The Break-Up Psychic (17 page)

Amber peers at me from over her book and, whether she sees something pitiable in my expression or she’s looking forward to inflicting some pain on me, she drops both the book and the look of annoyance from her face.

“I don’t know everything,” she says, rising from her chair, “but my friend Patty dated him for a couple of weeks last year and he sort of broke her heart.”

“Sam dated a friend of yours?” I ask, skeptical.

“Don’t look so surprised, Ellie. I do have friends outside of the coven.”

“Right. Of course you do, sorry. Do you know what happened?”

“Patty wasn’t very forthcoming on the details.” Amber sighs, examining her black manicure. “Essentially she thought he was serious about her when he was really just using her as a rebound.”

“A rebound?”

“Supposedly he got dumped at the altar by some chick a while back—”

“He was engaged?” I gasp, interrupting.

“Patty said so. Apparently the ex-fiancé did a real number on him. She’s an actress or something and left him a Dear John note before taking off to make it big in L.A., whatever. Anyway, he’s been sleeping his way through Harlow County ever since. Revenge screwing or something.”

Oh no. How could my psychic abilities be letting me down so badly? Sam’s a confirmed heartbreaker
and
a jilted groom. My alarm bells should be on DEFCON Level 5 by now.

“I can’t believe this,” I say, walking aimlessly around Amber. Sam was engaged, he had his heart broken, and he never uttered a word about it. He knows about my breakup with Tim, knows how reluctant I’ve been to start something new. Is he just leading me on? Could he be that cruel? “What about Patty? How did he end things with her?”

“He just stopped talking to her, I guess. She was pretty broken up about it. I offered to make him into a voodoo doll but she was worried about attracting bad karma. I could still do it though, if you want me to.”

I slowly shake my head at Amber. “I’ll pass for now,” I say, turning toward the shop’s front door. “But thanks for the information. I had no idea.”

“No problem. Let’s just say you owe me one,” she says, slinking back to her corner and her book which I suspect may be the Satanic Verses.

“Owe you one?” I ask, wary.

“Don’t worry. I promise it won’t hurt…much.”

Amber turns back to her book and effectively ends the conversation. Owing Amber something is not a position I ever wanted to find myself in. If Luanne’s favor involves me picking up cutlets for cleavage enhancement, I’m guessing Amber’s favor will just involve cutting. I only hope I won’t be both assailant and victim.

I toss a fleeting and scared smile in Amber’s direction and head out of the Bath Shop, locking the door behind me. So Sam James and I have more in common than I thought. We’ve both been hurt by the people who were supposed to love us. Alright, in my case it was more of a
ditto
, but still. Is he really interested in starting a relationship with me, or am I doomed to end up another corpse in his field of forgotten girlfriends?

I collapse into the driver’s seat and Luanne’s errand list flutters to the ground. I don’t have time for dry-cleaning and breast enhancements. I need to uncover the truth about Sam’s past and what it means for our future. I turn my key in the ignition. There’s only one other person in this town who’s as suspicious of love as me. I just hope the whiskey hasn’t finally killed him.

If the nighttime clientele of The Cavern is raucous and grizzly, the afternoon group is pitiable with a hint of desperation. Tinted windows prevent the midday sun from filtering in and low-watt light bulbs offer a poor substitute. I squint into the semi darkness and spot Luanne at the far end of the bar. She’s in the midst of another argument with her Aunt Jo, a feisty seventy-four year old who’s been wearing the same red wig for the past three decades. She’s petite like Luanne and has the same fiery spirit as her great-niece. I’ve seen them in the throes of a fight before, and let’s just say Mohamed Ali himself wouldn’t stand a chance against these two.

I spot the man I’ve come to see and make my way over to him. His tattooed arms are resting against the bar, a bowl of half eaten peanuts between them. Hart’s tattoos are like pages ripped from a biography, a chronicle of his life and, by all indications, it’s been a rough and wild one.

“Hi,” I say, coming to stand next to the white haired ex-biker.

