Hex and the Single Girl (19 page)

Emma said, “I’m not good at parties.”

“Do you like very small crab cakes?”

“I love crab cakes,” said Emma wistfully.

“Get them while they’re hot,” said William.

“White Russian? Gin and tonic? Madras? Screwdriver? Whiskey Sour?” asked the bartender.

“The party theme is 1983,” said Susan at Emma’s side. “The year the host married his ex-wife.”

The Good Witch got a White Russian. Only four thousand calories per glass. “What happened with Jeff?”

Susan said, “He was shocked—shocked!—to see me. He agreed to meet me for drinks tonight at seven at Nancy’s

Whisky Bar across the street.”

Emma knew Nancy’s well. It was, bar none, the sleaziest hole in lower Manhattan. “Perfect,” said Emma. “You’ll get your five minutes. I’ll go in costume to make sure you’re safe. Then we call the cops and have him taken away. Jon Stewart and Amy Sedaris at three o’clock.” Stargazing was good sport—and this party was like shooting stars in a barrel. She’d already spotted a dozen semi-and full-blown celebs. In the corner, an ex-junkie swimsuit model was canoodling with an up-and-coming singer-songwriter whose big hit was a ballad to his wife (not the ex-junkie). A rap impresario rolled joints for a cinema-verité movie director. To the right, the most downloaded Internet pin-up girl shared a cigarette with the
other
darling/muse of independent films. By the stairs, a lad magazine editor turned novelist talked to a famous aging alcoholic satirist. On the couch, the daughter of a pair of politicians sat on the lap of a Yankee slugger with a steroid addiction.

Susan said, “I may be the only not-for-profit person here.”

“I don’t know where to gawk first,” said Emma.

“Start here,” said William Dearborn, materializing at her side. “And please take off that horrible hat.”

Emma couldn’t help smiling at him. In a room full of eye catchers, he was a standout. Despite her aversion to parties, in this unreal setting, with familiar faces all around, one drink in her already, Emma felt okay. She sipped her drink and drank in William, tipsy from both.

He asked them, “Do you want to meet anyone?”

Like peace on earth, Susan was all for it. “Will you introduce me to John Mayer?” she asked, grinning lustily.

“Come along, Susan,” he said, taking her hand. “John Mayer waits for no woman.”

Emma watched as Dearborn deposited her lawyer friend on a velour-covered couch between a famous female

downtown designer and the Grammy award-winning guitar player. Then he returned to Emma, snagging a tray of crab cakes from a server along the way. She loved to watch him walk, the long strides, his sleek, slim body in the usual brown suit, his eyes trained on her, only her, with far more beautiful women to the right and left. Any thoughts about William’s date with Daphne evaporated from Emma’s mind.

William offered her the tray. She nibbled delicately, girlishly, letting herself soak up the flavor of his attention.

“You’re cute when you eat,” he said, grinning.

Due to the alcohol, the surreal setting, Emma’s guard was way down. “This party is like watching TV, but live and in person.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” he asked, as if he hated the idea that anything on earth would bother her.

“I’m usually ready to leave a party after five minutes. But not now, weirdly.”

“This party is okay for me too,” he said.

“Don’t tell me,” she said. “You’re not a Party Boy?” Nearly every time she’d seen him, he’d been at a party, the center of attention.

“As a matter of fact, Emma Hutch, I treasure my privacy. I wish I could have more of it.” He seemed testy. “I do not like it when people make assumptions.”

She did not like his tone. “You want privacy, you can have it.” Emma took a step.

“Don’t go,” he said quickly. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something philosophical.”

First Martin and his Quest Theory. Now William. “Okay, I’m comparison shopping,” she said. “Lay it on me.”

“I have one abiding philosophy of life. Based on my accumulated experiences.”

“Which is?”

“I won’t cheat myself.” She waited for elaboration. He said, “It’s one thing if you’re bamboozled in business. Or hoodwinked by circumstances beyond your control. Or cheated out of time with someone you cared about because of illness or death. That’s bad luck, bad business, fate, what have you. But denying yourself something you really want?

That’s a self-inflicted wound. Cheating yourself out of love is suicidal.”

“That’s fascinating, William,” she said.

