San Francisco, present day
“Jerk!” Felicity slammed her sangria onto the table, sending her bangles clattering to her wrists. “Evil, nasty, two- timing jerk.”
“I warned you about Scorpios,” her Aunt Livia said. “They’ll sweet talk you, then turn around and sting.” She pulled an orange slice from her glass and snapped a bite from it to underscore her point.
“Do you realize he actually called himself a feminist?”
“No!” Livia grimaced. “Put a man in a protest march and all of a sudden he’s freaking Gandhi.” Her aunt nodded sagely, tucking her long, unnaturally red hair back behind her ears. “I met the same in my day. Trust me, sweetheart, I’m much happier living in my little cottage all by my lonesome.”
“But, Livvie . . .” Felicity deflated. “I love your place, but I’m sorry, I just can’t give it all up and live in a canyon somewhere with a bunch of coyotes.”
“I’ve only had trouble with the one coyote, and my little cottage was good enough for you when you came to live there as a child.”
Felicity picked a big, green olive from her plate, taking a moment to think. The last thing she wanted to do was inadvertently offend her aunt. Livia had taken her in when Felicity’s parents died in a car accident, and her aunt’s eccentric lifestyle had been what pulled young Felicity through her grief.
“I’m sorry, Livvie. Your place was, is wonderful, but I’m not eight anymore.”
“Would that you were.” Livia looked around the tapas joint. It was in San Francisco’s Mission District, and it was packed with the gamut of city dwellers: the pierced and the straitlaced, nonnative speakers mingling with middle America. “I do without you for a whole year so you can see the world, and then you move all the way out here. I hate having to come all this way just to see you.”
“I was only in Central America, it was only nine months, and it was your idea, as I recall. Anyway, your trips to San Francisco would go much faster if you flew instead of insisting on the bus.”
Livia ignored the jibe. “I see why the city beckons, sweetheart, but I wish you were back where you belong.”
“I belong here,” Felicity said. “And it’s not as though you’re living on holy ground. I mean, come on, Livvie, you’re in LA.”
“Outside Los Angeles, dear.” She eyed the table full of tiny plates thoughtfully, and speared a bit of quiche with her fork. “Did you do that online dating thing you were telling me about?”
“The one in the TV commercials?” Felicity shrugged. “Yeah, I did it.”
“I wish you would stay away from that Internet stuff. I told you, Tarot is better for this sort of thing than that w-w-w business. Who knows what kind of characters—”
“Everyone is screened.” Felicity smiled patiently. “It’s scientific. There’s a formula. Fill out a questionnaire and they match you to your ‘Perfect Mate.’ Find your true love with Formu-LOVE!” she added brightly.
“Mm-hm.” Her aunt sipped her drink, looking skeptical. “You should use the cards like I taught you. And don’t forget the candle. The candle is the key. You need to find yourself someone better than that . . . that guitar-strumming . . . person.”
“I thought you liked those crunchy hippie-dude types.”
“I used to. But times have changed.” Livia gazed at her a moment, her eyes softening. “Honey, I’ve just seen one too many of those types screw my little niece over.”
A shocked laugh burst from Felicity, and she raised her nearly empty glass in a toast. “To hypocrites. Good-bye to the lot of them.”
“Hear, hear,” Livia said. “You need yourself a real man.”
“Yeah! A real man . . .” Felicity nodded enthusiastically, refilling her glass. “Someone who pulls grandmothers from burning buildings.”
Her aunt let out a tipsy giggle. “That’s the ticket, honey.”
“Who’d jump into icy water to save a stranger. A big Viking of a man. Who’d fight to protect me. Who does things like . . .” Felicity thought for a moment, then slamming her hands onto the table, announced, “Fish.”
“You want your man to fish?” Her aunt’s exuberance momentarily waned.
“Yeah.” Felicity shrugged. “I want a man’s man, but I don’t think I’m ready for any hunters yet.”
“Ha!” Livia’s shriek drew a few pairs of eyes to their table. Ignoring them, she declared, “Then here’s to fishing.”
They both tossed back the rest of their sangria.
“Ugh.” Felicity grabbed the table edge to steady herself. “We should get the bill and go.” Scowling, she reached across the table to pluck the last mushroom cap from its puddle of oil. Her stomach roiled in preparation. She always forgot what a bad idea tapas were. Sangria flowing from long-spouted jugs, with only some garlic prawns and bits of quiche to absorb it all.