I rolled my shoulders and willed the tension in my muscles to dissolve. The young women finished at the same time, returning their cups to the tray.
A sensation swelled in my abdomen. Instead of fighting, I succumbed as two flavors emerged, one after the other: the juiciness of medium-rare kalbi ribs on a blackened grill followed by the creamy center of a steamed egg tart. I turned to the blonde with the olive skin. “You will be accepted into the prestigious fellowship in London. Your path to artistic success is clear.”
She raised a perfectly sculpted brow. The redhead narrowed her eyes at me. Staring into her green eyes, I delivered her prediction: “She will reciprocate the words you long to speak. The channel will not separate you, for the heart never lies.”
The redhead blushed and mouthed the words, “How did you know?”
I smiled. The joy from their two prophecies filled me to the brim. If all predictions were as benign or as welcome, I wouldn’t mind having this ability. Learning to trust in the unknown, with the knowledge that its results could be both catastrophic and beneficial, was difficult.
The resulting dull ache in my head was less than the prior one.
The peonies by the window opened wider, their petals curling, heightening their bloom and size twofold. The pure white flowers began to blush, pink spreading like the lightest of touches until the result was bicolored blossoms.
My aunt guided me toward the front window to observe the three young women as they left the shop. The redhead grasped the blonde’s hands within her own. Her naked emotion needed no translation. When she finished speaking, they embraced and shared a lingering kiss. We watched them stroll out of view hand in hand.
“It’s human nature to focus on the negative,” my aunt said. “You believe misery weighs more than happiness. The world would be an inhospitable place if that were so.” She placed the two teacups into the sink and washed them. “They are happy. Hold on to that feeling.”
“It’s not easy for me to forget that I foresaw a man’s death earlier.”
“We are the messengers of the future and can’t control the kinds of prophecies we see or how people react. We aren’t essential to the process of living. Events will come to pass, with or without us.”
I accepted the cleaned cups from her, dried them, and placed them on the service tray. Reconciling the true nature of my abilities had never entered my thoughts. I hadn’t indulged in any philosophical questions over something I considered an unwanted condition.
“The goal is to get you accustomed to seeing the future. The more you see, the more you’ll learn to master it. I believe your reluctance to accept your abilities has hindered their scope.”
“Once my surplus is gone, what happens next?”
“We’re not close to dwindling down what you’ve hoarded. Let’s see how many more we can get.” Starlight twinkled in her brown eyes.
I had the sense Aunt Evelyn was enjoying this far more than she should.
Twenty
Paris and Palo Alto. Separated by a continent and an ocean, a language and a culture, yet the human condition—and its foibles—transcended all barriers. Each customer who bought tea also left with an unsolicited prediction. Some were minor misfortunes: a sprained ankle, a dislocated hip, appendicitis. But there were also three affairs, two marriage proposals, one inheritance, and another death.
Their faces paralleled the gamut of volatile emotions I experienced. Fortune-telling connected the fortune-teller to the people whose futures we witnessed. Death left an indelible mark, one you couldn’t wash away, forget, or run from.
As each prediction escaped my lips, the familiar pressure eased like a slackening rope. The emotional energy, ever present, lingered less and faded faster. The headaches had all but disappeared. Compelling predictions had changed something inside me. Aunt Evelyn’s drastic methods were working.
By noon I was exhausted and hungry. From across the shop, my aunt heard the sounds from my stomach. She giggled. “I suppose you’ve built up an appetite after all your hard work. There’s a bakery a short walk from here known for their wonderful sandwiches.”
She handed me a piece of paper and shooed me out the door.
The narrow streets of Paris retained their dominating aura of antiquity despite the encroachment of modernity. Time crawled slower across these cobblestone roads when compared to avant-garde Shanghai or Tokyo, cities that married the archaic with the contemporary, where ancient temples and glass and steel high-rises jostled to pierce the firmament. Paris had never suffered extensive damage from war. Its buildings maintained their vibrant link to its past.
How could anyone resist Paris’s intoxicating, sugary perfume? Hints of brioche, baguettes, pain au chocolat, and mille-feuilles dusted the air. I could have found a bakery guided solely by smell.
A golden sign hung above the bakery my aunt had directed me to. The sans serif font spelled out Les Trois Chats in crisp white letters. A procession of painted cats chasing one another in an endless circuit framed the storefront window. Below, colorful daisies bloomed in a long robin’s-egg-blue planter box. A beautiful brunette wearing a sunshine-yellow apron stepped out of the glass-paneled front door. She smiled at me.
“Hello! You must be Madame Evelyn’s niece. She mentioned you were coming by today,” she said in French-accented English. Her voice had a musical lilt. “I am Ines de Beauvoir.”
“Yes, I’m Vanessa. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I held out my hand.
She grasped it in a firm handshake. Her short, cropped hair and luminous brown skin glowed in the sunlight. I strove to conceal my envy.
“Come on in.” Ines held the door open. “We have the best sandwiches in Saint-Germain.”
Baskets bearing baguettes and various loaves and round breads faced one wall while glass-domed trays of cookies, tarts, and smaller treats lined the counters. Behind the main counter a giant chalkboard listed the menu in swirling script along with a doodle of the product, helpful for an English speaker like me.
She raised one of the domes. “You must try these. They are called langues de chat. I pulled them out of the oven five minutes ago.”
A long, thin, golden cookie sparkled with its generous dusting of fine sugar. The grainy texture crumbled into a pile of buttery richness on my tongue. The citrus zest of the lemon added a bite to the creaminess of the vanilla, balancing out the sweetness.
My fingertips brushed the stray crumbs from the corners of my lips. “Oh, this would be so good when paired with my aunt’s teas. Can I get a box?”
“Of course,” Ines replied. She began packing them into a brown paper box with the bakery’s logo. “You also want lunch, yes? I can put the order in for the croque monsieur and croque madame. Your aunt ordered them the last time she was here.”