The Hand Dealt: The Tarot Legacies, #1

By Victoria Belue

She had accomplished everything…
…and now she wanted more.
Could she control reincarnation?
The luxury fashion empire she created was world-class. Vesta had come a long way from the poverty-ridden life that tried to keep her down. It all seemed too easy.
Was she meant for more?
The Tarot cards hold a secret for her.
Vesta's life changed that night at the lecture. She believed him. Reincarnation was real and she knew this would be the ultimate quest. 
How could she return as herself?
He was a British rock legend. He was also the Fool of the tarot. Liam knew the truth about Vesta but had been sworn to keep it. What he knows will change Vesta's life forever.
The quest begins.
You'll love this urban fantasy because Victoria Belue has created a premise as unique as the world she built around it.
Get reading now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Belue
• Release date: Jun 21, 2020
• ISBN: 9798223573852

Book preview

Chapter 1

New York City, New York, USA

June 12, 1997

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Vesta Beauvais felt the static energy growing between her eyebrows on the cab ride to Carnegie Hall. The spot low on her forehead crackled like an old television screen coming to life. A worn Day-Timer lay open in her lap as she rubbed the prickling patch of skin in a haphazard motion. She checked her schedule for the day. Everything she had written down had been accomplished except for the last appointment – meet Constance at Carnegie Hall to hear a lecture about reincarnation.

The idea of someone droning on about such an obscure subject didn’t rank high on her list of ways to spend an evening. But Constance was a devoted client to Sybarite buying thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing and home goods each year as well as bringing in equally wealthy friends. Invitations from Constance were more instructions than requests. She loved to invite her out saying that Vesta worked too much. Social activity with clients remained an important part of her job as CEO and chairman of the board of Sybarite. Vesta understood all that her position entailed, and she had no problem accepting the responsibility.

Friday night traffic in Manhattan moved in tortured spurts of forward motion followed by jolting stops and incessant waiting. After living in New York for twenty years, she knew getting impatient with its slow progress would yield only misery. Tucking wisps of her bleached blonde bob behind her ears Vesta looked up from the Day-Timer and out the car window. Day had drained through the city’s sewer pipes into night revealing the imprint of a greasy hand at eye level on the glass. In an intermittent rhythm as they passed streetlights it shifted from transparent to opaque. The reasons for it to be there were too numerous and potentially disgusting to imagine, but it did present a curious effect. As the cab sprinted between traffic lights, the handprint blocked her from seeing certain things. It blurred the entrance to a liquor store but allowed her to view diners in the deli next door. She could barely make out the display window of a closed pawnshop yet the men’s store beside it with a banner promoting Father’s Day was clearly visible.

Vesta lifted her chin and averted her eyes from the banner. Father’s Day, that was one holiday she never had to think about. Her eyes darted to find something else to look at landing on a billboard of Kate Moss advertising Calvin Klein’s Obsession perfume. She focused on the little black top Moss was wearing with the spaghetti straps. Would that style ever go out of fashion? She smiled to herself. Something so chic would always be relevant.

Where 57 th Street intersected with Seventh Avenue the cab pulled to an abrupt stop. The driver looked into his rearview mirror making eye contact with her.

I can’t go any further. ConEdison’s got the road blocked. He pointed ahead of him. They’re doing some kind of work up there.

Vesta looked in his direction. That’s okay. All I need to do is cross the street from here. She dropped her Day-Timer and Montblanc pen into her handbag and paid for the ride.

Flirty wisps of a cool breeze tousled her hair as she pulled her light cashmere sweater tighter around her shoulders. She joined a gaggle of people on the corner waiting for the pedestrian light. Cars forced to turn right due to the utility barricade created a constant stream of vehicles on the street while more people continued to jam the sidewalk behind her.

You can’t push it like that, someone shouted at the rear of the crowd. Neither Vesta nor anyone else turned to see who spoke. In New York people yelling on the street for all sorts of reasons was common. An unspoken survival technique of living in the city required that you ignore most of what went on.

The crosswalk sign turned green and a dozen people stepped off the curb to meet the oncoming mass of pedestrians headed from the opposite direction. A nasty sound of metal crashing against asphalt rang out behind her.

Pick it up! the same voice screeched. Hurry!

As Vesta reached the curb on the other side of the street, she heard a twisted wail pierce the hum of waiting car engines and human chatter. She turned to look.

