Hex and the Single Girl (27 page)

Snitch apologized, explained over and over again that she’d been working with some of these agents for a year on the Riptron class action suit. That the money recovery had to be done legally. That there were twelve thousand other small investors who’d been fleeced.

Emma buckled and agreed to embrace Susan’s way. As the night wore on, the agents informed Emma and Hoff that

Lankey had been questioned in his cell about the bribe, etc. and denied everything, as did Barney Watts, the prison guard Seymour spent nearly all of his time with. The agents hadn’t gotten a lead on that second bank account number.

The upshot: Without Jeff Bragg’s testimony, the government agents couldn’t confirm the prison escape plan or the GCBN account holder (the account had a number, but, alas, not a name).

At one o’clock in the morning—Halloween morning—the agents told Emma she was free to go. Since Verity was so

close to Waverly, Susan and Hoff walked her home.

Along the way, Emma asked, “Do we get the reward or not?”

“Not unless they can prove the account is Lankey’s,” said Susan, woefully.

“Ironically, the man you fear most is the only one who can give you what you want,” said Hoff.

“What does William Dearborn have to do with this?” Emma asked, miffed.

Susan waited a beat and said, “He meant Jeff Bragg.”

“Oh,” said Emma.

Hoff rubbed Emma on the back but said nothing, bless him.

The couple decided to stop up at Emma’s apartment for a quick drink. Despite their fatigue, none of them were quite ready to go their separate ways. All three collapsed on Emma’s white couch, legs outstretched, feet plopped on her white shag carpet.

“I’d offer pot and beer,” said the host. “But I’m out.”

“I’ll settle for a clean bathroom,” said Susan, hauling herself up to use Emma’s.

Hoff said, “We’ll sleep at your place tonight?”

Susan lived on Franklin, not too far away. “I can’t wait for you to see it,” she said and left down the short hallway to the bathroom.

When she was gone, Hoff whispered to Emma, “How’s her apartment?”

Emma grinned. Hoffman “Danish Modern” Centry was in for a shock. She asked him, “On a scale of one to ten, how do you rate pine-veneer furniture from Ikea?”

A piercing scream. It came from the bedroom. Emma and Hoff sprang off the couch and hurried toward it.

Susan, meanwhile, was running toward the living room, and the three collided in the hallway, bounced off each other and the walls, landing in a tangle on the floor.

“It’s Jeff Bragg!” Susan shrieked. “He’s in the bed!”

“We can take him,” said Emma, detangling herself. The accountant had made a bad miscalculation. They were three against one (unless he had the gun with him, making it three against two).

Hoff said, “Let’s call the police.”

“I’ve had enough of police for one day,” said Emma, angrily. And she was pissed. At Lankey, the government agents, William, Daphne, Mr. Cannery, Susan (a little still), her mother for dying, her father for splitting New York, herself for years of seeking vicarious pleasures when she should have been grabbing her own. Well, Emma would get a thrill now. She reached in the hall closet and gripped the aluminum baseball bat she kept for precisely such an occasion.

Thwacking it against her palm, Emma crept into her bedroom, Hoff and Susan on tiptoes behind her.

Sure enough, there was a body under the covers. Just the top of his head, the brown hair, was visible. Amazingly, despite the screaming, he hadn’t moved. Maybe he was dead. Maybe Seymour Lankey had had him killed and dumped there as a warning to Emma.

Emma nudged the body with the bat.

It moved.

Emma shrieked, setting off Susan and Hoff. The figure on the bed moved again. He pulled down the covers, opened his eyes. Upon seeing the trio standing over him and the big bat high over Emma’s head, he shrieked, too.

“Victor!” screamed Emma.

The photographer, arms protectively over his head, said, “Emma, what the hell are you doing? Oh, wait.” He reached into his ears and took out yellow, foamy plugs. “Put down that bat!”

Emma lowered the bat and said, “You scared the shit out of me!”

“I scared the shit out of
you?
” he answered, yelling. “What about me? You’re going to have to change your sheets now.”

Emma laughed with relief and plopped down on the corner of the bed. Hoff and Susan were still blinking and shaking, arms wrapped around each other.

Victor said, “I let myself in.” To the couple, he added, “I’m Victor Armour. Emma’s friend. Platonic. I have a key.”

Hoff offered his hand. Victor shook it. “Hoffman Centry. I believe we were introduced before. This is my fiancée, Susan Knight.”