Hart, hand steady on an empty whiskey glass, turns his lined face to me. He couldn’t have known I’d show up there, but he doesn’t look surprised to see me. “Hello,
darlin
’. Have a seat.”

Hart turns back to the bar and waits as I take up residence on the stool next to him, the same stool I was sitting on when I got my first view of Sam James and the infamous dimple.

“I don’t know if you remember me from a couple of weeks ago?” I start.

“Luanne’s friend, the one with the broken heart. Ellie, is it?”

“Yes, that’s right.” I pause, not sure how to broach the subject of his great-nephew’s love life. “Hart, I wonder if I can ask you something about Sam.”

“Humph,” he grunts. “You want to know about his past. Want to know why I warned you off him.”

“How’d you guess?” I ask quietly.

Hart picks up his glass and swirls the few remaining drops clinging to the bottom. “I guess you could say I know a thing or two about heartbreak,” he says, his eyes trained on the residual liquor.

I came here seeking answers about Sam and his past, but I get the feeling that it’s Hart’s past that holds the answers I’m looking for. “Why do you come here every day?”

Hart turns to look at me, a wry smile forming at the corners of his mouth. “
Darlin
’ I can’t anymore leave this bar than I could leave a prison cell. I’m trapped, see? Imprisoned by my own stupid mistakes.”

I
can
see it. It’s disguised beneath tattoos and a patched leather riding vest, but it’s there, and it’s powerful. Hart reaches over the side of the bar pulls a bottle from an interior shelf and pours himself a finger of honey-brown whiskey. He doesn’t bother putting the bottle back, just swills the contents in his glass before taking a small sip, his shoulders relaxing at the taste.

“Tell me about her,” I ask, leaning further into the bar so I can better read his face.

“Love is a powerful thing. It consumes you, makes you do foolish things,” he says softly. “When you’re in love everything is heightened, all your senses. The air smells fresher, the whiskey tastes sweeter, and the sight of an old dirt path looks for the entire world like the smoothest stretch of road on earth. But we forget; there’s another side to those feelings, a darker side.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean jealousy, fear, betrayal. All them things come with love too.”

Hart takes another sip of whiskey and closes his eyes. He looks like he’s remembering something or maybe trying to block a memory from resurfacing. I can’t tear my eyes from his face, from the emotion I see there. I don’t know if I’m scared that he won’t continue or scared that he will.

“I had a young lady once. I was head over heels for her and she was quite taken with me as well. I asked her to marry me and when she said yes, well, I was about the happiest, stupidest fool in the whole wide world. But her daddy, well, he didn’t like me none, thought his daughter could do better than some greased-up biker from the wrong side of town.”

Hart pauses to finish his drink, leaving me hanging on every word. He matches the bottom of the glass with the sweat ring embedded on the bar’s aged wooden surface, giving a sober look to the bottle in front of him.

“So what happened?” I prompt, impatient.

“She told me she didn’t care what her parents had to say about me, that she loved me and still wanted to marry me, even if that meant going against their wishes.”

“What’d you do?”

“I did what I thought was best for her. I left town. I didn’t want to be the thing that tore apart her family and besides, her daddy was right. I was no good for her or anybody else.”

“But she loved you,” I say, a hint of anger ringing in my accusation.

Hart slowly nods his head, grimacing at the memory of his lost love. “She did, and I loved her too. Thought I was
doin
’ the right thing for her, leaving like I did. I went to Dallas and stayed with a friend of mine who’d gotten out of this town. I thought if I could make something of myself I could go back to her and show her old dad I was good enough to marry his daughter. I was proud. Proud and stupid.”

I lean back, away from Hart. I don’t need to see his face anymore. I know the answer to my next question. “She didn’t wait for you, did she?”

Hart reaches for the whiskey and pours himself a double this time, knocking back the shot in one gulp. Courage for the cowardly. “No,” he says simply. “She didn’t.”

