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Authors: Carole Radziwill
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and learning planets in Aries. This is the sign of the explorer. It is the opposite of your rising moon. Libra is partnership; it is something you haven’t had. You yearn for it.”
Claire nodded.
“You have an inquisitive mind. Your journey will be exciting.”
“Oh,” Claire said. With Ethan’s words in her head, she seized on “journey.”
“Your health will be good.”
Claire scratched her nose.
“And this is a time for you to focus on work.”
Claire paused to consider.
“How old are you?” Beatrice asked. It made Claire slightly suspicious—shouldn’t Beatrice already know ?
“Thirty-two.”
“What day were you born?”
“Wednesday. May fourth.” Beatrice examined her for an unsettling amount of time before she went on.
“This year you will focus on work. You won’t find love.”
Beatrice looked up and Claire looked down, at her leathery palm. She arched a brow. “Are you sure? I might just need lotion.”
“A parade of silver-tongued charlatans and seducers will flatter you; you’ll fall prey to one of them. Like the circles of Dante’s hell, there will be all types. There will be gluttonous men and violent men and angry and lustful men. What you will not have is love. Not for one year. You are vulnerable to vanity, so beware. Your husband was an egotistical man, and just as the fly returns again and again to the web in spite of certain doom, you sense safety and warmth where you shouldn’t.”
Beatrice paused and cocked her head as if she heard an unfamiliar noise, then she went on.
“Your work will flourish. You will emerge from a chrysalis and derive satisfaction as a result. You will write this book they are talking about, but you will not write it the way they think.”
Claire gasped. Even if Beatrice had seen the gossip in the Post , that was still quite a leap.
“Now,” Beatrice said, lowering her voice. “I see someone in fuchsia. A close friend. She is taking unnecessary risks.”
Sasha , Claire thought. Only Sasha would wear fuchsia.
“And a man in a black suit … I have not a good vibration, but not entirely bad. A man in a black suit will come into your life and impact it in some way.”
Claire considered this. A lot of men wore black suits.
“Still,” Beatrice said, as if it needed repeating, “no love for one year.”
“Why not?” Claire asked.
“I don’t make the rules.”
RULE #4 : When in doubt, make your own rule.
Claire thought for a moment. “What happens in a year?”
Beatrice’s lids lowered and grew hoods like a cobra. “One year.”
8
Claire’s meeting with Beatrice left her disturbed. The widow was restless.
Ethan came to dinner on Sunday wearing fur and bearing gifts.
“Pickled vegetables,” he said, waving his hand across the jars. “Cauliflower, cabbage, carrots.”
“Why do they all start with C?” Claire asked.
“They’re good for you. They’re fermented. It’s cleansing,” he said. “I drink a shot glass of brine every day.”
He arranged an elaborate display on a platter and popped a dish in the oven.
Claire turned the television on. Ethan went down to Charlie’s office.
“How’s all that coming, by the way?” she asked.
He poked his head out the door. “Well, it’s not boring. Listen to this: How do male porcupines hit on female porcupines?”
Claire raised a brow. “I don’t know. How?”
“They urinate,” he said. “The male urinates on the female, and if she likes him she lets him keep going, keep peeing on her, I mean. If she doesn’t like him, she fights back.”
“That’s very sweet,” said Claire.
“It is sweet; it’s utterly intimate. We get hung up on our own fears about sex for no good reason. One species’ urine is another one’s whipped cream.”
Claire crunched a piece of pickled cauliflower. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.
“Chicken marbella.”
“What are you reading?”
Ethan waved a sheaf of papers. “A file of notes on animals. Male garter
Claire nodded.
“You have an inquisitive mind. Your journey will be exciting.”
“Oh,” Claire said. With Ethan’s words in her head, she seized on “journey.”
“Your health will be good.”
Claire scratched her nose.
“And this is a time for you to focus on work.”
Claire paused to consider.
“How old are you?” Beatrice asked. It made Claire slightly suspicious—shouldn’t Beatrice already know ?
“Thirty-two.”
“What day were you born?”
“Wednesday. May fourth.” Beatrice examined her for an unsettling amount of time before she went on.
“This year you will focus on work. You won’t find love.”
Beatrice looked up and Claire looked down, at her leathery palm. She arched a brow. “Are you sure? I might just need lotion.”
“A parade of silver-tongued charlatans and seducers will flatter you; you’ll fall prey to one of them. Like the circles of Dante’s hell, there will be all types. There will be gluttonous men and violent men and angry and lustful men. What you will not have is love. Not for one year. You are vulnerable to vanity, so beware. Your husband was an egotistical man, and just as the fly returns again and again to the web in spite of certain doom, you sense safety and warmth where you shouldn’t.”
Beatrice paused and cocked her head as if she heard an unfamiliar noise, then she went on.
“Your work will flourish. You will emerge from a chrysalis and derive satisfaction as a result. You will write this book they are talking about, but you will not write it the way they think.”
Claire gasped. Even if Beatrice had seen the gossip in the Post , that was still quite a leap.
“Now,” Beatrice said, lowering her voice. “I see someone in fuchsia. A close friend. She is taking unnecessary risks.”
Sasha , Claire thought. Only Sasha would wear fuchsia.
“And a man in a black suit … I have not a good vibration, but not entirely bad. A man in a black suit will come into your life and impact it in some way.”
Claire considered this. A lot of men wore black suits.
“Still,” Beatrice said, as if it needed repeating, “no love for one year.”
“Why not?” Claire asked.
“I don’t make the rules.”
RULE #4 : When in doubt, make your own rule.
Claire thought for a moment. “What happens in a year?”
Beatrice’s lids lowered and grew hoods like a cobra. “One year.”
8
Claire’s meeting with Beatrice left her disturbed. The widow was restless.
Ethan came to dinner on Sunday wearing fur and bearing gifts.
“Pickled vegetables,” he said, waving his hand across the jars. “Cauliflower, cabbage, carrots.”
“Why do they all start with C?” Claire asked.
“They’re good for you. They’re fermented. It’s cleansing,” he said. “I drink a shot glass of brine every day.”
He arranged an elaborate display on a platter and popped a dish in the oven.
Claire turned the television on. Ethan went down to Charlie’s office.
“How’s all that coming, by the way?” she asked.
He poked his head out the door. “Well, it’s not boring. Listen to this: How do male porcupines hit on female porcupines?”
Claire raised a brow. “I don’t know. How?”
“They urinate,” he said. “The male urinates on the female, and if she likes him she lets him keep going, keep peeing on her, I mean. If she doesn’t like him, she fights back.”
“That’s very sweet,” said Claire.
“It is sweet; it’s utterly intimate. We get hung up on our own fears about sex for no good reason. One species’ urine is another one’s whipped cream.”
Claire crunched a piece of pickled cauliflower. “What’s for dinner?” she asked.
“Chicken marbella.”
“What are you reading?”
Ethan waved a sheaf of papers. “A file of notes on animals. Male garter
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