Victor smiled. “Susan and I have already met.” He’d taken her nearly naked portraits only last year.

She said, “Victor. Of course. Hello.”

Turning to Hoff, Vic said, “Of course I know you, Hoffman. From Emma. You’re the editor on William Dearborn’s art book, right? He’s hired me to be the art director on the project.”

“Has he?” asked Hoff.

“Liam told me he hadn’t finalized your deal yet. But he’s excited about it and wants to get started anyway. Liam has real vision.”

“He’s a major talent,” said Hoff.

“To tell you the truth, Hoffman,” said Victor, “I have a huge man-crush on him.”

After a beat, Hoff said, “To tell you the truth, Victor, I have a huge man-crush on him, too!”

And that was it. Victor got out of bed—thankfully, he was wearing sweat pants and a T-shirt—and he and Hoff started prattling like fishwives about their book project. Emma and Susan went into the kitchen and found the bottle of Bailey’s. They poured some over ice and took their drinks to the couch.

“Shall we toast?” asked Susan.

“To the five thousand calories we are about to consume,” said Emma.

“Cheers.”

The women drank in silence. After a minute, the men wandered into the living room.

Victor was saying, “Yeah, and Emma got to fuck him!”

Hoff said, “I know! She’s so lucky!”

Susan said, “You fucked William Dearborn?”

“I’m so lucky,” said Emma.

“Are you going to do it again?” asked Susan.

“I’m too tired to talk about it,” she said, meaning it. “Can everyone go home now? I don’t mean to be rude. On second thought, I do mean to be rude.”

Hoff and Susan could take a hint. They left. Victor stayed. They took the bottle of Bailey’s into the bedroom and lay down with it between them.

“Ann dumped me,” he said.

“Because you lied to her?” she asked. He nodded. “You told her you did it to protect me and my client?”

“Yeah, except she found out that Daphne was the client,” he said. “She remembered gossiping to me about her alleged manslaughter. She said, ’All that time, you pretended as if you didn’t know her, but you’d photographed her naked.”’

“As if that means you know a person,” said Emma.

“Exactly!” agreed Victor. “So the afternoon started badly. But Liam was great. He loves those shots of Daphne. He painted one, you know. I took a Polaroid of it. Wanna see?”

“No,” said Emma.

“Trust me,” he said, reaching into his bag at the foot of the bed. “You want to see this.”

Emma dared to look at the Polaroid. William had painted the flame portrait with thick impressionist dabs, globs of acrylic, presenting the shape of a woman’s body and the palette of heat and fire. But the subject did not have Daphne’s face.

“You recognize her?” asked Victor.

How could she not? The painted lady had the same face Emma saw in the mirror every morning. “Did he mention me?

” she asked.

“He was all business,” said Victor. “Very fun, but nothing personal.”

“I blew it with him,” she said, putting her head on Victor’s chest. He pulled her in tight. The closeness was good.

Comfy and cozy. Emma’s pulse didn’t quicken. The temperature of her skin did not rise. Victor smelled like baby powder.

He said, “Here we are again. Both of us alone.”

“But together,” she added.

“Maybe that’s our destiny,” he said. “To grow old and withered at each other’s side.”

“You make it sound so good,” she said. “Wait, I’ve got an idea.” She sat up, excited. “It’ll cure our sadness, if temporarily.”

“Have sex?” he asked.

“I said
cure,
not
spur,
” clarified Emma. “Let’s throw a Halloween party, at your studio to watch the parade.”

Victor snorted. “You HATE parties.”

“I do hate parties,” she agreed. “But I’m on the verge of losing my apartment and my business. So change is clearly in order. If I’m to find a new place to live and a job, I have to widen my circle of acquaintances. Besides that, Halloween is my favorite holiday.”

Victor wasn’t buying it. “You don’t have another reason tucked up in your sneakery little mind, do you?”

Nearly every time she’d seen William, they’d been at a party. Not that she’d invite him. But maybe someone else would. “Do you want to do this or not?” she asked Victor, who loved parties.

“Why my place?”

“It’s bigger, you’ve got a terrace over Sixth Avenue to watch the parade. And it’s a mess already.”

“I like this idea,” said Victor, getting into it. “I’ll roll out the costume racks and set up a backdrop. I can take pictures.

Naughty pictures.”