“You could learn a lot from me, Emma.”

“About philosophy,” she said.

He squinted at her, baffled. “Philosophy?” he asked. “For God’s sake, woman. I was talking about sex.”

Emma laughed. “I’m not determined to cheat myself,” she said. “I’m practicing self-preservation.”

She ate another crab cake. Wiped her lips. Across the room, Susan was talking to Heidi Klum while Seal listened.

Susan was half Heidi’s height.

“Is there another man?” asked William. “That has to be it.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious who I am?” she asked. “Where I come from? What I do for a living?”

He said, “Emma Hutch, born in June, 1974, in Livingston, New Jersey. Mother: Anise Janis, homemaker. Father:

Harry Hutch, architect. You grew up in Short Hills, New Jersey and moved to Manhattan at age twelve. You went to the Big Blue middle and upper school on Greenwich Street, graduated from NYU, class of 1995. You currently live on Waverly Place. You are a self-employed personal shopper, hired by private clients on a freelance basis.”

Emma blinked. “Private investigator?”

“Google.”

“I’m sure you have better things to do,” she said. That bit about being a personal shopper—she’d given that line to the NYU alumni office.

“Your high school yearbook photo,” he said, grimacing

The photo was Cousin It-like, her wavy hair covering her face. Only a sliver of her nose showed. She was hiding then

—from the photographer, from her classmates. The picture was illustrative of Emma’s defining contradiction: She could see everything, but she was terrified of being seen.

Emma looked up at William, from under her hat, behind her glasses. He’d seen her, even when she tried to hide from him. He’d seen her when she wasn’t even there. Emma now knew that she couldn’t hide from him or avoid what they both wanted. If she had a fatal burst in his arms, at least she got to be held first. If he ran away screaming, at least she didn’t cheat herself out of trying. The simple fact: Emma wanted to be seen. Not by the wide world (she was a million years away from that level of emotional evolution). But she longed for an audience of one.

She said, “Can we go somewhere more private? To be alone. Together. If you get my meaning.”

Not missing a beat, William said, “Right this way.” He put his hand to the small of her back and steered her out the door. “My company keeps a room in the hotel. Down one flight.”

“Not right this very second!” said Emma, hesitating. “We need to talk more first.”

“As if talking is the way you get to know someone,” he said.

He led her into the room Dearborn International kept on the ninth floor. The space was comfy despite the modern furniture and graphic art; it was twice the size of Hoff’s room several floors below.

The bed itself was the size of Emma’s entire apartment. Or maybe it just loomed large. The black cover appeared to be sateen, which seemed sort of cheap. Emma ran her hand over the material. No, not sateen, she realized. Satin. The real thing. Yards and yards of it. A circus tent’s worth.

Emma sat down on the edge of the bed. William stood in front of her and unbuttoned his pants.

“You, too,” he said.

“I’m not undressing in front of you!” she said, looking away. And then looking back.

“Then undress behind me,” he said, turning around, continuing to strip. In a flash, he was naked as the city, his ass within arm’s reach. She’d imagined him nude many times. And her fantasy had been pretty close to reality. The dusting of dark hair on his long legs. The rounded butt, big rabbit feet on elegant ankles. His spine was a shallow gutter in the center of his back, snaking upward to his boxy shoulders and long neck. His arms were larger than Emma had expected, but by no means beefy.

Glancing over his shoulder. “Emma! You’re still dressed.”

He spun around. She gasped. Not all of William Dearborn was a slim bean.

“I can see why you’re so popular with the ladies,” she said, her eyes big.

He smiled wickedly and said, “That would be much funnier if I weren’t the only one naked,” he said. “Your turn, Emma.”

He came toward her, his hard-on bobbing as he walked. He lifted her to her feet. First, he pulled the pom-pom hat off her head and threw it across the room. Then he took off her shades, folding them carefully—and then threw them across the room. He pulled her black shirt over her head, her hair falling around her bare shoulders. He expertly unhooked her bra and slid the straps down her arms. As the bra hit the floor, William started to unbutton and unzip her jeans. He pushed them down her hips before gasping himself.

She said, “I don’t wear panties with low-rise jeans.”

“Is this a common practice?”

“You’d know better than I would.”