A girl no more than seven who wore a dress at least one size too big with stringy blonde hair covering half her face struggled to set a toppled metal shopping cart back on its wheels. Spilled next to it were clothes and plastic bags splayed out in the middle of the crosswalk. The child was crying as she tugged on the behemoth twice her size.

I said pick it up! The now familiar voice belonged to a skeletal-looking woman dressed in dirty red Nike sweatpants and a zippered jacket, frizzy red hair sprouting from her head. She held a baby in her arms that had the same wild head of hair wearing an Adidas shirt with several large stains on the front. The woman stepped up on the curb and stood near Vesta.

I’m trying, the little girl shouted as she pulled on the cart with repeated tiny sharp motions, the effort only serving to scrape it a foot further into the street. Vesta felt her stomach tie itself into a knot that wound up in her throat as she looked at the scene. The walk light was still green but not for long. Leaping back into the crosswalk, she ran to the girl and grabbed the cart setting it upright.

Get to the curb, she said. The little girl obeyed and ran to the woman with the baby. Vesta threw her handbag over her shoulder and began picking up clothes with both hands pitching them into the shopping cart. As the pedestrian light turned red, she was still picking up plastic bags filled with unknown items that jangled when she hurled them on top of the clothes. Cars with the green light inched forward into the intersection as one honked its horn.

Vesta turned her head toward the offending car making eye contact with the driver. No words were expressed, no gestures were made, but she shot out a stare cold enough to grow icicles on the man’s stubbly chin hair. The man jerked his head back an inch or two as he took his hand off the horn.

Seconds later Vesta tossed the last bag and armful of clothing into the cart. She pushed it beyond the crosswalk onto the curb. Cars began to flow behind her like a fast-running river current released from a dam.

Here you go. Vesta stopped the cart beside the woman and the little girl.

She needs to learn how to do that, the woman said nodding toward the girl.

It’s too big and too heavy for her to pick up.

That’s none of your business. She’s not your kid. The woman put the wriggling toddler into the front seat of the cart. As she grabbed the bar to push the cart forward, she signaled to the little girl with a jerk of her head. They started walking. Vesta opened her mouth to say something then stopped. She watched the hapless caravan wobble down the sidewalk. When they were several yards away the girl looked back at Vesta with piercing little brown eyes. The knot in her stomach tightened, and she blinked hard. With an exhale she returned the gaze silently saying, You can overcome this. Don’t give up. The girl stared for a moment longer then turned to continue her journey.

Vesta watched, her mouth pursed, her eyes unblinking, and the spot between her eyebrows buzzing like a tiny bee in flight. She brushed at it with her finger then smoothed her bangs and tried to tuck the rest of her hair behind her ears. Time to shift her focus back onto why she was there. Emotional lapses could have no place in her life. They always brought disaster. She adjusted her sweater over her shoulders and walked into Carnegie Hall.

A bar was set up in one corner of the historic lobby. As she approached it a familiar squeal rang out.

Vesta! Toddling toward her in six-inch Balenciaga heels Constance made the little squealing noise again. Dressed in a Sybarite floral cocktail dress she looked more ready for a party in the Hamptons than a dull lecture.

Hey Constance. How are you?

I’m good, but I know you’ve been chained to your office. I’m glad they let you out for good behavior.

I couldn’t pass up your thoughtful invitation.

A bartender slid two glasses of champagne toward them.

I took the liberty of ordering for both of us.

Wonderful. Vesta picked up her glass and took a sip.

Oh, look, that girl is wearing one of your dresses, Constance said pointing toward the front doors.

It’s not mine. Paulo is the designer. Spring collection. Laboutin shoes.

Constance eyed the woman for a moment. Well, I call her a girl, but really she’s as old as we are. She’s just been freshened up. A lot. She waved the champagne flute toward her face. Have you ever had work done? If you have, I can’t tell it. You look great. Constance lowered her voice, and you must share names.

No. I never have.

Well, it would be understandable if you had. Nothing to be embarrassed about. I mean we’re both staring at forty, and it’s almost the year two thousand for God’s sake. If we can’t take advantage of all these medical breakthroughs. She shook her head. Well, I just think it would be a crime.

I don’t think facelifts are considered medical breakthroughs.

Vesta scanned the room to see if she knew anyone. A man standing nearby she recognized as a one-night impulse lay from a couple of years earlier. He was chatting with a Versace clad model-type. She quickly turned away from him and continued reconnaissance of the lobby when they landed on Amara Covington talking to Jared Schultz. Of course, they would be at an event like this. They were always where they should be. Vesta watched them with a cool gaze.

