Hex and the Single Girl (30 page)

Alfie said, “I’m not sure about this.”

“But
darling,
” said Marcie, back in seductive mode. “Your art will be seen by millions. Think of the multitudes we can reach with our message of peace and love! Where is Sherman? I need him here. Sherman! Has anyone seen a

Wolfman?”

“He’s in the lobby,” said Alfie, “making out with some black chick in a blond wig.”

Natasha and Sherman. Another match! Emma had done it again.
Damn, I’m good,
she thought.

Marcie said, “To the lobby.”

Marcie, Daphne, and Alfie walked toward the elevator in a tight cluster, discussing the logistics of their new venture.

Marcie seemed to forget her fear of Daphne completely. Emma imagined Daphne’s face when she discovered her

former assistant making out with Marcie’s legal advisor.

William took Emma’s hand and said, “Come outside with me.”

She let herself be led to the terrace and right up to the ledge. Several yards away, Deirdre as Mata Hari was flirting with a Blacula in his cape and tux.

Emma looked down at the parade. The FDNY float was just going by, two dozen firemen dressed as dalmatians upon it. “Daphne is capable of anything. Should I be worried about Marcie?” she asked.

William said, “For all your vision, Emma, you can be blind as a bat. Daphne and Marcie are linked. They’re destined to be together, for better or, more likely, for worse.”

“I’m not blind. I can see just fine. Super fine. And I can
feel.
Only recently I’ve discovered my sixth sense.”

“You see naked people?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

“I have intuition. Run of the mill, apparently. But still palpable.”

“And what does your intuition tell you about me?” he asked.

“It says you could have come up with a better costume.”

“What does it say about why I’m here?” he asked.

“You wanted to see me?” she ventured.

“I sure didn’t come for the food,” he said. “What did I want to tell you, when I saw you?”

“That you forgive me.”

“I forgave you ten minutes after I left your apartment last night,” he said. “I wanted you again when I saw you on stage at Marcie’s press conference. And I fell back in love with you tonight while you were tangling on the floor with Daphne.” He touched Emma’s cheek with his bare hand. “And now I’m full of regret.”

“About what?” she asked.

“That I haven’t seen all of your free peep shows.”

“You forgive me, and you love me,” said Emma, seeking confirmation.

“That hour we spent in bed. There’s no going back after something like that.”

“Imagine what two hours in bed would be like.”

“We don’t have to imagine anymore,” he said, inching toward her. “If we kiss, we might spontaneously combust.”

She smiled. “The risk to reward ratio is in our favor.”

“Try to keep your eyes open,” he said and planted one on her.

The conflagration behind her eyes. The urge to close them was powerful, but William kept his eyes open too. They watched each other kiss. Emma wrestled for control of her rising temperature.

He pulled back and said, “I’m sweating.”

“Me, too,” she said.

“Kissing you is like taking a sauna.”

“We’ll have to keep a glass of water next to the bed.”

“Make it a pitcher,” he said.

Crash.
The sound of glass breaking. Emma and William instinctively turned toward it.

A woman in a lobster costume was on the ground, a broken beer bottle next to her. A man as a clam was at her side.

He was upbraiding another man in a black hoodie and a ski mask.

William’s muscles tightened. “Step behind me, Emma.”

The hooded man spotted her and lifted his arm. In his hand, he held a gun.

The lobster screamed. So did the clam.

“Connie Quivers,” said the Hood, pulling up his ski mask.

“Jeff Bragg,” said Emma from behind William.

William asked, “Connie Quivers?”

Emma said, “It’s my porn star name. In case matchmaking didn’t work out.”

A crowd gathered on the balcony behind Jeff. “Get back,” he said in an eerily calm voice. To Emma: “Seymour

Lankey got a message to me from prison today. He thinks I’ve cheated him. He’s swore to send me to hell,” said Jeff.

“But I’ll go happily knowing you got there first.”

William spun and threw Emma to the ground. A gun blast. The crowd erupted, pushing, screaming, scrambling for cover. Emma realized she was intact and tried to scramble to her feet but got caught in her crinoline. Through a forest of legs, she thought she saw Armand Chicora pinning Jeff on the ground, one foot on the gun arm, a knee on his spine.

