Synopsis

A Sprinkling of Magic

Catarina lives alone and works alone, and she likes it that way. Her only romance ended with such pain that she’s convinced she’s meant to be single forever. She lives quietly above the small upholstery shop she runs in downtown Fairview.

One day, a drop-dead gorgeous man walks into her upholstery shop. Remy is opening an ice cream parlor down the street, and he’s stopped in to check out the ugly old sofa Catarina is working on. As it happens, the sofa played a storied role in his parents’ marriage. He tells her all about it over cups of tea, and afterward, Catarina peeks into his cup. Her Romany (Gypsy) grandmother taught her the art of reading tea leaves when she was a child, and Catarina immediately knows her grandmother would have made much of what she sees in Remy’s cup. But Catarina doesn’t take what the tea leaves say seriously. Fortune-telling is hardly scientific, after all.

Catarina’s relationship with Remy sets off complications for several people around them, including her life-long friend Tanya and Remy’s twin brother, Rhys. The situation becomes even more complex when a young girl Catarina didn’t even know existed shows up at her door, having left the old country to meet the branch of her family she found through a DNA test. Veda still follows the old ways, and she and Tanya are convinced Catarina and Remy are meant to be together.

Catarina is not so sure. Remy has a secret he didn’t share, and when Catarina learns about it, she doubts whether she should have taken the risk of another relationship. Can he win back her trust?

Excerpt

Catarina is of Romany ancestry. She runs the upholstery shop in downtown Fairview. Remy is opening an ice cream shop down the street.

Her father had been surprised that Catarina had wanted to learn upholstery. It was heavy work, and Catarina was a small woman. But she liked the idea of running her own business, and she liked living right over the shop. It was a convenient arrangement, and the work kept her strong and fit without any need to visit a gym.

She put on her heavy work boots and headed downstairs. The staircase delineated a strong shift in the appearance of the building’s interior. Her living quarters, full of light, plants, art and books, had a charming bohemian air to them. Downstairs, it was a functional workshop. She kept a few upholstered pieces of furniture in the plate glass window upon which the name “Loveridge’s” was drawn in swoopy gold lettering, but the rest of the space was functional. Tools, furniture in every state of repair and disrepair, and big books of fabric samples crowded the space, yet everything managed to look orderly.

Today she had a new project to start. It was an ugly green sofa with, so far as she could see, zero aesthetic value. Reupholstering furniture cost at least as much as buying new, so most people didn’t bother unless a piece was valuable or beloved. Why anybody would love this hideous monstrosity, she couldn’t imagine. Worse yet, the customer had chosen to replace the old fabric with a newer version of the moth-eaten green it now had. This piece wouldn’t be especially satisfying to complete. However, she gave the customers what they wanted. She sighed and got to work, flipping the sofa upside down with less trouble than anyone would expect from such a small woman.

She began carefully removing the old fabric, taking care not to rip it so she could use the old pieces as patterns for the new fabric. She would have to re-do the old springs and replace the padding, and in the end it would look like an entirely new piece — but would still look ugly, she thought. The woman who had arranged the sofa repair had seemed nice enough but had abysmal taste.

She was still taking it apart when the bell on her front door jingled. Unexpected customers only rarely walked in her front door. Usually, people called and made an appointment before stopping in, so she looked up in surprise.

He was tall, with thick, dark hair and a light beard. He was dressed casually, in jeans and a white button-down shirt. He wore sunglasses, but took them off as he walked in, revealing eyes as dark as Catarina’s own.

“Hi, what can I do for you?” she asked, putting down the flat-head screwdriver she’d been using to remove some old staples. She reflexively touched her hair, noting it was still wet but well in place.

“I see you’re working on my mother’s sofa,” he said. “My sister arranged to have it recovered.” Catarina was a bit surprised that Serena was his sister. Serena was, she’d guess, around 20 years older than this man.

“Yes, I’m just starting it,” she said. “Is there any problem?”

“Not at all,” he said. “She told me today she had decided to have it recovered, and I just wanted to see what your plans for it are. Can you show me the new fabric?”

Now that was odd, Catarina thought. What was his interest in his mother’s ugly old sofa? But she just smiled.

“Of course,” she said. “I have it here.” She indicated another work table just behind her. On it was a bolt of ugly green fabric, very similar to the old fabric she was removing. She had started stacking sections of the old stuff in a pile at the end of the table, ready for use in making new patterns.

The man walked over to the table and ran his hand over the bolt of material.