Amara, the trust fund baby radiated simple elegant beauty with her long golden waves of true blonde hair spilling over her discreet but expensive black Chanel dress. Her large light blue eyes, aquiline nose and naturally full lips completed the perfect package. And Jared, a masterful composition of rock jaw and brown doe eyes with dark blonde hair carefully coifed into a polite mess. Even with a lumberjack body he carried the Gucci suit designed by Tom Ford better than the best runway models. They were definitely the couple to behold at social gatherings.

Vesta smiled to herself. They acted so much more sophisticated now than they did back in college. She looked down at her own Sybarite spring collection dress and new pair of Jimmy Choo high-heeled sandals with the sexy little tie strings. With a barely perceptible nod, she acknowledged that she had evolved leagues beyond her Columbia days too. In a swift move she twisted to the right to turn her back on the pair to avoid any eye contact. Amara had a subtle way of making her feel inferior no matter what subject they discussed. Plus, she couldn’t resist flirting with Jared even though he had been with Amara forever. Well, almost forever, except for those times he was with her.

Facelifts are important, Constance rattled on not noticing Vesta’s distraction, by the way, I have a guy I want you to meet. A doctor.

No thanks.

Why? He’s a great guy. In all the years I’ve known you, you’ve never brought a date to any of these events. He could at least be some good arm candy.

Vesta wrinkled her nose and shook her head. I don’t need any.

You sure about that? Men can be very good to rely on.

I’ve never met one of those.

Constance laughed. It reminded Vesta of little birds twittering. You’re so funny. Anyway, I’m so excited to see Robert Thurman tonight. You do know who he is don’t you?

No.

You didn’t read up on him after I invited you here? Constance made a playful swat at Vesta. Well, for starters, he’s Uma Thurman’s father. You know, the actress? Pulp Fiction?

Oh, right. Vesta said as she began looking around the room again.

He’s also a big-shot Buddhist who hangs out with the Dalai Lama and Richard Gere, and stuff.

Okay, Vesta replied as she recognized another man in the crowd she had slept with on a casual basis a year earlier. She turned her back to him and focused on Constance.

He talks about reincarnation and suffering. Stuff like that.

That sounds like fun.

No. No. You don’t understand. He talks about living your present life knowing this isn’t our first time or our last time doing it. You keep repeating it. Your life, I mean. Over and over until you become enlightened or lighten up or something like that. Like the Dalai Lama, who comes back as the same person each time. But if you don’t, you could come back in your next life as an ant or something, maybe a rat. Wouldn’t that be disgusting? Or you might be a man if you’re a woman now. Anyway, he makes you think about a lot of stuff. I can’t wait to see him.

Well, you don’t have to wait much longer. Shall we go find our seats?

Yeah. Drink up, Constance said, I’m way ahead of you and this stuff isn’t cheap!

Vesta tipped her almost full glass to her lips and finished her champagne a few seconds later.

Damn girl, that was quick.

A quick grin flashed on her face as she shrugged her shoulders. I’ve put in some serious practice.

The women set their glasses on the bar and made their way through the crowd. Cool cream walls surrounded the polished wooden stage floor of Carnegie Hall, its plain but grand elegance bolstered by a neoclassical façade and wide proscenium arch. The stage lay bare except for a microphone stand in the center. Blood red carpeting covered the aisles accenting the dramatic austerity of the auditorium. Lights inset along the balcony balustrade and ceiling oculus glowed with subdued white halos creating the effect of a UFO hovering in silence above the room. A relaxed atmosphere permeated the entire space.

An usher pointed to their seats on the first row of the balcony. They were at the far end and almost everyone on their row had settled into their seats already. Vesta inched her way past knees and handbags catching the conflicting scents of heavy patchouli one moment and Jean Patou’s abundant floral Joy in the next. Constance followed behind her.

The last seat on the row sat unoccupied affording Vesta the time to place her handbag in the empty spot and pull out her Day-Timer that also functioned as a note pad. The cream and red color combination of the theater had given her an idea for Sybarite’s holiday lingerie collection, and she wanted to write it down before she forgot. As she extracted her Montblanc pen from an inside pocket of her handbag, she caught an image from the corner of her eye. An unmistakable black fedora approached her row from the aisle along with the man underneath it.

