Betting on Palm Springs

The hotel pool in Palm Springs was supposed to be where Sarah rebuilt herself after the divorce. Instead, she sat at the tiki bar watching the water shimmer like crushed diamonds, running through the same mental loop: how had she missed the signs?

David's gambling addiction had manifested in workplace betting pools—March Madness, Oscar pools, even absurd Super Bowl squares. But the final blow had been the offshore poker account. Fifty thousand dollars of their savings, evaporated.

She ordered another gin and tonic. The bartender, a weathered man with silver hair, nodded sympathetically. "Rough day?"

"Rough year," she corrected.

A woman slid onto the stool beside her—sharp-angled features, predatory smile, eyes like polished jade. "You look like someone who needs to hear that palm readings are bullshit," she said.

Sarah blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I'm Cat. The tarot reader by the cabana. We're not mystics, we're just good at reading misery." She signaled the bartender. "And you radiate it."

Something about Cat's directness disarmed Sarah. She found herself spilling everything—the gambling, the betrayal, the hollow apartment waiting back in Phoenix.

"Classic," Cat said, lighting a cigarette despite the No Smoking sign. "Men and their pools. Always betting on things they can't control. But you know what they never calculate?"

"What?"

"The cost when the house wins." Cat exhaled smoke toward the palm trees lining the property. "I was married to a bookie for six years. Know what I learned?"

Sarah shook her head.

"The ones running from their problems always think the next pool, next game, next chance will fix it. But the pool you really need to bet on is yourself."