Hex and the Single Girl (13 page)

Emma took Deirdre’s outstretched hand and pictured a pair of eggs on a slab of ham and an English muffin smothered in Hollandaise sauce.

The waitress said, “Benedict?”

“Eggcellent,” said Emma, grinning.

Deirdre groaned. “Do you have to do that every time?”

“If I don’t, Victor will,” said Emma. “No sign of him yet?”

“Means only one thing,” said Deirdre. “Juice?”

“Grapefruit. Thanks.”

Emma sat in a booth at Oeuf, a tiny restaurant only half a block from her building. As one might hazard to guess, Oeuf served egg dishes eggsclusively. Omelets, frittatas, quiches, soufflés. Emma and Victor had breakfast there a few times a week. From her seat in the window, Emma kept one eye on the front door of Victor’s building and the other on the Village’s multi-ethnic parade of cool jerks, leatherettes, tourists, students, yuppies, and the ubiquitous artistic types.

She could always spot the freelance writers, starving painters, and struggling actors at a glance. She felt a bond with them, feverishly flinging thoughts into the world, hoping that something good—love, success, money—would be flung back in return.

Emma checked her watch. She dialed Victor’s number on her cell. He picked up.

She said, “Are you coming to Oeuf?”

“Nope,” he said.

“Why not?”

“I’m already here,” he said.

On cue, Victor pushed through the door of the restaurant, snapping his cell phone closed.

Ann Jingo was right behind him.

Before Emma had a chance to react (or run), Victor said, “Don’t move! I’d like to introduce you to Ann. Ann, this is Emma Hutch.” Even though they’d met twice—as Emeril and the Crone—Ann was looking at Emma as if for the first time.

Apparently, the sight made her angry. To Victor, Ann said, “Emma Hutch? This is the friend you wanted me to meet?

You swore you didn’t know Emma Hutch. I’ve asked you ten times. She’s clearly the woman in Liam’s portraits.”

Victor held up his hands. “I lied. You’re right,” he said.

Emma said, “This is an ambush.”

“Just calm down,” he said. “Both of you.”

Ann sat, as did he. Victor dramatically removed a pack of Big Red from his jacket pocket and dropped it on the table.

He said, “The great Raymond Chandler once wrote that if you don’t know what to do next, have someone walk into a room carrying a gum.” The two women stared at him, not amused. “Just trying to break the tension.”

Emma turned to Ann. “Friendly warning: If you don’t like puns, you should not be involved with Victor.”

“As it just so happens,” said Ann. “I’m a bit of a punster myself.”

Deirdre came over and placed Emma’s breakfast on the table. “Are you eating, Victor? How about you?” She pointed her pencil at Ann.

Victor explained the Oeuf menu concept to Ann. He ordered number two. Ann selected the number four.

Deirdre said, “Okay, that’s the usual for Victor and two scrambled with hash and home fries for you.”

“Eggsactly,” said Ann, grinning.

Victor, Emma, and Deirdre blinked. Ann asked, “Is something wrong?”

Victor smiled and kissed her cheek.

“And then there were three,” said Deirdre before heading back to the kitchen.

Emma inhaled the smell of breakfast. Still hot, her eggs Benedict was a dripping island of heart-stopping cholesterol on a plate. She dug in.

Victor said, “It’s been a long, long time since I felt this way about a woman.” He squeezed Ann’s hand. “And keeping you two apart seemed like a waste of potentially stimulating conversation. Emma is my best friend and we work together sometimes. We’ve never been more than friends. Just so you know.”

“Are you a photographer, too?” asked Ann to Emma.

So Victor hasn’t told her about The Good Witch, Inc. That was a relief, thought Emma. Down the road, though, if Ann stuck around, she’d have to hear about it. For one thing, Ann would want to know why Victor took photographs of women in leather chaps and peekaboo bras.

“I’m a consultant,” Emma said, “Sometimes, I outsource to Victor.” That was nebulous enough.

Ann said, “That was you on the intercom yesterday, wasn’t it?”

“I’m a very private person,” explained Emma. “And sensitive, too.”

“Deeply,” added Victor.

Ann asked. “So why not just tell me that? Why lie?” To Victor: “Repeatedly.”

Victor said, “It might help to put my explanation in a historical context. Back in 1987, when I was twelve…”

“Oh dear God,” said Emma.