“Serena was right. This is just as ugly as the old stuff. Mom is going to love it,” he said, and laughed, causing Catarina to laugh along with him.

“It might not be the most beautiful material I’ve ever used,” she said. “But the customer — your sister Serena, you say? — seemed very happy with it. We did look through quite a few sample books before she settled on this one.”

“You must be wondering why anybody would want to keep this horrible sofa,” he said.

“Well … something like that might have crossed my mind.” She walked around the work table, closer to where he stood.

“I wouldn’t be here if not for this sofa, you might say.”

“Now that sounds like a story,” Catarina said. She looked into the man’s dark brown eyes. They were so dark as to be nearly black. She wondered if he had Romany blood, as she did. If he added a couple of gold earrings and tied a diklo around his head, he would look just like a gyspy king, she thought. Matchka had awakened from her nap and was regarding the man with curiosity, meowing and repeatedly walking between his legs.

“I’m Catarina,” she said, extending her hand.

“Remy,” he said, returning the handshake. Then he reached down and picked up Matchka, cuddling her until she settled in and purred. “And who is this?”

“That is Matchka,” Catarina said. “She seems to like you.”

“Matchka,” Remy said. “Does that have a meaning?” He stroked under the cat’s chin. Clearly, he’d owned a cat before.

“It does. It means ‘cat,’ actually.”

Remy laughed. “That sounds like a story.” His eyes crinkled in the most attractive way when he laughed, she noticed. Maybe that was what made her throw caution to the wind.

“Would you like a cup of tea? And then you can tell me everything I need to know about the history of this sofa.” Although she couldn’t imagine how knowing the history could possibly change how she worked on it.

Remy looked surprised, but then smiled. “I’d love a cup of tea,” he said.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “Matchka will keep you company for a bit.” She quickly ran upstairs and put on a pot of water to boil. She looked at her reflection, wondering if she could rearrange her hair without looking like she cared too much about what this customer thought of her. No, probably not. But she added a tiny bit of lip gloss and powdered her nose. Then she loaded up a small lacquered tray with her grandmother’s tea set, jam and orange slices. She included the sugar bowl and some cream, since she didn’t know how he took his tea. By the time she’d assembled all the ingredients, the water was boiling, and she started the tea leaves steeping.

She walked slowly down the stairs, careful not to spill anything or drop her grandmother’s tea set.

“That’s a beautiful tea set,” he said. It was, indeed. It was clearly an antique, beautifully detailed with swirls of color and gold edging. Catarina treasured it.

“Thanks,” she said. “It belonged to my grandmother. I think of her whenever I use it.” She put the tray down at the far side of the work table, away from the fabric. “How do you take your tea? I have my own tradition, but you might prefer just sugar and cream, or plain.”

“Usually plain, but I’m curious to see how you do it,” he said.

“This is how my grandmother made it,” she said. “With jam and orange slices.”

“Interesting,” he said. “I’ll try it. Was that her own invention?”

“My Romany grandmother taught me to make it this way,” she said, watching him closely to see if he reacted to word of her heritage. Some people did. But he just smiled and watched her preparations.

“Now we let it steep for just a bit,” she said. “So you owe your existence to this oh-so-beautiful sofa?” She hopped up on the edge of the work table and crossed her legs, settling in for a story. He followed her lead.

“Well, I may have stretched things a bit,” he said. “But my parents married against their families’ wishes. Neither of their parents were thrilled by the marriage. She was from a strict and somewhat well-off family, and my father was a poor Italian whose parents didn’t even speak much English. They had hoped for him to marry a Catholic Italian girl.”

So that’s where all that beautiful dark hair came from, Catarina thought to herself. But she said only, “My parents married against their families’ wishes as well.” Remy didn’t respond. He was deep into a story he had obviously told with relish many times before.

“They decided to elope as soon as he got off work on a Friday afternoon. They had it all arranged, but that day, he broke his leg at work. So there they were, all their stuff already packed up in the back of his truck and him with a broken leg. She couldn’t go back home, and neither could he. But they couldn’t drive off together, either. She wouldn’t think of going off with him unmarried. So they ended up calling his best friend, who took them back to his house. The best friend’s mother called in her own priest, who was a recent immigrant who barely spoke English. They were married with my father lying down on the old woman’s sofa, and my mother had to be told when to say ‘I do,’ because she didn’t understand Italian at all. And then they went to the hospital and he got his leg set. My mother learned how to drive that very day. There was no way my father could drive a stick shift with a broken leg. They say they drove pretty much the whole way to the hospital in first gear because she was terrified of shifting. Then she drove to the place he’d rented, about an hour away under normal conditions, all in first gear. People were honking at them the whole way, but they didn’t care. Dad was in a lot of pain but kept telling her she was doing fine. Can you imagine?” He talked with his hands, demonstrating his mother’s driving, seemingly not even realizing he was doing it.

