted cloud float Jonathan away.
IT WAS NEARLY FIVE when Mitch Margolin stepped into the Dream A Little Dream Foundation office. The walls were purple with gold trim and covered with posters with woo-woo slogans. There were crystals on a table and stars everywhere—star mobiles, star paintings, star paperweights, even stars in a small water fountain. Full on fairy dust.
And it sank his hope like a stone.
Damn. He wanted a solid opportunity for his brother, not mystical nonsense. He’d even called his buddy Craig with the Attorney General’s office to see if there was anything suspicious about the foundation, which sounded too good to be true.
For now, Mitch was here to learn what he could. If the place was for real, it would be good to be an early applicant. Besides, Dale might lose interest any minute. His brother was a bass player who contented himself with what he made playing gigs, teaching lessons or doing studio work. The fact he’d actually expressed interest in a day job made Mitch jump on it.
The empty desk and dark computer monitor told him the receptionist had gone for the day. Not long ago, though, judging by the smell of blown-out candles. A different, fruit-scented smoke came from deeper in the office. Incense?
He followed the smell down a short hall to a closed door. The nameplate said the office belonged to Esmeralda McElroy, Executive Director. He heard Eastern music—a sitar, cymbals and high-pitched singing—coming from inside.
Bookshelves beside the door held a peculiar mix of titles: Tarot and You, What Color is Your Parachute? Small Business Basics, Palmistry for Beginners. Business and New Age. More BS alarms went off in his attorney brain. Maybe he’d spent too much time around Craig, who had lots of con artist war stories—Phoenix was a hotbed for scammers—or maybe he’d seen enough rip-offs in his day.
Still, Mitch wanted this for his brother so badly he could taste it. It was Mitch’s fault, after all, that Dale’s life had never taken off, that, at thirty, the man lived like a teenager.
He tapped at the door. No answer. The music must be too loud, so he turned the knob and stepped inside.
He took in the busy room, painted in the same purple and gold as the reception area. Colorful artwork filled the walls, and the furniture was red and puffy and included a couple of star-covered beanbags. Above the spindly teak desk, he spotted something amiss—a pair of female legs sticking up, soles pointed at the ceiling.
O-o-o-oka-a-a-a-y.
She was doing some