I look around the dim bar. Luanne’s gone, probably escaped into the kitchen. Aunt Jo is sitting at a small table under the one good lamp in the whole dingy place, sorting through receipts and a cash deposit. She’s working quickly, her old hands counting out the dollars through bifocal lenses perched at the end of her nose. I look to my left and see Hart staring at her, watching her sort and stack with a trace of longing in his murky eyes. Every movement is absorbed and catalogued. It’s as though he wouldn’t be able to catch a breath if she wasn’t in the room with him.

I didn’t notice it before, but now that I look closer at him, I can see his resemblance to Sam. The strong jaw and handsome sweep of cheekbones are nearly identical to that of his great-nephew. Forty some-odd years ago it might’ve been Jo sitting right where I am now, seeking answers from a different old-timer. But she didn’t wait for him. She married Luanne’s Uncle Rodney, a small man with a roaring laugh and roaming hands. He died a couple of years ago. I wonder if Rodney knew his wife had once loved someone else. That the man she’d loved has spent every day of his life regretting her.

I slide off my stool and back onto sore feet. I don’t want to interfere with Hart’s memories, so my questions about Sam and his ex will just have to wait.

“He’s not as tough as you might think,” he says, his gaze on Jo unwavering.

I look between them and the feeling of loss overwhelms me. “But that’s the problem,” I say, fighting for control. “I’m not tough either.”

“You’re tougher than you give yourself credit for, I reckon. Don’t waste your life wondering what if. Leave that to old fools like me.”

“But he won’t open up to me, tell me about his past, and I’m afraid,” I confess, tears stinging my eyes.

“Afraid of what?”

“Of what that means,” I whisper.

I sit back down on the stool and Hart turns to face me. “We all have a past,
darlin
’, and sometimes that past is better left forgotten.”

I look across the bar to Jo whose hands have stilled on the table, the cash deposit set in neat stacks before her. She looks between Hart and me, a tired smile on her face.

“You haven’t forgotten. Neither has she,” I say, looking back at Hart.

“And look where it’s gotten us. Is this where you want to be, Ellie?
Sittin
’ in a dark, stinky old bar, regretting your life?”

I
suck
in a breath, fear trickling inside me at his words. “Of course not.”

“There’re no guarantees when it comes to love. Sometimes it’s just about faith.”

“But isn’t faith built on trust? How do I know if I can
trust
him?” I ask, desperate for his answer.

“You got it backward,
darlin
’,” he states, facing the bar and his empty glass. “It’s faith that comes first. Trust is earned. Faith is given.”

His words feel like a slap in the face. “What if I haven’t got any to give?”

“Faith is always in great supply. It’ll be ready for you when you’re ready to give it.”

I don’t know if I’m as strong as Hart. Could I wait forty-two years just for the possibility of love? Would I be able to sacrifice everything to wait for it? I rise and place a hand on Hart’s arm. “Thank you for the conversation.”

Hart nods once in response, laying his forearms against the bar. He’s in no hurry to leave, and now I know why. I leave him and walk out the door, back into the brilliant sunshine. That Sam’s got a past should come as no surprise. I knew the first time I saw him he could be dangerous to me, and I jumped in anyway. I don’t know if I can trust him, I don’t know if I’m capable of trust anymore, but maybe I could afford to have a little faith in him. Maybe I could afford to have a little faith in myself.

The repair shop is busy and noisy with lots of high-powered, whining tools. Sam’s crew is working on several cars lined up over the recessed work areas carved out in the garage floor. I half walk, half sneak, past the men and make my way toward the office where I hope to catch Sam alone. I’m not sure what I’m going to say to him, mostly because I’m still hyped-up from Hart’s speech. Should I ask him about his ex and if I do, should I tell him about kissing Tim as well? Should I tell him about my father and my other failed relationships? How much of the past should stay forgotten?

The office is empty but opening the door elicits a buzz as I step through, so I wait by the counter for someone to come and greet me. Unfortunately, that someone is Jason.