Uncle Raymond! Vesta said as the pen slipped from her hand onto the floor. She fumbled for it while watching her uncle use slow, careful steps as he excused himself before passing each person on her row. His tall, thin frame but terribly hunched shoulders made his neck almost disappear. This resulted in wisps of wild white hair poking out from under his hat to almost touch his collar in the back. An accident years earlier had created a permanent limp in his left leg that made his pace even more slow and uneven and caused him to carry a cane.

That’s your uncle? Constance asked.

Vesta nodded as her right hand hunted blindly around on the floor for her pen.

What’s he doing here?

I have no idea.

It looks like he has the seat right next to yours.

Vesta waved to her uncle who smiled in return. In the meantime, her hand hadn’t rooted out her pen. She inched out of her seat and leaned over to engage her eyes in the search on the floor. In her mind she could see the awkward pose she undoubtedly struck for all to see.

It’s an expensive pen, she mumbled as she began peeking under the seats. Handpicked as a gift for herself when she was promoted to CEO of Sybarite four years earlier, the pen represented the achievement of her greatest goal. It had to be close by and she could find it if she just looked a minute longer. But she could see Raymond getting wobbly bumping against the seated people giving each one a special toe crunch or knee tug as he passed. She knew his bad leg was growing weak from inching along the cramped row. If she stood up, she could reach out her arm and help him the rest of the way. The search for her Montblanc pen would end at that point because there would be no room to stand then bend over once he was seated. Vesta exhaled audibly and blinked. She gave the floor one final visual sweep. No pen in sight. She pressed her lips together to subdue the pang growing in her gut and stood up.

Uncle, she stepped in front of Candace and extended her hand. What a surprise. What are you doing here?

Raymond smiled. Coming to the lecture of course. He wobbled in front of the couple beside Candace. Pardon me ever so, madame and sir. Thank you.

Vesta leaned forward enough to take his right hand to steady his walk. Raymond’s feet shuffled by, bumping the man’s knees knocking the evening’s program from his lap to the floor.

Excuse me sir. I apologize for the inconvenience. Vesta moved her grip up to his elbow increasing her control over him. He edged past Candace stepping on one of her toes.

Oh my dear, I’m dreadfully sorry about that. Did I hurt you?

No, not at all. I’ve had much worse happen, believe me.

This has to be your seat on the end, right uncle?

It appears so.

Then I’ll take it so you can sit down now, Vesta said depositing him next to Candace.

Oh, thank you my dear.

As she settled next to her uncle, she looked at him as he removed his hat and tried to smooth his hair. She knew the few wispy snow-colored strands on top of his head were the reason he always wore a hat, a black hat, or as he implored her to say, a fedora. Vesta mused how thinning hair seemed to be a hallmark on that side of her family, for him and her mother. He placed his cane between the two of them and leaned back in his seat.

Uncle Raymond, what are you doing here?

He turned to face her with his seventy-six-year-old gray-blue eyes that still twinkled when he smiled. Well, I told you a moment ago.

Yes, but you didn’t tell me you were coming into the city which you usually do. And how is it that you’ve ended up sitting right next to me?

Chance?

That’s a really strange bit of chance. Vesta pointed out toward the theater. With all these seats, you just happened to sit next to me.

Perhaps it’s fate then. He chuckled.

I don’t believe in either. And I certainly wouldn’t count on either one.

Raymond patted Vesta’s hand. But something brought you here today.

Yes, my friend Constance. She made a hand sweep toward her as a means of introduction. Raymond turned toward Constance.

Enchanted to meet you my dear. And again, my sincere apologies for stepping on your toe.

It doesn’t even hurt now. Nice to meet you too, Constance said.

And you’re the reason for my niece’s attendance tonight.

Yeah, I’ve really been looking forward to it.

So, you do believe in reincarnation?

Oh definitely. I mean it’s no more amazing to be born one time than to be born a dozen, right?

How very astute. I agree completely. What about you niece? Do you believe in it?

Vesta shook her head. It sounds like a lot of unfounded new age pseudo-science to me.

Oh, it is science, Raymond said with a cock of his head.

How can you be so certain?

Her uncle smiled as the lights in Carnegie Hall dimmed and Robert Thurman walked onstage. If applause could emit emotion, that one did. A sensation washed over Vesta, reaching her belly first then rising up through her heart and finally landing in the spot between her eyes. The tiny bicycle wheel began to spin. It ceased to be the sound of people clapping their hands and melted into waves of what she could only describe to herself as love. It wrapped itself around her and everyone else. Several moments passed before Vesta realized she was holding her breath. She released it in a long slow exhale and looked around the room not exactly sure what had happened.

