Midsummer's Eve

  MIDSUMMER’S Eve

  by

  Kitty Margo

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, without written permission of Kitty Margo.

  Published November 9, 2012

  Buttercup Publishing

  KittyMargo.com

  Cover art by Daniel Eskridge

  DanielEskridge.com

  Copyright © 2012 Kitty Margo

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0985928018

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9859280-1-8

  Books By This Author

  Beware the River

  (Southern Fiction)

  Midsummer’s Eve

  (Women’s Fiction)

  Lynna’s Rogue

  (Historical Romance)

  PROLOGUE

  According to Sylvia Browne, we each have a spirit guide. She frequently consults her own personal angel, Francine, and claims to hold lengthy and rather profound conversations with her on a variety of topics. If I have a guardian angel, and that’s a mighty big if, let me tell you, I’ll call her Tilly. Short for Atilla the Hun. Because I promise you, if Tilly could flutter merrily around while the debacle of my life was playing out in glorious living Technicolor, without once lifting a feather to intervene, then she has about as much compassion as her namesake.

  Let me assure you, that not one day passed during Tilly’s nerve-wracking incarceration as my trustee, that she didn’t gaze longingly toward the stratosphere and beseech, “Oh, pray tell, what did I ever do to deserve such cruel punishment? Please allow me to return to the pearly gates and trade this crazed mortal for a less dramatic one! Why, I heard through the grapevine, just this morning, that Charles Manson is in desperate need of a spiritual awakening!”

  Then again, perhaps I have misjudged Tilly. Thanks to me, the softhearted, ethereal being has most likely suffered anxiety attacks of biblical proportion and been rendered totally incapable of a return flight. I can imagine the panic-stricken look in her gentle gaze as she stood over me, since hovering was entirely out of the question, and realized, too late, that she had nervously plucked every last wing feather during one of my frequent bouts of near hysteria.

  At times such as this, when I feel mired up to the ever increasing fine lines on my neck, and in danger of submerging in a malodorous, swirling cesspool, I run. Simply put. Those who know me well would feel compelled to agree that running has been a life long habit, which I perfected years ago. Those same friends have often been surprisingly quick to suggest I seek therapy for that issue, along with a few others that I can’t quite seem to shake.

  However, the idea of lying on some therapist’s cold leather couch does little toward propelling me into a cheerful mood. Although, I have often wondered if a shrink could tell me why I have no memories of my childhood. Not one. Not a single memory of a best friend, a sleepover, or a secret crush. Not even a sketchy recollection of sitting on jolly old St. Nick’s lap during my first thirteen yuletide seasons. Although my sister swears I was a Barbie fanatic, and my mom has a few, rather persuasive, pictures to support my infatuation with the curvy little plastic temptress.

  At any rate, as was my usual routine during times of mind‑bending stress, I took refuge in the safety of my Jeep, and sped toward Atlanta to visit my college roommate. I hadn’t seen her in years and I seriously needed an extended vacation. Plus, with each mile I traveled from my sleepy little town of Twin Rivers, North Carolina, I was putting much-needed distance between my ex fiancé and myself. A distance that I desperately needed if I was to survive the hellacious breakup that still brought scalding tears to rush from swollen, bloodshot eyes at the mere thought of the man who had so carelessly performed a Lizzie Borden on both my heart and dignity.

  To be honest life, as of late, has been a living hell. Okay. I just need a little time away from home to figure out how to cope. That’s all. It shouldn’t be too terribly difficult. After all, this certainly isn’t my first rodeo in the arena of getting shit upon.

  One

  According to the flashing gas pump symbol on the instrument panel, I needed gas. There goes half my paycheck. But, since being stranded on I-95 sounded like more excitement than I could tolerate today, I took the next exit and pulled into a gas station/souvenir store advertising peaches, pecans and free Disney tickets.

