Marc arched a dark brow and smiled. “Those are tricky to make. I’ve made both, but I’m better at the croquembouche.”
“You’re a pastry chef, aren’t you?”
He laughed and then clapped. “You’re brilliant. What gave it away, other than the last question?”
“Your hands. My aunties are amazing cooks, and I’ve seen similar marks on them. The homemade jam showed you have skill, but at the time, I wasn’t sure if it was a hobby or a vocation.”
“Let’s have a toast then to your impressive detective skills.” He raised his glass. “Well played.”
I tipped my head as a substitute for a curtsy and lifted my drink. “Thank you.”
The lemonade’s refreshing sweetness and tang rushed onto my tongue. The enchantment of Paris and the company of this charming man almost made me forget why I was here.
Almost.
In the depths of the lemonade, a vision came to me.
Sixteen
Are you all right?” Marc leaned over and moved my drink.
Before I could answer, the pressure of the prophecy built, coalescing in my mouth like a hard, round candy tasting of tart, unripe green mango. My jaw tensed as I clenched my teeth together. No matter how hard I fought, the prophecies always won. They were unstoppable.
“Your debts will be collected. You will be left with nothing but anger, regret, and ruin. Turn away from the game of chance before it claims both your ambition and your future.”
He paled before pulling back.
The look in his brown eyes was all too familiar. Each uncomfortable truth bred the same fight-or-flight response. But it was never a choice; they always chose flight, for how could one fight a truth seared in their soul?
Before he could respond, I grabbed my purse and ran.
Our time together had been magical. My last view of him was his face, his handsome, injured face. But it was not his back as he left me alone.
As I stumbled down the street, a searing headache erupted from my right temple. I battled the nausea, lost, and threw up in an open trash can. I heaved until the jackhammer throbbing stopped. The intensity of the episode left me shaken.
* * *
* * *
Marc had shown me the city, for which I was grateful. My aunt had cautioned me that my time with Marc was fleeting. Memories of these three glorious days would need to sustain me.
Leaving had hurt, but Marc had his own problems. He was a gambler and in debt. Was he also a liar? For a few days, I’d been caught up with the thrill of seeing the city with my beautiful tour guide, but what did I know about him?
The anguish brought clarity: Paris wasn’t a vacation, and had never been. Unless Aunt Evelyn could help me, I would continue to ruin lives, including my own.
I unlocked the door to the apartment and headed upstairs. Aunt Evelyn was waiting for me at the dining room table with a spread of foodie comfort: hot chocolate in dainty teacups, and an array of pastry treats: pistachio and rosewater macarons, pain au chocolat, éclairs, and four varieties of mille-feuille.
I took a seat. “I’m sure you already know what happened.”
“I do. This is why I lined up early to get these from my favorite patisserie.” She passed me a small dessert plate and a fork. “Romance isn’t meant for us, dear. Madam Fong is right. We have no red thread, no chance at finding and keeping love.”
“It’s not fair.”
Aunt Evelyn doled out a slice of the strawberry mille-feuille on my plate. The reds and pinks of the fruit contrasted against the golden layers of paper-thin pastry and the vanilla buttercream. I sank my fork into the treat. The scent of spun sugar hovered in the air, reminding me of Marc.
“We can see destinies. The red thread is a manifestation of one kind of destiny. I suppose it is the universe’s way to maintain balance.”
“It’s cruel,” I muttered in between bites.
“It is, but I’ve accepted it.”
She sighed. It was a long, drawn-out sound like the exhausted hiss of a weary train pulling into the last station. The family had speculated on Aunt Evelyn’s love life for years. I’d thought it had been her choice. Aunt Evelyn kept many parts of herself secret amid Auntie Faye’s spy network. I envied and admired her for it.
“You will survive. No matter how hard it seems now, the hurt will fade in time. It does not, however, go away: it’s like a scar. On your worst days, it will reopen, bringing all of the pain with it, but on your best days, you’ll remember the good and feel grateful for the memories,” she said.
“I could never get past a first date. Marc was the longest at three days and even that’s gone up in flames.” I reached for a bright green pistachio macaron. “We’re cursed.”
“This is why I warned you to enjoy it for as long as possible.”
“Have you ever tried to change this? I mean, there must be something we can do.”
“There isn’t. The sooner you accept that reality, the easier it will be. Your efforts are better spent elsewhere.”
“You mean lessons?”
“Yes. How clear are your visions?”
We shared the same ability, but with disparate skill levels.
I was cursed with predictions.
Aunt Evelyn possessed clairvoyance.
We were as similar as a bicycle with a flat is to a sports car. My aunt had honed her craft over a lifetime. I rebelled against any form of instruction. My aunt wanted the gift. There was nothing I wanted less.
“They’re clear enough?”
“Are you able to pinpoint time, date, and location? Seeing a vision isn’t much use if you don’t have the context. What happens when you get one? Walk me through the process.”
I detailed the flavors—what each signified, how I became a conduit for the prediction, and the lack of control or consent over what I was about to say. The prophecy controlled me.
“It shouldn’t be a painful process,” Aunt Evelyn said. “When I get a vision, I see everything as if the event were unfolding before my eyes in slow motion. I can take in whatever information I need to weave the prediction.”
The stern aunt I remembered from my childhood had resurfaced: stony expression, her knitted brows, and the unforgiving line of her lips. I was six again, watching the clock for the painful lesson to end.
“I’m sorry I’m not as adept as you,” my rebellious inner child replied.
She frowned.
“Sorry. Old habits die hard.” I reached for her hand across the table. She returned the gesture and squeezed.