Soft golden light filled the stage. In the center stood a tall man, a disarray of wavy reddish hair on his head. Even from the balcony Vesta could see the intensity in his eyes as he began to speak.

His words flowed in a gentle yet powerful way as he challenged the audience to imagine a world where individuals were geared to help each other reach their highest potential. Altruistic words of a perfect society echoed off the walls of the theater. He made the point that in Buddhism reincarnation is the conscious rebirth by a Bodhisattva or being of high spiritual accomplishment.

Vesta listened with polite interest. She recalled that her mother kept a book about Buddhism in her old herb cabinet at home. As a child she was fascinated by the illustrations inside of it. Paintings of the Buddha with his barely open eyes looking as if he were about to fall asleep in the next second. Sometimes the images depicted him with dark blue skin, sometimes red, but most of the time with flesh tones and always with the little squiggle or teardrop image between his eyes. They reminded her of her own little spot between her eyes that when it kicked into gear for unknown reasons felt more like a tiny wheel spinning than a teardrop.

The memory of the book dragged thoughts of her mother with it. Vesta swallowed hard and looked down in her lap. She glanced over at Uncle Raymond whose gaze remained focused on Robert Thurman. She forced her attention back to the stage.

And as the history is told, Thurman said, the Buddha literally had a golden glow after his enlightenment because of the energy racing around inside him. And he had this little tuft of white hair growing between his eyebrows. You know, at the third eye, and it became like a transistor beaming out rays everywhere.

Vesta blinked a dozen times in rapid succession as she heard his words trying to assimilate his thought solidly in her mind. A transistor? And it beamed out rays of energy. Did she have a transistor too? She replayed the comment over and over in her head. The wheel between her eyes began spinning at a wild pace. Thoughts gathered around the periphery of her consciousness like puffy clouds encroaching on a clear blue sky. Important thoughts, essential things she needed to know stood just beyond her grasp of understanding as though they were hiding from her. Vesta wrinkled her forehead and tried harder. Scattered bits of images flew into her awareness fast and thick, none of them making any sense, collecting in a dark corner of her mind.

Reaching up she grazed the buzzing spot on her forehead with her finger. An idea started to take shape. Something Thurman said earlier began to ring in her ears. He stated that the spiritually enlightened Buddhists could consciously reincarnate. The Dalai Lama, according to what Constance said, came back life after life as the same person. And Thurman mentioned the current one was the fourteenth reincarnation of the original. Vesta sat back in her seat and stared at the stage without seeing it any longer. People sitting around her faded into the ether. One thought moved into the forefront of her awareness. Squinting her eyes, she gave it diamond clarity in her mind. If it were true that these enlightened Buddhists could reincarnate as the same person life after life, then it would logically follow that anyone who employed the same techniques could as well.

She held her breath as she considered the possibility. If she could reincarnate as herself in the next life she could pick up where she left off utilizing the same formidable stamina she displayed in this one. Since childhood she had recognized her ability to overcome enormous obstacles and achieve every goal she set. If the opportunity existed to consciously reincarnate as Vesta Beauvais again, she could inherit all of her own considerable wealth and property. Her thoughts drifted to how much her Manhattan apartment would be worth in seventy years, and how she could make investments now that would pay off a thousand times over for her in the next life.

Vesta’s pulse increased. She could hear her heart pumping in her ears. Wise financial decisions made now would score huge profits in the coming decades. And Sybarite? She could become CEO and chairman of the board again and be even more effective because she would have already lived through a generation of the company. Working through the details of such a plan would be considerable, how to set up her estate and all the legal matters that would no doubt exist from such a scheme, but she knew all of it could be handled. If she thought through the idea and laid out a detailed plan, she could achieve the goal.

First, she had to determine if reincarnation was real. Such a concept had seemed impossible to her before, but Thurman was certain and presented a strong case for it. That would be the ultimate achievement for her if it did exist. If people like the Dalai Lama and other Buddhists had already consciously reincarnated for hundreds of years. Why couldn’t she?

The remainder of Robert Thurman’s lecture centered on humankind’s necessity of creating an abiding peace throughout the world. Nice words that bounced off Vesta’s mind and back into the theater like a ping-pong ball off a paddle. All her thoughts focused on whether reincarnation was a fact and how she would gain access to this realm of enlightenment. She needed some answers.

Chapter 2

The lights in the theater brightened, and the crowd began stirring from their