  But wait, I envisioned a bright light at the end of this tunnel. There will be pecan logs! Lord knows I have a weakness for the things. Even though when I was a child and my family had taken our annual Myrtle Beach excursion, my cousin had bought three pecan logs for a dollar at a roadside convenience store. It was only after he had eaten two, and half of the third one, that he noticed little white worms swimming around in the creamy white center. I couldn’t bring myself to eat one in the forty years since, but now I was salivating like a mad dog just thinking about the pecan wrapped nougat as I pulled up to the gas pumps. After putting the Jeep in park, I was pulling the keys out of the ignition when a sign jumped out from the surrounding political propaganda and immediately grabbed my attention.

  Lady Wonder

  Psychic

  A psychic? There’s a thought. How does one know if a psychic has a real gift or is just another scam artist looking for a quick buck? Was it possible for someone to predict the future? For real? Perhaps tell me how to plan for the next catastrophe in my life before it swallowed me whole? Intending to find out, I cruised past the pumps causing the flashing gas symbol to emit a pesky little tone.

  Now let me just say this from the get go. I am a huge believer in fate. In my opinion, nothing happens purely by chance. There is a reason for everything. Even for my life being the pronounced travesty that it is. The fact that I needed gas and pulled into this little South Carolina town, then into this gas station, must have been predestined. And the fact that there happened to be a psychic housed right next to the gas station? Well, it was definitely a sign not to be ignored. Hey, I’ve never been to a soothsayer. What could it hurt?

  I pulled behind the doublewide trailer with what looked like a brand spanking new silver Lexus ES 350, and a sparkling black Hummer with those expensive rims that spin when the vehicle isn’t moving, parked under an aluminum shed. The thought crossed my mind that being a medium must be quite the lucrative business and she certainly had the “location is everything” down pat. Either that, or she was married to Snoop Dogg.

  Then I noticed 6 cars, ranging from a shiny new Mercedes to a beat up old pick up truck, in a dirt lot behind the shed. At least an inch of dust settled on the Jeep, as I rode down what must be a frequently traveled, heavily rutted road, and parked beside a red Dodge Neon that looked like a child had taken tap dancing lessons on the hood.

  Okay, forgive me for being catty. However, if I could afford a Lexus and a Hummer with fancy wheels, I could certainly afford a load of gravel or oyster shells for my driveway. One of my pet peeves is a dirty ride.

  As I strolled to the door I noticed a sign, which read “No Children”. Good! Now don’t get me wrong. I love children. Especially the ones you can send home. At any rate, the sheer volume of sound they produce immediately puts my brain in migraine mode. I just wasn’t up for it this morning.

  I opened the door slowly, having no clue what to expect, and found at least 12 members of what I assumed to be the local society, squeezed into the waiting room. At first glance, they didn’t strike me as being a Sunday go to meeting church crowd. Then again, most churches I have attended tend to frown upon the art of fortune telling altoge
ther. This looked like a well-seasoned bunch of folks. Not exactly what I would call card-carrying members of the KKK, more like one of the seedier biker gangs. You know the ones that have fundraisers for needy children, but are a little rough around the edges and will never fit comfortably into polite society. And wouldn’t you know it? Three of the room’s inhabitants were children.

  Perhaps the folks in the room were illiterate and couldn’t be blamed for their noncompliance of the rules. Gazing around the room, I quickly assessed a problem. Seating. It stands to reason that if the guardians of the trio of rambunctious children had obeyed the sign and left the kids at home, where they belonged, all the adults would have found a seat.

  As it was, it was standing room only, so I found an empty wall and leaned against it without anyone in the room so much as glancing my way. Unfortunately, I had the great misfortune to land beside a sitting preschooler, who was steadily popping and snapping gum in her jaw with a fervor that would have made a Fourth of July firecracker jealous. And what about the other two darling little toddling angels? Well, they seemed hell bent upon using my shoe as a ramp for their miniature skateboards. Their mother, assuming they had inherited their carrot colored hair from her, was a few pounds shy of morbid obesity and devouring every word in People while loudly snacking on a bag of salt and vinegar flavored pork rinds.