“Goes without saying,” agreed Emma. “Think how distracted we’ll be, planning and inviting and chopping

vegetables.”

“Fuck vegetables,” he said. “Hey, I don’t mean right this minute, Emma. Where are you going?”

“I want to show you something,” said Emma. She’d gotten out of bed and was rummaging in her closet.

He said, “I’ve seen everything in there.”

“Wait for it,” she said, dragging a bulky box out from underneath her boot pile. She dropped it on the bed, and flipped off the top. Emma removed a fancy gown, white, sparkly, with tulle and a sequined bodice.

“It was a gift from my mother. When I started the business,” said Emma, showing Victor the Lucite crown and wand that went with it. Holding the dress against her chest, she said, “It’s a custom-made replica of the gown Billie Burke wore in
The Wizard of Oz.
”

Victor looked at her blankly. “Who is Billie Burke?”

“She played Glinda,” said Emma. “Giver of the ruby slippers? ’You had the power all along’? Bronze hair? Lived in a bubble. For Christ’s sake, Victor! Glinda was the Good Witch.”

“Ohhhh,” he said. “Now I get it.”

Emma said, “Help me put this on.”

Dutifully, Victor shifted through the layers of tulle and crinoline to find the side zipper. He dropped the dress over Emma’s head. It fit, barely. There was just enough room to breath. He placed the crown on top of her waves and fanned her hair to curve into the neckline of the dress.

“You’ve never worn it?” asked Victor. “Bloody shame. If I looked that good in a dress, I’d never take it off.”

“I put it on only once before. For Mom, the night she gave it to me.” Emma looked herself in the mirror, remembering how excited Anise was to give her the gift. She died less than two years later.

Victor said, “You look sensational. Your mom would be crying right now if she could see you.”

Emma started crying instead.

“Curse my glib tongue,” said Victor, hugging her.

“It’s the same old shit,” said Emma, wiping her tears. “The legacy.”

He sighed. “How many times have you had your brain scanned?”

“Eight.”

“How many doctors have told you that brain aneurisms are not hereditary?”

“Five.”

“From this day forward, I want you to think of this gown as the
only
gift your mother gave you,” said Victor. “Forget about her powers, which, by the way, I always thought were bogus. She could guess weight and age? When someone got laid? She had
feelings?
Every woman has
feelings.
Every woman has powers. Your mom was insightful, observant, and optimistic. She wasn’t gifted.”

“Then why can I do what I do?” asked Emma to Victor for the 3,499th time. “Why am I different?”

He said, “
Why
isn’t the right question.”

“So what is?”

“How about, ’Is there any food in the house?’ Or, ’How can I make my guest more comfortable?’ Or, ’Who should I invite to my party?’ Anything but
why.
Give
why
a fucking rest.”

“Okay,” she said, drying her cheeks.

“Really?”

“Yes.” She turned back toward the mirror. “This gown is mom’s gift, her only legacy to me. Nothing else.”

Emma stared at her reflection. She liked what she saw, was amazed the gown still fit. She twirled, watching the tulle sway with her movement. She imagined William was on the other side of the mirror, sitting in a chair with a drink, looking at the glass like a TV. A twinge took her heart, a flutter.
He can see me,
she thought.
He’s watching right now.

“You okay?” asked Victor. “You’re zoning out.”

“I think I just got a
feeling,
“said Emma.

“See? You are like every other woman,” he said.

“I’ll wear this dress at my wedding,” Emma declared. For the first time in a long time, Emma let herself believe she’d live to see the day.

Chapter 26

“T
onight, eightish,” said Emma.

“Okay if I bring Chloe?” asked Armand Chicora.

“You’re still together?”

“I’m her boyfriend slash bodyguard,” he said. “It’s a full time position.”

“You quit the hospital?” asked Emma.

“Their loss,” he said. “I’ve already done more for Chloe than I was allowed to do for any of my patients. Besides, I have to be with her around the clock. Human existence is fragile. She could die at any moment.” He said it so casually, Emma had to laugh. He added, “If it wasn’t for you, Emma, I never would have met Chloe. I wouldn’t have been at the hotel to save her life. Chloe Sevigny is alive today, thanks to you.”

“Think of all the indie movies that would go unmade,” said Emma. “Of the clothing designers who’d be muse

deprived.”

“I’m serious,” said Armand.

“Tonight, eightish. And bring whomever you want.”