Sweet Fortune

of it.”
    “The thing is, Mrs. Valentine is a little different,” Jessie began, and then decided the young man probably did not want to hear about her employer's psychic abilities. The medical establishment was notoriously unsympathetic to that sort of thing. “Never mind. Thanks, Doctor. I'll see you later.”
    Jessie swung around and hurried toward the elevators, her mind intent on the new responsibilities that awaited her back at the office. In a gesture that was unconscious and habitual, she reached up to push a strand of hair back behind her ears. The thick jet-black stuff was cut in a short, gleaming bob. It was angled from a wedge at her nape to a deep curve that fell in place just below her high cheekbones. Long bangs framed her faintly slanting green eyes and emphasized her delicate features, giving her an oddly exotic, almost catlike look.
    The feline impression was further enhanced by her slender figure, which seemed to throb with quick energy when she was in motion, or appeared sensually relaxed when she sprawled in a chair. The black jeans, black boots, and billowing white poet's shirt that Jessie had on today suited the look.
    She frowned in thought as she waited impatiently for the elevator to reach the hospital lobby. There was a lot to be done now that she was temporarily in charge of Valentine Consultations. And the first thing on the list was to cancel a previous engagement.
    The thought brought both giddy relief and simultaneous disappointment. She was off the hook for this evening .
    But she was not certain she really wanted to be off the hook.
    This unpleasant and confusing mix of emotions was something she was having to deal with frequently of late, and matters were not getting better. Her intuition warned her that as long as Sam Hatchard was in her life, things were only going to get more complicated.
    Jessie strode quickly down the street, her boot heels moving at a crisp pace along the sidewalk. It was a beautiful late-spring day, if one ignored the faint tinge of yellow that hung over Seattle. Smog was something nobody really wanted to talk about in what was considered the most beautiful and livable of cities. People tended to ignore it when it had the audacity to appear. They preferred to talk about the rare sunshine instead. And it was perfectly true that the smog would disappear soon, blown away with the next rain. Fortunately, in Seattle a rain shower was always on the way.
    The trees planted in a row along the sidewalk formed a fresh green canopy overhead. The rapidly evolving Seattle skyline, with its growing number of high-rise buildings, was spread out against the sparkling backdrop of Elliott Bay. Ferries and tankers glided like toy boats on a deep blue pond. In the distance Jessie could barely make out the rugged Olympic Mountains through the haze.
    Jessie narrowed her eyes against the glare. She reached into her black shoulder bag and whipped out a pair of dark glasses. Sunny days were always disconcerting in the Pacific Northwest.
    It took Jessie about twenty minutes to cover the distance to the quiet side street where Valentine Consultations had its offices. The tiny firm was housed in a small two-story brick building located several blocks from the First Hill Hospital, where Mrs. Valentine had been taken that morning.
    The outer door of the aging structure bore the legend of Irene Valentine's business and the stylized picture of a robin, the logo of a small, struggling computer-software-design firm which shared the premises. Jessie opened the door and stepped into the dim hall.
    The opaque glass door on the right opened. A thin, rumpled-looking young man in his early twenties stuck his head out. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes, which he probably had. He was wearing jeans, running shoes, and a white short-sleeved shirt with a plastic pocket protector full of pens and assorted computer implements. He peered at her through a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, blinking against the light. Behind him machinery hummed softly and a computer screen glowed eerily. Jessie smiled.
    “Hi, Alex.”
    “Oh, it's you, Jessie,” Alex Robin said. “I was hoping it might be a client. How's Mrs. V?”
    “She's going to be okay. Bruised ribs and a concussion. The doctors want to keep her in the hospital for a couple of days, and then she's going to stay with her sister for a while. But she should be fine.”
    Alex scratched his head absently. His sandy hair stuck up in patches.