The late Colonial house stood at the crooked end of Nightjar Lane, its back to the pounding Atlantic, within sight of the obdurate hulk called Kingsport Head. Salt hung in the early Spring air like a cool astringent. The establishment was a decorous New England white, trimmed in stark black. White paint had stopped being a luxury a century before, but the older homes clung to this opaque sheen of wealth and propriety the way a naked corpse clings to the sere dignity of its burial shroud.
The shingle beside the door spelled it the old-fashioned way:
KING’S PORT TEA ROOM
The apostrophe had been dropped at the close of the Colonial period. The town name collapsed to a single word — after a brief period of unsatisfactory hyphenation — at the end of the 19th Century. I learned these trivial facts only later.
A doleful chime announced my arrival. I stepped into the house’s substantial confines, whose wainscoting was unexpectedly heavy, almost coarse. The hardwood flooring under my feet felt warpy but solid. It was as if I had stepped on the deck of an old Arkham merchantman in dire need of holystoning.
The tight-faced hostess bore a black leatherette menu.
“I called earlier,” I told her. “The name is Carl.”
“Take a seat, Carl,” she said, retreating with her unopened menu. “Miss Theresa will be with you presently.”
I took the table nearest the door. The reading area occupied what had been the connecting parlor and dining room of the old dwelling. A dozen round ebony tables filled the dual space, each emblazoned with a gilt sign of the Zodiac. The wallpaper was tan and gold. One had to look closely to notice the subtle Egyptian motif. Odd touch.
Miss Theresa slid into the chair across from me and smiled with vapid sincerity. Gray and sixtyish, she possessed the toothy demeanor of an old-time Yankee. I took her for a faded Leo.
“I’m Miss Theresa.” Her S’s whistled Yankee-style. “I understand you’d like to come to work for me.”
“I can read any deck,” I said firmly. “Also, crystal, flame, smoke, water, you name it.”
“That is all well and good, but do you do tea?”
“No. But I—”
“We’re very traditional here. Kingsport is an extremely conservative town and our clientele is a bit on the mature side. Most querents prefer tea to Tarot.”
“I’ve been reading cards for nearly 20 years,” I stated.
“Can you read palm?”
I nodded. “Intuitively. I never studied.”
“Good. If you can read the palm, you can learn tea leaves.
Are you willing?”
Keeping my face a mask, I appealed to her Leo Sun: “If that’s what it takes to work for the famous Theresa Terrill.”
She beamed. “Excellent. You can start instanter.” Theresa lifted her voice. “Dorinda. Two cups of the special blend, please.”
The tea came in white bone China cups, with a traditional pewter creamer. I drank mine straight, with just a touch of sugar. Theresa sipped hers clear and unsweetened with the watchful concentration of a cat lapping milk.
“I will read your leaves and you will read mine,” she announced at last.
I drained the last of my cup, leaving only the dark dregs. Taking the cup from my hands, she turned it around three times. Peering deep within, she began speaking in a dim, distant voice.
“I see you are not merely psychic, but clairvoyant.”
“True,” I admitted.
“Good. What happened when you were twenty-seven?”
“A lot of things.” She was good. I had buried that indiscretion after paying my debt to society.
One fading eyebrow crawled upward. “Do I see a quarrel with your last employer?”
I shrugged. “I was their top cartomancer. You know how it goes. Too many appointment readings came my way. Jealousy followed.”
“The Foxfield Tea Room has a surly reputation.”
She hit the nail on the head. I hadn’t mentioned my prior employer by name.
“‘The MacDonalds of fortune telling’, they called it,” I admitted. “Pull them in and shove them out. Popcorn astrology. Rainbow readings. Sunshine séances. The whole gamut of carnival-style fortune telling.”
Theresa’s tone grew firm. “We do not use that term here. You are a psychic reader. We stand for no gypsy stuff here. Nor do I allow death predictions. Prognostications of inheritance are allowed if they do not point to a specific death event. You may inform a client of infirmity or disease, but you are not under any circumstances to suggest specific medicines or treatment. Instead refer them to their personal physicians. Is that clear?”
“I understand.”
“And you must learn tea. Starting now.”
I took her cup. Upending it onto its saucer, I tapped the bottom three times, restored it to its proper perch and focused all my attention within. Some leaves had fallen loose into the saucer. The remainder huddled in moist blackish patches and canals inside the cup’s concave surface. Within I saw…mulch, compost, peat moss and unraked leaves. I had been so focused on blocking the old woman from seeing into the innermost recesses of my mind I had slipped into a Beta state. I shifted over to my right brain hemisphere and went into deep Alpha.
The tea leaves just lay there, mute. I could feel the flop sweat popping out of my brow. Tea had always baffled me. It was my psychic Achilles’ heel.
“It’s just a question of focus,” prompted Theresa. “Relax. A practiced psychic can read anything from the creases of the palm to the interlacing patterns of bare tree branches against the sky.”
A clump of wet tea leaves clinging to the side of the cup suddenly suggested a shape. Familiar, but elusive. My eyes scoured the room, came to rest on an old sea painting over the fireplace mantel. The rough resemblance of the tea leaves to the many-sailed craft depicted in sun-cracked oils was one of those synchronicities that make my business so interesting.
“Why am I getting a ship?” I asked.
Her smile was thin. “This establishment has its origins in the flourishing tea trade of the 1850s. The original owner was a tea merchant. His Clipper, Blue Moon, brought the first Kingsport tea from old Siam to Massachusetts. When the tea trade dwindled in importance, he converted his home into a modest inn. Later, it evolved into my little tea room. So you see,” she said, taking the cup from my hands, “we have quite a tradition to uphold.” She peered within. “Remember what I said: absolutely no death predictions. You have to curb that negativity. Where is the Scorpio in your chart?”
“Moon.”
Her left eyebrow arched. “Just moon?”
“And ascendant,” I reluctantly admitted.
Both brows shot upward. It was the first expression of real emotion to mark her puffy face. “You have come to the right place. Most of my readers are Piscean or Cancerian psychics. I need a Scorpionic reader. You will do nicely. Can you start now?”
“Yes.”
It was as simple as that. I filled out no application. No references or social security number were asked for. Not even my last name. Last names are jealously guarded in this business.
As she handed me over to the hostess, Miss Theresa fixed me with her brittle blue eyes and said, “I have a strong feeling you will be impressed before you are finished here.”
“I hope to be very impressed,” I countered gallantly.
“You will be impressed,” she repeated. The warmth went out of her tone like an abruptly-banked fire.
It was a slow afternoon. By the southern bay window, a bluehaired matron was having her palm read. Two teenage girls sat in a corner taking notes as a big albino Black ran cards on them.
Dorinda escorted me to the sunroom break area, wordlessly handing me a yellow pamphlet entitled Learn to Read Tea Leaves. I saw that Miss Theresa was the author. No surprise. It had a homemade look.