“I guess that wasn’t the honeymoon they planned,” she said, and checked on the tea. It needed a bit more time.

“I would guess not. But my sister came along pretty much nine months later on the dot, so there you go. And later on, my dad bought this sofa from his friend’s mother. Whatever he paid was more than the thing was worth, I’m sure. But they kept it in their house my entire life, even after they could have well afforded something different.”

“And now?” She noticed that the longer parts of his hair tended to move out of place when he was animatedly telling a story, and moving his hair back into place was just a natural move for him.

“Dad is gone, and Mom had a hip replacement recently. She’s having a little trouble so she’s in a nursing home, hopefully just temporarily. They’re doing some intensive physical therapy there. We’re hoping she can come home soon. So Serena thought it would be a good time to recover the sofa, which, as you can see, badly needed it.” He chuckled. “It badly needed it about 30 years ago, actually.”

“So that’s why your sister was particular that the job be done quickly.” His face was so expressive that she felt she could read his mind if she could just look into his eyes for a while.

“Yes. We want to surprise Mom when she comes home.”

“That’s a very sweet story,” Catarina said. She picked up her cup and motioned to Remy. “This is ready now.”

“You drink it with the leaves in?”

“Yes. Back in the day, we’d read the tea leaves afterward. My grandmother knew how.”

Remy took a cautious sip. “Hey, this is pretty good. I’ve heard of lemon in tea, but I’ve never had it with an orange slice.”

“I actually grew that orange in my apartment upstairs. The window lets in enough light to keep my lime tree and orange tree happy, believe it or not.” While he was peering into his cup, she took the opportunity to study his face some more. It was remarkable how he looked so masculine and yet so beautiful at the same time. Usually, a man who could be described as beautiful had something of an effeminate look to him, but that was not the case with Remy. At all. His face was chiseled, but the longish hair and the very long, dark eyelashes and expressive eyes softened his appearance just enough.

“So, do you believe there’s anything to telling fortunes with tea leaves?”

“Well, I am of two minds. On one hand, no, of course not. It’s very unscientific. On the other hand, that doesn’t stop me from reading them anyway.” She took another sip.

“Would you read mine? Just for fun?”

“Of course.” She glanced at his cup. “Take out the orange slice, and drink the rest, leaving just a little tea behind. Like this,” she said, demonstrating with her own cup. He did.

“How’s this?”

“That’s fine. Now hold it in your left hand and swirl, like so. You want to turn it three times,” she said, and reached out her hand to guide his. She felt an electric shock as she did, and he jumped, making her think he must have felt it, too.

“Now set your cup upside down in its saucer.”

His eyes were glued to hers. She decided to lighten the mood. “I see many pieces of reupholstered furniture in your future. Many, many pieces. The complicated ones that are very expensive to have done,” she said, and they both laughed. “No, seriously, you read from the rim and work your way down. You look for patterns in the leaves, or for clumps that resemble certain symbols, which have meanings. This little blob here looks a bit like the letter L, do you see? So at this point, if I were doing a serious reading, I’d ask you if there is anything significant with that letter. Perhaps a lover or a business name.”

“I’m having a sofa upholstered by Loveridge’s,” he said.

“That clears up that!” she said. “Now, quite close here, this looks a bit like a flower. Do you see it?”

“Maybe? Is a flower good?”

“It can mean true love is coming. That’s what I would tell you if I were making a living as a fortune-teller. But it can also mean that happiness of other kinds is coming. Actually, there’s lots of interpretation to it. A good fortune-teller reads the customer more than the tea leaves. If you were a young single girl, I’d certainly tell you you were about to find true love. If you were an older married person, I’d probably tell you something you’ve been hoping for was about to bring you happiness.”

“What would you say about that little blob on the bottom?”

“Well, what would you say it looks like?”

“Maybe a pencil? Or a snake?”

“I probably wouldn’t say snake. Snakes might mean there is someone who does not deserve your trust. I’d probably call it a cigar, and would tell you to expect a new friend. Now, my grandmother would have woven all this into a cohesive story that would convince you that love, happiness and prosperity were coming your way. Or, someone else might interpret everything quite differently, and then try to sell you a love potion or to offer to remove a curse from your money to change your fortune. A lot would ride on whether the fortune-teller was honest or just trying to drum up some business from you. It’s like reading your astrology in the newspaper. Many people, no matter if you read them something from the wrong sign, would be quick to agree that the description fit them to a T. If you deal in vague generalities, you can always be right.”

