by Melva Michaelian
The three of them sat at the small table by the kitchen. Grace folded her hands and gave a small cough that she hoped would pull the attention away from her mother’s and aunts’ dueling glares. The café was intimate, with tables not too far apart, eggshell linen draped over the mixed square and round tops. A small ring of silk daisies embraced votive glasses with unlit candles.
“We need to come to some type of compromise so that everyone can go home happy.” She summoned a smile and darted it first toward her mom, then toward Aunt Adelaide.
Her mother sniffed, her nose high and pointed, as plates rattled from somewhere beyond the nearby kitchen door. “I don’t see how there can be a compromise. She’s just being stubborn.” She squinted toward her sister, her lids vibrating with the effort. “You don’t have powers. You never did and never will. Admit it, so the family doesn’t have to explain away this ridiculous notion you have.”
Adelaide stared at the speaker with her forest green eyes that turned to the color of seafoam in the light, the same shade as Grace’s. “My intention is not to embarrass you or any of the others in our very traditional family. I’m a simple woman just trying to run a business.”
Grace put a hand on her mother’s arm to calm the outburst that appeared ready to launch. The older woman almost growled in frustration as she pointed a shaky index finger with her untethered hand. “You know how humiliated everyone feels that you claim to be psychic.”
Adelaide ran a weathered palm over her tight back bun. I bake cupcakes and pastries and brew tea. It’s a very ordinary business.”
“What Mom is trying to say,” Grace interjected, her voice tranquil and reasoning, “is that you have built a reputation for giving out advice while serving these supposedly mystic things in your café. People have made certain assumptions that you are extending to them counsel based on some type of, shall we say, intuition. Some take what you say to heart, and you haven’t been discouraging the notion that your knowledge comes from … well, let’s call it an inner source.”
“That’s not what I mean at all. She’s running some type of con here. Someone told me just an hour ago that one of your cupcakes cured her depression. That…” another finger jiggle across the table, “is practicing without a license.”
“Practicing what? Cupcake therapy? I don’t think you even need a permit for that.”
A drop of s saliva teetered in Victoria’s lower lip.
Grace tried to hold back her own eye roll that automatically engaged itself. “Listen, accusations and name calling are not going to help resolve this issue. Aunt Adelaide, are you telling people that your pastries are therapeutic or that your teas can treat medical conditions?
“Of course not. I never said anything of the kind. I talk to people and offer them a willing ear, some tasty cakes, and a cup of comfort.”
“See, Mom, there you have it.”
A thirty-something woman approached the table. Her hands were clasped at her waist, and her hair was a pixie cut of sharp-edged spikes that fingered down along her brow. “So sorry to interrupt, but you were right.” She bent down and gave Adelaide a tight, lingering hug. “It did the trick.” She pulled herself up again, the look of exhilaration continuing to stretch her lips and crinkle the corners of her wide eyes. “We’re pregnant, and we couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you so much.”
She gave another quick embrace before scooting off to join a fortyish man four tables away. He gave a little wave and raised his teacup in salute.
“That’s exactly the kind of thing I mean. It’s like people think you’re some kind of voodoo vamp. Personally, I think you enjoy it.”
“Mom!” Grace grimaced at the term her mother used. “I’m sure Auntie would never give people the impression that she can control destiny or anything like that.”
“I’m not so sure. Look at her sitting there smirking. She never once denied she had anything to do with that woman’s … you know, incubation issues.”
If Adelaide was saying little, Grace feared that her mother was saying too much. “Does it really matter what people think? Aunt Adelaide seems to have a thriving business here, and we should be proud of her.”
“Proud that she’s a witch? Proud that she thinks she can interfere with fate, manipulate karma? I hope she can or that karma will bite her in the end.”
A teenager peeked out from behind the kitchen door, the pale skin of her face contrasting with the black dreadlocks and purple eye shadow. “Hey, Miss A, we’re almost out of those love cupcakes, the ones with the pink frosting. Should I start the batter for some more?”
“Of course, Dharma. I’ll be right in to help.”
“Love cupcakes?” Victoria could hardly contain her incredulity.
A dark-haired man in khaki slacks and blue polo who had been reading at the next table turned, removing his gold, wire-rimmed glasses. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing, but yes, they’re really popular with the singles crowd. She made one for my brother, and he met his future wife just two days later. I was skeptical, but then you don’t mess with success. He seems very happy. “
“And just who are you?” Victoria’s words trickled sarcasm and disdain.
“Oliver Weston, and I come here a few times a week since I moved here to be near family. Miss A here, is an amazing woman.”
“So, are you some occult follower or something?”
“You are being a bit insulting, Mom. The gentleman was merely stating an opinion.”
Grace’s face suffused with scarlet, and she began to feel too warm to drink the tea in front of her. This feud between her mother and aunt had gone on too long, and now Victoria was dragging strangers into the animosity.
The man did not appear offended. He studied the women at the table and then directed his reply to Grace. “It’s all right. To answer the lady’s question, though, I’m actually a wildlife researcher. I am not a follower of the paranormal, but I do know a kind, compassionate woman when I see one.” Grace dropped her gaze to her tea and wiped nonexistent crumbs from the tablecloth as the man turned back to his book. Was he referring to Adelaide or her, she couldn’t tell.
“Well, as much as I’d like to debate the issue further, Vicky…” Adelaide began as she rose to her five feet four inches and shook out her apron.”
“Don’t call my Vicky. You know how I hate that.”
“All right…Victoria, my dear sister. I have to get back to doing what I do, but if my alleged reputation bothers you so much, don’t come around.” She turned toward her niece. “You, of course, are always welcome. I know you were hoping to make things right between us, but sometimes when you try to build a bridge, the framework collapses before you get to the other side.” She kissed the top of Grace’s head. “I have something for you.”
Victoria got up, slamming the back of her chair against the wall, leaving a chink in the plaster. “I will call you when I get home. I can’t stay here another minute.” She snatched her purse from the table, turned and huffed her way to the door. The buzz of conversation had ceased during the last part of the heated exchange but picked up as soon as she cleared the frosted glass door.
Grace was numb. What had made her think she could broker peace between these two women she loved?
The man at the next table glanced back over his shoulder. “If it’s any help. I don’t think Adelaide is psychic. She appears to be just a keen listener and very good at guiding people to good choices. Things will work out.” He lifted his book once more. Owls of the Eastern Ice.
Must make fascinating reading, Grace thought as her aunt burst though the swinging door and placed a plate in front of her.
“You shouldn’t be worrying about two middle-aged women who haven’t gotten along since our training bra days. Time to make yourself live a little. This will take your mind off things. It’s the last one before the next batch.”
Grace stared at the deeply dark chocolate cupcake with the thick, buttercream swirling to a peak in the center. “The frosting’s pink. Isn’t this one of those…”
“Just take a bite.” Adelaide inclined her head ever so slightly toward Oliver. “It’s time to get a taste of your own possibilities.”
Grace’s head did a quick turn to cast a glance at Oliver Weston. His elbow rested on the table, and next to it was a small porcelain plate with brown cake crumbs and a smear of bright pink frosting.
The corner of Adelaide’s mouth twitched up when Grace’s attention slowly returned to her aunt. “There’s a lot of power in possibilities. We just have to give them a push sometimes.”
Melva And Anna 