Imani considered the size of the melons in front of her. She already had the lamb and the fresh spearmint, but the watermelons were a problem. Just what kind of recipe for roast leg of lamb called for a "small handful of watermelons," anyway?

What she wouldn't do for a small handful of melon right now...

It had been a while since she'd seen Charlotte. They were still friends, of course, but that's all they would ever be. And anyway, Charlotte had a new girlfriend. The time for fringe benefits had passed.

Her phone buzzed against her thigh. She put down the watermelon (which was indeed rather small), looked at the caller ID, and sighed.

"Hello, Mom. I'm at the Safeway. What's up? Is Dad all right?"

"Oh, he's fine, Imani. He's just fine. Honey, you won't believe this, but I met the nicest man at church this morning. His name's Joseph Malik, he's church shopping right now, he works for The Fitzgerald Group as a financial planner, he's handsome, and he's single! Isn't that amazing?"

She knew what was coming.

"You know how hard it is to find someone compatible with a good background here. We're not living in Chicago anymore. And you've been alone for so long. I'm worried about you. I'd love it if you could come to church with me next Sunday. I could introduce you to each other. Wouldn't you like that?"

No, she would not like that. She liked church about as much as she liked men. But she wasn't going to discuss that with her mother. Her mother had enough to worry about.

Coming out of the closet to her conservative, religious parents was another discussion for another time, and it could wait until her father's heart condition had improved. At the very least it could wait until after she'd figured out just what this recipe was talking about when it referenced its "small handful of watermelons."

"I'll think about it. I have to go. I need to go through checkout. Love you, Mom."

Was the recipe calling for unusually small watermelons? Was it saying she should look for a watermelon that she could comfortably hold in one hand without dropping it and making a mess? Maybe she was supposed to obtain a pre-sliced watermelon and scoop out the pulp with her hand... Yuck. No, that couldn't be it.

She decided to pick the two watermelons that seemed most similar to Charlotte's in size and shape and went looking for the culinary lavender, which was another odd ingredient the roast lamb recipe called for. Then there was the retsina... no way would she be able to find that in a Safeway in Portland. Thirty thousand bottles of microbrewed beer on the wall, and plenty of nice locally sourced Willamette Valley wines, but not retsina.

Come to think of it, the lavender was going to be problematic, too. She'd have an easier time finding that at a florist's shop, although she'd need to wash it off thoroughly.

This was the last time she would ever try out a recipe based on a Bitstrips comic that she saw posted on Reddit.

***

Rennie made her way through the backyard to the shed where her father's third wife kept her garden tools. She needed a shovel.

There, in the corner. Perfect.

Nineteen years ago, she'd buried her birthday time capsule in the woods behind her father's house, which at the time had been one of the few new houses overlooking that shore of Oswego Lake. Other houses had sprung up around it since then, all of them large, gaudy, and ugly, but her father's house, if not one of the newest builds, was still one of the largest, gaudiest, and ugliest.

She'd moved to Portland from Ohio in 1994 after graduating from college with two degrees in Finance and Philosophy. One of those bachelor's degrees had landed her an accounting job in her father's firm. It wasn't the degree in Philosophy. Then again, it probably hadn't been the degree in Finance, either. She'd had an undeclared minor in Nepotism.

Now she was forty, and it was time to dig up the capsule. She'd driven a long way south from Vantucky in rush hour to do it. She'd put up with a snobby family dinner, too. Her stepmother - her father's third trophy wife, now - was younger than she was, and for someone that young, she was remarkably good at passive-aggression. Must have been a natural talent.

At least she could be by herself in the little wooded area. Her father and stepmother had other things to do; as far as they were concerned, she'd already left and started the drive home.

Maple leaves swayed in the breeze as she picked her way to the place where she'd hidden and buried the time capsule. Eventually, she found it: a small clearing, now lit by moonlight.

She started to dig. 

Her lower back protested immediately. How had she managed to get that box buried nineteen years ago, anyway? This was hard work. And where was it? In the movies, buried treasure was easily located by looking at a map where "X" marked the spot. Here, she had a general idea of where she'd put the box, but it was a small cedar chest she'd got as one of her graduation trinkets and it was only maybe a foot long by six inches wide, and there were more possible burying places in a three-foot clearing than she'd counted on. She'd only buried the box about two feet down. How many times was she going to have to dig down until she remembered exactly where she'd buried the box?

Crickets chirped loudly at each other, covering the sound of her breathing as she wheezed for air. Should've brought her inhaler.

Finally, the top of the shovel hit something hard and wooden.