  I will admit that I have a truly weak stomach, and nothing switches on my gag reflex quicker than snot. So, since all three children had a rather unsightly greenish discharge pooling in the valley between their nose and mouth, I drew a deep breath to settle my queasy insides, closed my eyes, leaned my head against the wall, and tried to think pleasant thoughts.

  Luckily for me, a gentleman wracked with wheezing fits of chest rattling coughs got up to smoke and offered me his seat. I gratefully took the seat on a couch covered with clear plastic that protested with a loud embarrassing crackling when I planted my fanny on it and again every time afterward when my starving lungs demanded another deep breath.

  This I hesitated to do, as the elderly lady to my left had chosen to douse herself with liberal amounts of an overwhelmingly floral Avon scent. On top of that, her false teeth clicked against each other while she chattered constantly and nonstop about her boyfriend Clyde running around with some floozy at the VFW’s Thursday Night Bingo. Although I did pause long enough to consider what the running around of two ninety year olds might entail, I chose to ignore her and peruse the room.

  It was obvious that Lady Wonder had a fondness for the ocean. The walls were dotted with colorful landscaped scenes of palmetto trees and waves crashing on a sandy shore. Ceramic fish jumped from fountains in all four corners and ornate glass vases filled with sand and a variety of seashells took center stage on the surface of practically every table and shelf.

  At last, the elderly lady was called back. Bless God! Then a new arrival, a gentleman in his late thirties-early forties and wearing an animal control officer uniform, took the seat the elderly lady had vacated and proceeded to entertain us with his daring deeds in the wilds of South Carolina’s treacherous jungles.

  Okay, for starters. It was possible that he might have been considered reasonably attractive if he had been about a foot taller, or if he had chosen to acquaint himself with a tube of Colgate at some point during the last few decades.

  We listened to his captivating tales of capturing everything from rabid foxes and dogs, to raccoons and skunks. We heard of his numerous, and always life threatening entanglements with poisonous snakes. He regaled us with his obviously embellished tales of his heroic efforts at capturing coyotes, poisonous spiders, squirrels, a baby kitten, etc. We even heard how he had once bravely wrestled a man-eating alligator to the ground with his bare hands, in a swamp no less, with several other hungry gators watching from the sidelines. He was 5’1” and probably weighed in at 120 pounds soaking wet. How much wrestling could he do? He carried on and on and on about his courageous adventures in the Animal Kingdom for over an hour.

  Then, out of the blue, the charismatic dogcatcher gave me his most radiant smile and invited me to lunch next door at the Huddle House. Now, even though I’m sure I would have enjoyed the fine dining experience of a Huddle House, I had to wonder if I would even be able to swallow what I was served, with those gums screaming gingivitis over a plate of food. “No. Thanks for the offer, but I already have plans,” I fibbed, when he pulled a toothpick out of his shirt pocket and commenced to pick one of his cavity-riddled molars, causing bile to swim around my tonsils.

  When he saw that I wasn’t a willing candidate for an intimate luncheon for two, he leaned over me and posed the same question to the girl to my right. She was in her early 30’s and beautiful. What problems could she possibly need a psychic to solve?

  I enjoyed watching her politely put him in his place and deflate his obnoxious ego by several degrees. Then while she courteously covered her mouth to filter the toxic fumes emanating from his lips, I turned to her and asked, “Is Lady Wonder any good?” Surely she must be to have a following like this on a Thursday.

  “She has a gift from God. She sees things.” She smiled reverently. “She will answer all your questions.”

  Then she settled back in her seat, which sounded like someone balling up wax paper, with a look of abject misery that I recognized as similar to mine. I would bet my last penny that the basis of her sorrow was nothing more than a vile, despicable, lying, cheating, scumbag of a black-hearted rogue. I know. I know. I read way too many historical romance novels.