“Interesting. I had no idea there was so much to it. Did your grandmother believe in it?”

“She did. She was also a shrewd judge of character, however. If you had her tell your fortune, you’d get from the experience much of what you might get from visiting a therapist for help finding your life path. Just having someone pay close attention to you and offer an encouraging view of your life can do wonders to motivate someone to look on the positive side of life.”

“How did you end up doing upholstery rather than telling fortunes?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m a modern Romany girl, and my parents were fairly modern, for that matter. At least, my father was. He started this shop decades ago, and my parents sent me off to college to study art. I probably would have made more money reading palms and tea leaves than I would have as an artist, though. So when my father retired, I decided to take over the business. It’s not a bad way to make a living, and it satisfies some of my artistic impulses. And, it allows me to stay independent. I’m not sure I’d do well working for anyone else.” She paused. “So that’s my story. What’s yours?”

“Well, it’s pretty bland in comparison. My dad went back to school and became an accountant. I lived a boring middle class suburban life. I majored in accounting but found it dull and a few months ago I bought a little place down the block. Used to be a barber shop? Jim’s?”

“Oh, yes, that place has been closed for years. My father went there, back in the day.”

“I’m remodeling it and plan to open a little ice cream shop.”

“Oh, that’s great! This downtown needs new life. An ice cream shop would be wonderful, but it seems a terrible risk, doesn’t it?”

“Absolutely. I’d definitely advise anyone against such a move. But nevertheless, I’m doing it. I’ll probably lose my ass and have to redouble my efforts in accounting. I’m staying on at the accounting firm for now, anyway, just to be safe and to keep the insurance. But there you go. I’m a bit of a dreamer, I’m afraid.”

“I would never advise anyone to ignore their dreams,” Catarina said. She stood. “My dream of finishing your mother’s sofa this week will not come true if I don’t get back to it, though. But I’ve enjoyed talking to you. Stop in anytime. You can check my progress on your sofa.”

Remy also slid off the work table and stood up. “I’ll do that. I’m just at the end of the block. If you need to take a break, stop in. You can give me your opinion on the design of the place.”

“I will definitely do that,” Catarina said.

He reached out his hand and she took it, feeling again an electric shock as they touched.

“Sorry! I think I picked up some static electricity,” he said. She quickly agreed that must be it, but she knew her grandmother would have a different explanation, and she thought again of the flower in his tea cup. Close to the rim. Her grandmother, she knew, would have told him he was about to fall in love.

About the Author

Sophia Sinclair grew up in a town so small (pop. 170!) that the little town of Fairview where this series is set seems like the big city to her. For many years, she was the editor of a small town’s daily newspaper, so she understands the rhythms of small-town life. When she started writing romances, she decided to set them all in a small town called Fairview. If you’re from a small town, you’ll feel like you’ve been there. If you’re from a larger city, don’t be surprised if you start yearning for small-town life. It’s often said that in a small town, everybody knows everyone else’s business, but the truth is, there are still a lot of secrets in small towns!

She is married to a European man, has two grown children and two lovely grandbabies she spoils to death. There’s a little bit of Sophia in every one of her books. Molly is a librarian who wears plain dark dresses and looks very conservative but often wears racy underwear under that plain black dress. Sophia dresses the same. Lori likes to have a good time and always has lots of boyfriends before meeting the love of her life. Sophia will take the Fifth on that one. Catarina has a German poem on her bedroom wall; Sophia has the first two lines of that same poem tattooed on her upper thigh, in German. (It’s Rilke, and the first two lines translate to: “You see, I want a lot. Perhaps I want everything.” As for Julie in Perfect Fit, Sophia is mad about all aspects of pregnancy, breastfeeding, childbirth, and babies. She attended many of her friend’s births, taught breastfeeding to WIC moms as a volunteer, started a business that handled pumps, bras, slings etc., and gave very serious thought to working as a lactation consultant, doula or midwife once the newspaper industry died. Instead, she started writing these romance novels, and she very, very much hopes you’ll enjoy them.

She also writes for Curvicality.com, an online women’s lifestyle magazine aimed at plus-size women. That’s why Julie in Perfect Fit is plus-sized. She wanted to show that love is for everyone; not just the thinner ladies.  Here is an example of the fun stuff she writes there.

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