She dropped the shovel, got down on her hands and knees, and extracted the little miniature hope chest. It was supposed to have been locked, and only possible to open with a key, which she had lost years ago, but the lock was easy enough to pick with a hair barrette.

She opened the box...

Nothing.

No. That was impossible. Nobody had known about the time capsule but her. And who would have gone to the trouble of looking for a buried cedar box, picking it open, pulling out a pack of tarot cards that her delightfully weird college friend had given her as a farewell present (just a Rider-Waite deck, nothing fancy), and relocking, replacing, and reburying an empty box?

All that effort, wasted for nothing. And now she was missing a piece of her past.   

***

This was a prettier deck of cards than her old one was, Rennie thought. That deck had been fine if you liked a certain shade of yellow - since that yellow was on nearly every card - but if not, then you were stuck looking at cards that made your eyes want to bleed.

Her new Aquarian Tarot deck, which was in her hands today courtesy of Amazon, was done in pretty shades of teal and brown and white and reminded her of what you might get if you convinced Mucha and Erté to collaborate on a project.

It was perfect.

Originally, she'd only wanted to make the trip south to her father's house to dig up a piece of her past. Now, though, she wanted to actually use the cards. The sudden disappearance and unavailability of the deck had sparked in her a perverse desire to access what had slipped away from her.

She wanted answers.

A three-card spread would be appropriate, she decided.

She shuffled until the cards felt right (which was how her college friend had told her to shuffle tarot cards) and set the deck down on the coffee table that had been a hand-me-down from her father when he and this latest wife of his updated their decor to something paler and uglier.

The first card she pulled at random was for her past.

It was the Six of Swords.

Well, that was interesting... a guy standing to the rear of a boat that was miraculously not sinking into the water despite the many swords that had been stabbed into it. Unfortunately, while the picture looked interesting, it didn't hold any immediate meaning for her, so she had to refer to the little booklet that came with her deck.

A journey. Escape from troubles. Letting go of the past and negativity. Baggage.

John.

She'd met him soon after moving to Portland. She'd thought he was everything she'd been looking for in a partner. He was funny and smart. His blonde hair and blue eyes reminded her just a little bit of David Bowie, who she'd always had a crush on. He liked to play tabletop role-playing games.

He liked playing other games, too.

She'd thought she'd wanted that, at first. Then the games stopped being sexy and all she wanted was to get away from him, only the harder she tried to break up with him, the harder he chased her. After the tenth time that she was stupid enough to open the door when he'd knocked, demanding entry so they could "talk about things," he'd grabbed her by the throat and choked her until she lost consciousness.

Thank God they'd never actually married, like he'd wanted to.

Fifteen years ago and it still felt like yesterday. She still sometimes dreamed of those hands around her throat, only to wake up screaming, her ears still throbbing from feeling like something was going to burst out, and a wicked pressure headache building from within.

That was her past.

She pulled her second card, focusing on her present, and got The Hanged Man.

She didn't need to look up the meaning of that one. It spoke for itself.

How long had she felt suspended? John aside, it was like her entire life had been nothing but a holding pattern since she'd moved here.

She had a comfortable accounting job in her father's financial firm - it paid the bills, it was moderately intellectually challenging, and it had absolutely nothing to do with who she wanted to be. (Ah, but who did she want to be? She had no idea. Forty years old, now, and she still had no idea who she wanted to be and what she wanted to do with her life. And there was the problem).

She had friends - well, she had gaming buddies and internet buddies. Maybe it was a stretch to think of them as friends.

She had interesting conversations on Fetlife. Did she have a fetish life? Did she have a life of any kind? No. Getting her life back was a fun idea. It was also a dangerous idea.

But maybe it was time to move on. Maybe it was time to unsuspend herself.

She picked a third card.

The card that represented her future was the Two of Cups.

Partnership between equals. Love. Union.

Oh, wouldn't that be nice...

Wait, what was that card that had fallen to the floor? She could swear it was staring at her, trying to get her attention. Could cards yell? Fine. She could take a hint.

The card that was demanding her attention was The Empress.

***

After tossing several scraps of paper into a hat and pulling out "Tinder" as the answer to the question "Where will I find my Empress?" and a couple of hours of scrolling through profiles, Rennie gasped at the beautiful profile before her.

SBF, age 38, seeking the right partner. Women, not men. Hot pepper, not vanilla. Friendship, not romance. Philosophy, not religion. Cats, not kids (I am a cat lover. Take that any way you like). Let's hike in the woods and debate - but please, not about Bentham, because I Kant even. Are you ready for me? Submit, my dear. That's what I want.

All that, and a beautiful face, too!

She swiped right.