Blacula had another gun drawn and trained on Jeff. Dozens of people had rushed to the balcony railing and were looking over.

Emma didn’t see William anywhere. He’d been standing right next to her. Hoff appeared and lifted Emma to her feet.

He said, “Are you all right?”

“Where’s William?” she asked.

Hoff said, “He went over.”

“What?”
she shrieked and lunged for the ledge.

Peering down three stories, Emma saw the man who loved her. Her breath caught and then she started crying.

Chapter 27

E
mma ran off the balcony, through the loft, down the fire stairs, and out onto Sixth Avenue. She pushed aside a man dressed like a Roman gladiator to scale the side of the float/pick-up truck William had landed on. It wasn’t easy in her gown. Half of the tulle ripped off when she heaved herself onto the flatbed.

There lay William Dearborn, on his back, atop a mountain of yellow T-shirts.

Emma cried, “William! Say something!”

He groaned and said, “I did a double gainer with a twist. Did you see?”

The gladiator said, “Perfect form.”

William sat up and rubbed the back of his head. He said, “What did I land on?” He pulled a T-shirt loose from the pile. “Jews for Jesus?”

“I knew I liked those shirts,” said Emma, sobbing with relief.

“Emma?” asked the gladiator. “Is that you?”

“Martin,” she said. “Consider me converted.”

“Really?” he asked.

“No,” she said, “But I’ll make a donation with William’s money.”

Hoff yelled down from the balcony. William waved up at him. The crowd on the balcony cheered.

Emma said, “I guess I was wrong.”

William said, “About what?”

“Jesus does save.”

“He saves big time,” said Martin. “And with the Jews, he pays wholesale.”

“You will tell me who that gunman was and why he wanted to meet you in hell?” asked William.

“It’s a long story. It might take all night.”

“Then tell me tomorrow,” he said, eyeing her exposed bra. “We’ve got other plans for tonight.”

William stood up, wincing a little, and waved at the parade-goers who’d gathered around the pick-up truck. The crowd on the terrace started throwing fun-size Snickers bars at the Jews for Jesus truck. For a moment in time on Waverly Place, the sky rained chocolate.

Paramedics were climbing onto the truck now. Emma was told to get down and give them room to make sure William hadn’t broken anything, even a fingernail.

Emma’s attention turned toward a commotion at the front door of Victor’s building. Armand and Blacula exited with Jeff Bragg in handcuffs. A spill of people followed behind them, including an Ogre, a Daisy, an angel, and the devil.

Blacula had removed his widow’s peak wig and fake teeth, and Emma could see his face more clearly.

“Detective Marsh,” she said. “You crashed my party?”

“I was on covert surveillance,” he said. “Best night of my life. I met a girl—and got my man.”

“Ms. Hutch, is that you?” asked a man with a blue bow tie who’d run out of Citibank to see what all the commotion was about.

“Mr. Cannery!” she said. “I’m flat broke. Take away my apartment. Put me in debtor’s prison. I don’t care.” She was still sobbing with relief that William was okay. The T-shirts had broken William’s fall; his fall had broken something inside Emma. Like an explosion of the mind, a violent burst in her brain, Emma saw the light. She would not hesitate again. Or wait, worry, or hide, as long as William was at her side. She’d face the sad ending if she had to. But hopefully, she’d be spared.

Mr. Cannery said, “My God, is that William Dearborn?” The banker started twitching, as if he’d suddenly seen all the money in the world. Emma supposed the sight of William might be the equivalent.

“That’s him, all right. And he’s my boyfriend!” Emma announced giddily and proudly before turning her attention back to the action.

She watched Armand help Detective Marsh shove Jeff into one of the police cars that had zoomed in from every

direction. The New York One news van also materialized. Emma overheard Detective Marsh explain to another cop what’d happened on the terrace. “And at the critical moment,” he said, “this big man here grabbed Bragg’s arm, causing him to misfire.” Detective Marsh looked up at Armand Chicora. “If it hadn’t been for you, William Dearborn might’ve been shot.”

The ex-orderly said, “I knew something was going to happen.”

“You’re a hero,” said Detective Marsh.

Emma gave Armand a hug. William had been helped down from the flatbed by the paramedics and was making his

way over. The gentle giant turned to receive him. The artist smiled gratefully at Armand, and the two men shook hands.

