Once Upon a Kiss by Palmer Robin

Author:Palmer, Robin [Palmer, Robin]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Young Readers Group
Published: 2015-11-18T08:00:00+00:00

I HAD JUST GOTTEN MY PEN AND PAPER OUT to start working on my speech when my phone rang and Rain’s name flashed across the screen.

“Hey, Rain,” I said when I answered.

“Zoe?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Rain. Your family’s personal assistant.”

Maybe all that patchouli she wore had caused some brain damage. “What’s going on?” I asked.

“I just got a call from Rhiannon’s assistant, and her five o’clock just canceled, so I went ahead and booked it for you.”

“Five o’clock today?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Um, okay,” I said nervously. While it had been my idea to go to the psychic, now that it was actually going to happen, I was having second thoughts. What if she told me something I didn’t want to know? Like that I would never fall in love. And I’d end up like my great aunt Florence, alone in a condo in Florida with a yippy Maltese, with the only thing to look forward to my weekly mah-jongg game.

“Great. Why don’t you come home and get me and I’ll take you there?” she asked. “Rhiannon is very careful about who she gives her address to. I don’t want to text it and risk having some hacker get hold of it.”

“Got it,” I said.

I was that much closer to getting an answer to how to get back to my regularly scheduled life. So why wasn’t I more excited?

Rhiannon lived in Laurel Canyon, which, according to Rain, had been ground zero for the music scene in the seventies. “You know, Joni Mitchell; Crosby, Stills, and Nash . . . everyone who was anyone lived up here,” she said as we rounded a particularly sharp corner. “Her spirit guides told her to move there when she got off the bus from Minnesota.”

“Good thing she listened to them,” I replied. What was I getting myself into?

“Hello, hello, come in, come in,” said the woman with the jet-black bob and ruby-red lipstick who opened the door. Dressed in a crisp black suit with high heels, she towered over us. Definitely not what I thought a psychic would look like.

I smiled. “Hi, Rhiannon. Thanks for fitting me in—”

The woman laughed. “Oh, I’m not Rhiannon. I’m Barb.”

“Barb is Rhiannon’s publicist,” Rain explained.

“Psychics have publicists?” I asked, confused.

Which from the way her smile disappeared, probably wasn’t the right thing to say. “Only the ones who think big-picture,” Barb sniffed as she moved out of the way so we could enter.

I was about four steps in when I stopped short. In addition to the wall-to-wall green shag carpet, there were smoked-glass mirrored walls and macramé plant hangers. It was like something out of the later seasons of The Brady Bunch, when Greg started looked all hippy-like and had the love beads in his bedroom. Whoa, I said to myself. I may have been stuck in the eighties, but Rhiannon’s house was stuck in the seventies.

“I sense that you, too, are a fan of the art of macramé, am I right?” said a voice that sounded like the product of way too many packs of cigarettes a day.

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