“Most of my dates wear complicated lingerie.”

“And you find it refreshing to undress a woman who wears nothing at all?” she said.

“Refreshing is one word for it,” he said and then lowered her by the shoulders onto the bed. He got on his knees, grabbed her ankles, unzipping her boots and pulling them off along with her pants in a fluid flourish.

She sat naked on the bed. William was kneeling nude in front of her. She closed her eyes and braced herself for his touch.

William said, “You should see the expression on your face.”

Her eyes snapping open, she said, “What?”

“Look at me. Right in the eyeball,” he said. “Good. I want you to keep your eyes open and on me.”

She nodded. Still not touching her, he leaned forward and gave her a peck on the thigh. Emma’s lids lowered.

“Don’t close your eyes,” he repeated.

“It’s hard to keep them open,” she said.

“Try again.”

He sat next to her and kissed her lightly on the lips. This time, Emma kept her eyes wide. His were partly closed. She stared at his eyelashes, the sprinkle of pale freckles on his cheeks (hadn’t noticed those before), the few blond strands in his brown fringe. He smelled of marshmallow, graham cracker, and chocolate. And she wanted s’more. She put her arms around his neck and deepened the kiss.

But he pulled back. “You smell like ginger snaps,” he said, sniffing along her nape. Emma, who took the aromatic measure of everyone she met, had never been fragrantly appraised before. She felt flattered, appreciated, expansive, like she was filling the room with her essence.

“Making me watch you,” she said. “Is this about vanity?”

“You seem nervous,” he said. “And if you keep your eyes open, you’ll stay focused on what’s happening and forget whatever’s putting you on edge.”

A simple but brilliant notion. It could have more profound benefits, given Emma’s particular sex-related problems. She couldn’t fantasize if she were in the moment (although, with William, this didn’t seem to be a problem). With her eyes open, she was incapable of transmitting—even accidentally. Regarding her overheating, her extreme sense of touch seemed to be minimized in combination with her sense of sight.

William guided her farther back on the bed so they could lie next to each other, their heads on satin-covered pillows.

He put his hand on her belly and kneaded it gently. She watched, relaxing into his hands. She flashed to the night with Hoff, how she’d flinched when he touched her stomach. Not so now. She wanted William to touch her wherever and however he wanted. She wished he had eight hands.

William said, “I hope you don’t mind if I just grope you for a while. Your skin is so white and soft. Have you
ever
been to the beach?”

She laughed. Emma had been to the Jersey shore once, but she got so sunburned, she threw up and vowed never again.

“Which is more important to you,” she asked. “Art or sex?”

“Art and sex go together,” he said. “They’re my religion.”

“What’s bigger than art and sex—and religion? And love?”

“Is this a riddle?” he asked. He was touching her breasts. She alternated between watching his hands and his face. His green eyes roamed her body. His fingertips were like fine-bristled brushes, painting her pink.

“Not a riddle,” she said. “It’s the key to my philosophy.”

“I’m stumped,” he said. “What could be bigger than love, sex, art, and religion? For a good answer I’ll give you
two
orgasms.”

She said, “You’re so sure there’ll be the one?”

“Would you like that now?” he asked.

Emma took a deep breath and nodded. He said, “You’ll have to keep your eyes open. No cheating. Yourself.”

She nodded. He slid one arm under her neck and pulled her tightly against his body. Their foreheads were touching, and when they blinked their eyelashes twined. He kissed her cheek and the corner of her mouth. She imagined the ginger snap scent filling his head, saturating his senses.

William’s hand glided along on her ribs, over her belly. He seemed to need to touch every inch of her, to learn her skin. Running his hand over her bottom, William’s breath changed. He moaned and pressed himself against her. She put her hands against his chest, her fingers exploring, moving around to his back. She kissed his chin, licked his lips.

His warm hand slid over her hip and between her legs. Emma let her eyelids flicker.

He whispered, “Open up, Emma.”

She looked at him. His face was close and his clean breath tickled her ear. She focused on his lips, how red they were, parted slightly. She felt like she was in a waking trance. His fingers expertly busy, William’s eyes were narrow and shiny and gloriously green. Emma felt every inch of him against her side.

An image popped into her head. An arrow, feathered quiver.