Thwap.
Victor took the photo that would appear on the front page of newspapers around the world the next morning.

Martin, meanwhile, was standing next to his pickup truck, telling his side of the story to a couple of cops. Emma noted that his Roman skirt showed a lot of leg.

She rushed over to him and said, “What are you doing over here? Put on a T-shirt and get in front of those news cameras.”

“Emma, I can’t,” he protested.

“You’re on a quest, remember? You’ve got conviction. Prove it. Put on a fucking T-shirt and tell New York that your truck saved William Dearborn from being splattered all over Sixth Avenue.”

“But my costume,” said Martin. “My legs are showing.”

Emma groaned. She climbed up the side of the truck—again—and grabbed a T-shirt. She forced Martin’s head into it, and pushed him toward the New York One van.

He said, “Wait. I need to tell you something important first.”

Emma said, “Stay away from accountants with guns?”

Martin said, “Two seconds before your friend landed in the flatbed—and I mean, two seconds—the truck stalled and stopped.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You popped the clutch?”

“It’s an automatic.”

“Dead battery?”

He shook his head. “Brand new.”

Emma said, “So you think it was…”

Martin held up his hand. “Maybe it was divine intervention. Maybe it was something else.”

“Magic,” she said.

Martin shrugged, smoothed down his T-shirt, and headed over to the news van.

Chapter 28

O
ctober again. The first day of Emma’s favorite month of the year.

“Hit me,” said Deirdre at Oeuf, reaching out her hand.

Emma said, “I’m trying out a new skill. Put your hand down and look at me.” She stared into Deirdre’s eyes and thought hard about breakfast.

“Eggs Florentine, sauce on the side?” asked the waitress. “You can send without touching now?”

Emma said. “My brand new eggstraordinary trick.”

“Don’t brag,” said William, next to her at the table. “It’s immodest. You should let me do that for you.” He inhaled before telling Deidre, “Emma can now send messages without touching. She’s figured out how to retain complete control of her skin temperature during moments of physical defenselessness. And she’s been an avid student of the erotic arts.”

“Okay, stop there,” said Deirdre.

“She’s eggsquisite,” continued William, “at one particular skill. I call it the Big Gulp.”

Deirdre said, “Tone it down. This is a family restaurant. I don’t care if you are the owner.”

“She’s very bossy,” said William to his girlfriend.

“That’s what happens when you date a cop,” said Emma.

About eight months ago, when William and Emma’s relationship was three months old, the barmy half-Brit decided he loved Waverly Place more than any other block in New York and that he wanted to buy it. Not for lack of trying, William wasn’t able to purchase an entire city street. But he did succeed at acquiring Emma’s building, Victor’s building, the neighboring storefronts (a bong shop and a Greek diner), and Oeuf, a sale that was over easy. His ownership of Emma’s building did not, however, include her apartment. Even though William had lent her the money to keep it out of Citibank’s clutches all those months ago, he called the apartment “hers.” She called it “theirs.”

Victor, seated at William’s right, said, “I’d like to lodge a complaint with the landlord too. Liam, you have got to do something about the crime scene tourists. I can’t get in or out of my own building. The neighbors blame me.”

“So hire a goon to watch the door, and I’ll put him on the payroll.”

The photographer said, “I would if I had time.”

Since his famous photo of William and Armand shaking hands appeared in newspapers around the globe, Victor’d

been working his arse off. Editorial, advertising, portfolios, travel brochures. Victor continued to shoot portraits for The Better Witch, Inc. The work was quicker and easier for him, though, now that they’d stopped doing the staged sexy setting and costuming. It was William’s idea to try straightforward smiling portraits. Counterintuitively, the subtle approach was more effective. The targeted men were asking out Emma’s clients, on average, four days sooner than before, and the relationships lasted longer too. Her “long term” to “short term” ratio was up. And business was booming. Emma paid back William’s loan within three months.

She asked Victor, “Where are you off to next?”

“Hawaii,” he said. “A new hotel is opening, and they want me to shoot pictures for their press kit.”

“How long will you be away?” asked William.

Victor laughed. “In other words, how long will Ann be cranky?”