  Two hours later, I was feeling slightly ill from the elderly lady’s lingering perfume, which mingled with a rather nauseating stench permeating from the youngest child’s diaper. Then, there was the added aroma of good ole boy’s breath. Let’s just say when he exhaled, it could singe every last hair in your nose, trickle through your digestive tract, and seize up your bowels.

  “Eve?” I heard my name called and with a sigh of relief happily plowed through the inhabitants of the waiting room from Hell.

  Lady Wonder turned out to be a short cheery woman in her sixties with big white hair, a ponderous mid section and gentle, caring eyes. She was nothing at all what I expected. You know? Pointed chin. Hairy wart. Not even a crystal ball! She began shuffling a deck of regular playing cards as she offered me a seat on a white leather wing chair. Then turning over the card on top of the deck, the ace of hearts, she glanced up.

  “Let me see your hands,” she said without preamble. Obediently, I showed her my hands palms up. “You have an odd number of children.”

  “Yes, I have one son.”

  “He works out of town and you don’t get to see him as often as you would like.” Her eyes fluttered and almost rolled back in her head, as she appeared to go into a trance-like state.

  Wow! How did she know that? The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I felt goose bumps pop up on my arms and thighs. This woman had never laid eyes on me, yet she knew intimate details about my life. “Yes. He is a foreman on a construction crew and he travels up and down the east coast.” I glanced toward the exit when her upper body appeared to twitch uncontrollably. Lord have mercy! I hoped this was normal behavior for her and she wasn’t going into a seizure brought on by my tragic life.

  “You caused your husband a great deal of pain.” Her eyes slowly rolled back down to their normal position and her jerking upper body became still once again.

  Wow! She even knew about the ex. “Yes. He treated me like a queen for 18 years. The condensed version of the story is that I left him for a man who turned out to be a raging alcoholic and recently dumped me for some little oriental trollop.” There, happy!

  I still hated myself for the pain I had caused my ex, although I, unlike Lady Wonder, tried not to pick at that old scab. “It did hurt him when I left, but he has since remarried a wonderful lady and they are very happy. So everything turned out okay in the end.”

  “You thought he was too good for you. You only want men who will treat you po
orly.”

  She had effectively put my life in a nutshell. Men who will treat me poorly? Hah! Treat me like something to be scraped from the bottom of their shoe you mean! Use me, abuse me, and walk over me on their way out the door. This was the first time anyone had ever actually verbalized it, but thinking back over my past relationships…she was absolutely right!

  “What happened when you were four years old, Eve?”

  Huh? Where did that come from? Nothing had happened to me when I was four. “I don’t have any memories of my childhood, so I can’t answer that.” She leaned toward me with a worried frown and peered intently into my eyes. “Would you like to know what happened?”

  Judging from her look of deep sadness, if anything had happened, it couldn’t have been pleasant. I couldn’t deal with more bad news. Not now. I was better off not knowing, at least until I came out on the other side of my current crisis. But what exactly was she alluding to? What could have happened when I was four? “No. Not really.”

  “You are self employed and very successful in business.” Thankfully, she had abided by my wishes and decided to move on.

  “Yes. I own a commercial cleaning company.” Wow, old girl was good!

  “Men really like you.” She grinned, causing her sea green eyes to twinkle mischievously.

  Okay. This is where she lost me. If she had said, “Men like to use you and then toss you out like yesterdays meatloaf,” I would have smiled, given her a standing ovation and agreed wholeheartedly with her assessment. But an idiotic comment such as that one assured me she didn’t really know her backside from a hole in the ground.

  “What are you running from, Eve?”

  How did she know? Who told her? Deciding to give her a chance to redeem herself, I told her the entire story of how I had recently gone to my boyfriend’s house and found him playing mattress tag with a petite, stunningly-beautiful, Asian adulteress.