Read Online The Flower Bowl Spell by Olivia Boler - Free Book Online

new
venture-capitalist husband.
    But what to do with Viveka’s girls? Cleo has
successfully brought her mug to her mouth with both hands and is
slurping down lukewarm cocoa, her head tipping far back on her
slight neck.
    “What would you like to eat?” I ask them.
    Romola shrugs. And then her eyes widen. “Can
we have French fries? Mommy says they’re only for special
occasions.”
    “French fries, French fries!” Cleo
chants.
    There are a couple of burger places on
Twenty-fourth Street that would do, but it seems better to get out
of my neighborhood. I rack my brain until it comes to me—the
perfect spot. I haven’t been there in years. We’ll have to drive,
but a car ride will kill time, give us something to do.
    I hold out my hands to the girls and they
clasp them in their own. “French fries it is.”
    ****
    Installing Cleo’s souped-up car seat requires
skill sets I didn’t know I possess. The buckles and clasps seem
like a test designed to determine I.Q., dexterity, and luck. Romola
helps.
    “I like your doll,” she says as I make a
right turn into a parking lot. I’m not sure what she means until my
eyes land on the hula girl I’ve glued to the dashboard. She bobbles
not so gracefully as I pull into a parking spot.
    “Thank you.”
    The girls crane their necks up at the red on
white sign, which hangs dully against the gray, twilit sky: Lucky
Penny. Neither one moves, even after I get out of the car. They
just sit there in the backseat, staring at the sign, mouths hanging
open. I give them a moment, fussing with my bag and pretending
there’s something in there I really need to hunt down.
    “Come on,” I say after I’ve palpated every
inch of the bag’s interior. I’m not even sure why I’m stalling.
They undo their seatbelts. Romola helps her little sister open the
door. Once they’re both standing in the parking lot, she slams it
shut with both hands.
    We sit at a booth with a view of the parking
lot. Cars line up to park at the Trader Joe’s next door, and I make
a mental note to head over there after we eat. Must stock up on
kid-friendly foodstuff. I’ve ordered the same thing at the Lucky
Penny ever since I was a girl, coming here with my parents or
Auntie Tess: grilled cheese on rye. Back then it was called the
Copper Penny. Maybe the owners decided the association between
copper and food isn’t really all that appetizing.
    “Get whatever you like,” I tell the girls.
“See, they have French fries.”
    “And onion rings,” Cleo says.
    I study her, trying to remember how old I was
when I knew how to read a menu—or anything else, for that matter.
“So, how old are you girls?”
    “I turned nine last week,” Romola says. “And
Cleo’s gonna be four in April.”
    “That’s when my birthday is too,” I say.
“April fourteenth.”
    “Hers is the twentieth.”
    Cusp child. Between the fish and the ram.
    “I’m having a big party when I’m twenty,”
Cleo says. “And when I’m four, because April is number four.”
    Ah, don’t forget numerology. “Four is a lucky
number to Native Americans,” I say. But not to the Chinese. Not
that she needs to know that.
    “I thought seven is lucky,” says Romola.
    “Sure. And thirteen.”
    “Is not!”
    I shrug. “To some. The people your mom and I
grew up with.” I hesitate, wondering how much they know about
Viveka’s upbringing and if she’d want me to talk about it or not.
“Well. They like the number thirteen a lot.” I tap my fingers on
the table. “I’m sorry about your grandma. About Sadie.”
    Romola looks uncomfortable. Cleo’s mouth
turns down at the corners.
    “You must miss her,” I say.
    “She’s in heaven,” Cleo says. She gives a
big, dramatic sigh and suddenly smiles. “Mommy’s been here.”
    “She has?” I look to her sister, who has
begun a busy perusal of the milkshake selection.
    Cleo nods. “I want pie.”
    “I want French fries,” Romola says.
    Viveka came here. When? Her family