Claire Voyant Read Online Free PDF

snow-cone biceps spoke volumes about the benefits of sticking with a gym. The younger man—a grandson, I presumed—was a head taller, and closer to my age. And although leaner and lankier than his father, he, too, had six-pack abs, shoe-polish-black hair, and a George Hamilton tan. (Hey. Didn’t I wish for a grandson?)
    Put either of them in Italian suits, and they would pass for morning talk show hunks. The kind you just knew smelled good and said the right things before sex. I could tell because of the flowers that Junior Stud was clenching.
    Amazing how fast word spread in the Jewish community. Loved ones had already started calling the caterers, liquor stores, and florists, who heard the word shiva and jumped into their We’re sorryfor your loss, that’ll be $260 mode. Unless…Oh no. Was that bouquet for me?
    After the receptionist pointed in my direction, I tucked my hair behind my ear and smoothed my shirt. Didn’t matter. I still looked like a shlump who’d rolled out of bed and caught the first flight out to Miami, never once stopping to think that this might be the day I met the crown princes of Dade County.
    As they walked toward me, I felt a chill. There was a certain familiarity to these strangers, impossible as that was. For if I’d known men this attractive, wouldn’t I have remembered? Then it hit me. A minute ago I’d had this strange vision of two tall men approaching, and here they were.
    I guess you could call it a premonition, not that I had much experience with this sort of phenomenon. To the contrary, I had zero psychic abilities, as was evidenced by the fact that I had both bought a Kia and voted for Bush.
    â€œClaire Greene?” The older man removed his shades, revealing red, swollen eyes.
    I nodded yes, and he hugged me so tight I could hardly breathe. “Thank you so much for everything you’ve done.”
    â€œIt was really nothing.” So far I wasn’t lying.
    â€œNo. No,” he insisted. “You are a wonderful person. Please.” He took the bouquet. “We’d like you to have this small token of our appreciation.”
    â€œThank you.” You don’t know how small a token I deserve .
    â€œI’m Ben Fabrikant, and this is my son, Dr. Drew Fabrikant.”
    â€œHi, Dr. Fabrikant. I’m Claire, and I’m very sorry for your family’s loss.” I extended my hand and didn’t want to let go. He had a warm jock grasp and a dazzling, dentist-chair smile.
    â€œPlease. Call me Drew…. We were so relieved when we heard a stranger tried to come to my Pops’ aid. He was such a great man….”
    Ben couldn’t contain himself at the reference to his father in past tense, and began sobbing on Drew’s shoulder. So I reached into my pocketbook for tissues, but pulled out Mr. Fabrikant’swallet instead. Right! The flight attendant had asked me to search it for identification.
    â€œI’m sorry.” Ben took a deep breath. “We are in such shock. I mean, he wasn’t well, but we just spoke to him this morning. He sounded fine.”
    â€œYou’re never prepared for the call.” Drew sniffed.
    â€œOf course not,” I said. Hey. You think you were surprised?
    â€œIs that my Pops’ wallet?” Drew eyed the worn leather billfold.
    â€œYes. The flight attendant asked me to hold on to it.”
    â€œI told you no one stole it.” He punched his father’s arm. “Didn’t I say it would turn up?”
    â€œYes, you did.” Ben turned to me. “When we didn’t find it on him, naturally we thought someone stole it. Not that he carried much money around. A few credit cards….”
    â€œAnd ‘My Sky,’” Drew added. “This poem he liked. It’s like his American Express card. He never left home without it.”
    Oh my God. The man walked around with poetry in his pocket? I hate myself!
    â€œI still