“When I was twelve,”
repeated Victor, “and my parents were divorcing, they both confided in me without realizing what the other was doing. It was a horrible time—destroyed my childhood. Looking back, as I have, often, I wonder if I should have told Mom what Dad was saying, and vice versa. If their marriage could have been saved. I’ll never know. I kept their secrets, as I was trained to do. But I learned a valuable life lesson.”

“Was it, ’Don’t discuss your painful childhood too early in a new relationship?’” asked Emma. “Because you could use a refresher on that.”

“I should use my own judgment about which secrets to keep,” said Victor. “That was the lesson. I did keep Emma from you, Ann. But only for a day, until I came to my senses.”

Ann pet Victor’s hand and said, “Thank you, dear.” To Emma, she said, “I’d like to schedule a meeting for you with William Dearborn. As soon as possible.”

“No can do,” said Emma.

“You’re refusing to meet him?” asked Ann, as if Emma had declined an audience with the pope.

“I’ve already met him,” said Emma.

“Yes, I know,” said Ann, testily. “And since you two ‘met,’ he’s had me scouring the city to find his mystery woman.

That was you in drag at the ArtSpeak event, wasn’t it?”

“No,” said Emma.

“Yes,” said Victor. Then, “OUCH! Don’t kick me, you witch.”

“You mean
bitch,
” said Ann. “You called her a witch.”

“Yes, BITCH,” said Victor. “With a b, as in, why do I fucking
bother?
”

Ann said, “You sneak into Lotus to get close to Liam, but now that I’m offering to set up a meeting, you refuse. I don’t get it.”

Emma shook her head. Clearly, she couldn’t explain Daphne’s case or her dire need for the cash it would provide. Or how her own attraction to William terrified her and made her want to sit in the corner with her back to the room. She said, “I’m sorry, Ann. I have my reasons.”

“He wants to use the portraits of you to market ArtSpeak. You could get rich,” said Ann. “And famous.”

Deirdre appeared, dropping more plates on the table. Emma watched them eat, the words “you could get rich” rolling around in her head. But the “and famous” part ruined it. Emma prized her anonymity, for work and peace of mind. She was horrified at the idea of millions of strangers looking at her face, judging her.

Emma asked, “Dearborn produces his own ads?”

Ann said, “He partners with an advertising company. He hasn’t decided which one to choose yet, though. He’s

auditioning three different agencies now. He’s supposed to make a final decision soon.”

“When?” asked Emma sharply.

Ann said, “About a week and a half.”

Victor squinted at Emma. He mouthed, “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

She nodded. Daphne wasn’t after William’s love. She wanted his business. She must have thought that seducing him would lead to a job.

Emma asked, “What do the ad agencies think of using my face?”

“They love whatever William suggests.” Ann laughed to herself. “The creative director at Crusher Advertising—

Daphne Wittfield—is wild about the portraits. For some reason, she thinks they look just like her! Liam lets her believe it. He’s a little intimidated by this woman. Rumor has it—no, I shouldn’t say anything.” She paused. “Then again, it’s not like you two have any personal or professional ties to this woman. According to the grist mill, she once killed a man.”

“Murder?” asked Emma.

“Self-defense,” said Ann. “This was about five years ago. She met a guy at a party. Brought him home. He got rough with her, and she pushed him into the corner of a glass coffee table. Face first.”

“If I still had an appetite,” said Emma, who’d cleaned her plate, “I’d have just lost it.”

“How do you think I feel?” said Ann. “I have to work with her.”

Victor, who’d worked with Daphne in the nude, said, “Can’t imagine what that’s like.”

On one hand, Emma could feel free, ethically speaking, to dump Daphne as a client. She’d deceived Emma about her intentions. On the other hand, Mr. Cannery at Citibank was not going to say, “Ethical standards are far more important than mortgage payments. Take all the time you need.”

Ann said, “One meeting with Liam. Ten minutes.” Emma shook her head. “You have to tell him ’no’ yourself. Just to get him off my back. Please.”

Victor said, “Do it for me, Emma. For the greatest good.”

The greatest good? Was Victor saying he was in love with Ann? After one night? “Am I to assume your allegiances have shifted?” asked Emma.

Victor blushed.

The passionate beginning. Emma’s favorite part of the show. She smiled at her best friend, wishing him well. Wanting to be involved—up to a point. And then she’d have to turn away.

Ann asked, “What’s this now? The greatest good? Shifting allegiances?”

