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ended around dawn, if not later. In between running orders, she would come and sit with me, and we’d chat about everything from men to movies to local gossip and everything in between.
    That Saturday, however, the long, sleepless nights, overtime at work, the school project, bottomless cups of coffee, and an endless stream of chilidogs had finally taken their toll. My waitress friend approached my table to fill my coffee cup when she stopped suddenly to stare at me.
    “Honey, you look like death warmed over,” she said in a charming, Southern drawl.
    “I know,” I groaned as I drew my hands over my face. “I seriously need to get some rest, but I can’t sleep. It seems as if no matter how tired I am, I can’t sleep for more than an hour or so at a time.” I truly felt as if I were standing on the threshold of death, and judging by my friend’s strained features, I must have looked that way, too.
    “You need Native American dream tea,” she said as she stood there with the pot of coffee in one hand and her other hand on her hip. Curious, my brow arched as I discreetly looked around to see if there were any patrons within earshot.
    “Is it legal?” I whispered. I’d never taken Tylenol, much less experimented with any illegal drugs. Paralyzing fear of my parents if they should ever catch me engaging in anything illicit had kept me on the straight and narrow.
    My friend’s eyes twinkled with mirth as she chuckled, “Yes, sweetie, it’s very legal. You can get it at a tea shop up north. It’s about forty minutes away in Canterbury Village, but worth the trip.”
    “Ugh,” I said, instantly turned off. I hated shopping, but more than that, I hated touristy places. And with the way I was feeling, I knew I would have little tolerance for driving forty minutes to a place for some novelty tea that may or may not work. “No thanks,” I said as I sipped on my coffee.
    “Don’t be so quick to shoot it down, Chantel. I think you’d like this place. It’s owned by an intuitive healer.”
    Now that got my attention. My bleary eyes shot up again to gaze at the waitress.
    “She’s a real sweetheart,” she continued. “And just by looking at you, gal, I think you could use a session or … three with her. You should go.” With that, she left me to tend to her other customers. I remained quietly sitting at the table, wondering if the trip would be worth it. Intuitive healer, huh?
    Nah. I shook my head and quickly dismissed the prospect of going.
    Later that night, I met another friend for dinner. She was bubbly that evening. Well, bubblier than normal. I could tell from the moment we met in the parking lot that something good had happened to her that day, and as weary as I felt, I was eager to hear some good news.
    “Oh my God, Chantel. I had the most awesome day today!” She bounced in her seat as we munched on an appetizer. “I think I found the perfect place to have my wedding … well, if I ever get married.”
    I chuckled at her exuberance. Both of us were single. And while I was quite content to be boyfriendless, she was ever searching for a man and dreaming of a ridiculously extravagant wedding. I sat and listened as she rattled off every detail of the place she had visited only hours earlier—around the same time I had been sitting at the diner talking with my waitress friend.
    After letting her describe every minute detail, I finally interrupted her. “Well, where is this place?”
    “Oh, Chantel, you gotta go with me to see it. It’s up at Canterbury Village!”
    I dropped my fork onto my plate. I could have easily dismissed this as a coincidence, but neither of my friends knew each other. They didn’t even know of each other. And to have them both mention a place I had never before heard of was just too bizarre.
    Needless to say, a few weeks later, I found myself driving forty minutes north to visit the tourist attraction. Though I’m sure the restaurants and Christmas store were pleasant