Emma distracted her with good news. “I’ll do a ten minute phoner with William Dearborn,” she said. “But that is it.”

“Today,” said Ann. “Where can he call you?”

They arranged the details—he’d call Emma’s landline at three p.m. Ann sent the message to Dearborn via Blackberry before Emma could change her mind.

Chapter 15

E
mma left Oeuf as soon as possible. Ann and Victor stayed to moon at each other over their dirty plates. She was happy for him, of course, but the sight was enough to make a single witch sick. She decided to take a walk around Washington Square Park. The snap of cold air made her pull her coat closer. Halloween was fast approaching, as was November first, her deadline. Regardless of what happened between now and then, Emma vowed to hold herself

together. William was calling soon. That would certainly test her emotional fortitude.

Her cell vibrated in her pocket. She clicked on. Before she could say, “Hello,” the caller screamed, “Where the hell have you been?”

“Daphne,” she said coolly. “I’m glad you called.”

“Listen carefully, Emma,” said her tentative client. “You have to get to Liam today. He called early this morning and asked me to his studio tonight. He wants to paint me! I don’t know if it’s an official first date. But if you hit him beforehand, I’ll write you a check for five thousand dollars tomorrow morning.”

The Good Witch gulped. She’d been all ready to dump the client. And now she was stymied. William had asked to paint Daphne? If that wasn’t a come on, what was? Had one transfer turned his head to Daphne so easily? What about the mystery woman? Some loyalty he showed her (that they’d never “officially” met didn’t matter at that moment of irrationality). Emma said, “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Good,” said Daphne. “You’re getting quite a deal, considering how little work you’ve done on my case.”

Emma said, “I nearly killed myself getting him good last night.”

“When?” asked Daphne. “At the museum?”

“Remember a little old lady at the exhibit? Velvet opera coat? Pillbox hat? Gray wig?”

“No,” said Daphne.

“Well, I saw you,” said Emma.

“I didn’t stay long. I spend most of the night cramming food down Marcie Skimmer’s garbage disposal.”

“I guess SlimBurn pills don’t prevent emotional eating.”

“Like I care?” said Daphne. “We’re selling bottles by the millions. Go to Dearborn’s office. He’ll be there until five.”

Daphne hung up.

Emma put the cell in her pocket. It was one o’clock. She was supposed to do a phoner with William at three. If she had any guts at all, she’d tell William everything and come clean. Or she could do one last hit and clean up.

The choice was clear. Emma headed home to plan a costume for the afternoon hit. Janitor? Mousey secretary? Gender-ambiguous Xerox repairperson?

The cell phone again. Had to be Daphne with more demands. Emma clicked on and said, “Hello?”

A man’s voice said, “I’m trying to reach Emma Hutch. My name is Armand Chicora. I’m an orderly at St. Vincent’s Hospital.”

“This is Emma.”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news. Hoffman Centry has been mugged.”

“Is he okay?” she asked.

“It’s not serious. He walked himself into the emergency room. But he has a broken rib.”

“Oh, no.”

“And a gash on his cheek.”

“Poor Hoff!”

“He’s got a black eye too.”

“Is that it?” she asked, horrified.

“Like I said, nothing serious. He’s in the ER. I found your number in his cell phone. The mugger didn’t take it. Or his wallet, or his keys.”

“Some mugger,” said Emma.

“Mr. Centry has been asking for you.”

Emma was surprised to hear it. “Really?” she asked.

“He’s been moaning your name since he came in.”

“I’m coming now,” she said, aiming her black boots uptown.

“They won’t let you in unless you’re listed as his emergency contact, and according to the insurance information, you’re not. Are you family?”

“No, a friend,” said Emma.

“Then you won’t get by security,” he said.

Yet another New York hotspot she’d have to sneak her way into. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” she asked.

“Mr. Centry has been asking for you,” said the orderly. “I’d do whatever I could for a friend.”

He hung up.

Emma stared at her phone. Was this a ruse of some kind? A joke? She checked her caller history and redialed. On the other end an operator said, “St. Vincent’s.”

In three minutes, Emma was back in her apartment rummaging through her costume closet. It took some digging, but she managed to locate the white polyester uniform, white stockings, white orthopedics (same ones she wore last night), and the nameplate for “Nurse Ratched.” She tucked her bronze waves into a black-plaited wig and put on rose-shaded glasses. She grabbed a white cardigan and bolted.