Wish Upon a Star (22 page)

Amy might drive me nuts with the games she played, but she was still my sister, after all. The only one I was ever going to have. And at the end of the road, she was always there for me—even if she made me crazy along the way. This whole insane test with Teel and Timothy was just another chapter in our lives as sisters, just another joke she was playing on me. We’d laugh about it soon enough. When we were staying up too late, drinking cheap wine and raiding the emergency chocolate stash.

As my sister watched her son soak up all the male attention, a wistfulness grew on her face. She might have orchestrated this dinner as a way to test me, but she’d been drawn to Teel herself. Oh, Amy didn’t want one of Teel’s knockout kisses for herself; I knew that she was one hundred percent faithful to Derek. It was just that there was something…satisfying about watching a man talk, watching a man entertain a worshipful little boy. It didn’t hurt, of course, that Amy thought Teel was a doctor at least partially responsible for Justin’s miracle recovery. She could never know precisely
how
involved Teel had been.

Once, when Justin earnestly announced that Soldierman wanted to be with his family but had to stay away and fight a war, I saw tears glisten in Amy’s eyes. She dashed them away before Justin could spot them. We adults saw them, though. Shawn leaned forward and seized three crayons at once, drawing a massive Humvee for Soldierman to drive. In short order, Justin had him add helicopter rotors and a giant drag parachute. Shawn complied, providing sound effects to bolster the vehicular embellishments.

Amy laughed and clapped her hands, earnestly thanking both Teel and Shawn for their handiwork. Shawn leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, while Teel merely gave her a solemn nod.

Soon enough, Soldierman and his incredible vehicle were lost in a riot of rib bones and shrimp carapaces. It was impossible to eat the Flag Day dinner with anything approaching grace or delicacy. Timothy acknowledged as much, carting out extra napkins and bringing us all finger bowls with slices of lemon. (Justin was enamored with the bowls, and he made Amy promise that they could use some at home for their next meal.)

When we got to the end of dinner, Justin’s glass of milk remained untouched. Amy nodded toward it and said, “Come on, Justin. Finish up.”

He took out the fancy Mickey Mouse straw and spun it around on his finger. “I’m not thirsty,” he said.

“Justin,” Amy warned.

My nephew stared directly at his mother. As if he were an automaton, he reached out, curling his fingers around the side of the cup. “Justin!” Amy said again, her voice cutting through the amusement of our little party.

Slowly, steadily, Justin started to tilt his wrist. The milk sloshed to the edge of the cup, teetering on the brink of pouring over.

I wanted to tell him to stop. I wanted to say something to Amy, to break the ferocity of her embarrassed glare. I wanted to explain to Justin that spilling milk was not a way to bring his father home, was not a way to make Derek love him from afar. I wanted to invent a cup that could never spill, never break, never ruin a surprisingly perfect meal out with family and friends.

Before I could figure out anything to do, though, Shawn reached out an easy hand, settling his fingers on Justin’s forearm. “Hey, dude,” he said. “Drink it, then clink it.”

Justin’s destructive concentration was broken. “What?” he asked.

“Drink it,” Shawn said, draining his own water glass. “Then clink it.” He set his glass down with finality, flicking his fingernail against the rim to make a faint belling noise.

Justin laughed. “Drink it!” he said, draining his milk in one long gulp. “Then clink it!” He flicked his own glass.

“Exactly,” Shawn said. “That’s the way Soldierman does it, right?”

Shawn winked at Amy and me, accepting my silently mouthed,
Thank you.
It took Amy a little longer to relax, to sit back in her chair, but she finally managed, with the help of her glass of Chianti. I knew that she was grateful to Shawn, but I suspected she was also a little jealous, frustrated that her little boy responded so much better to a man’s guidance.

Throughout the entire meal, Timothy remained on the edge of our increasingly louder little party. He spirited away empty plates like a ghost. He refilled water glasses. He replaced empty wine bottles.

I wanted to ask him to pull up a chair, to join us for a few minutes, but there were other tables to serve, other patrons to provide for. Once, I watched him usher an ancient homeless man to the small two-top by the kitchen; the mammoth plate of ribs that he served his guest threatened to upend the table. Another time, I caught him looking at me, his caramel eyes dark, shadowed by a dozen conversations we might have had. Should have had. Especially when he shifted his gaze to Teel, and the corners of his mouth turned down with a hundred unasked questions.

At last, Timothy emerged from the kitchen bearing desserts for all—generous portions of strawberry shortcake piled high with fresh whipped cream. He balanced a plate of star-shaped cookies, as well, each one covered in blue and red and white frosting. A bottle of Southern Comfort nestled in the center of the tray, presiding over tumblers full of ice.

Glancing around the room to make sure that the few remaining patrons were taken care of, Timothy hooked a chair with one foot, pulling it up to our table. He finally sat down beside me, relaxing as if the furniture had been made for him. His ease seemed like an extension of his flowing grace, light-years away from the exhaustion of a man run ragged from serving up perfect dinners for dozens of customers.

As he started to pour the liqueur, everyone complimented him on the food.

Everyone but Teel, that was. My genie merely accepted a glass, then sat back in his chair, watching. His cobalt eyes were hooded, as if he were thinking, calculating. As if he were trying to figure out a way to use Timothy to get what he wanted. To trick me into making my fourth wish.

I smiled at Teel sweetly and was rewarded by his quirking a single eyebrow. I suspected that both of us were suddenly thinking of the kisses we’d shared, the two electrical storms we’d ridden out together.

I was, in any case. And my water glass was empty, just when I needed it most. I blushed when Timothy passed me his own.

Shawn sipped his Southern Comfort and shuddered with all the excitement of a lapdog. “This has been wonderful,” he drawled. And then, he sat upright, as if he’d been struck by lightning. Or by a brainstorm—something possibly much more dangerous.

“Timothy!” he exclaimed. “Have I got a business deal for you!”

The restaurateur eyed him with a panther’s cool amusement at a frolicking cub. Shawn glanced at me, bouncing up and down in his seat, as if he’d become possessed by the spirit of our hyperactive theatrical director. “Erin! This is going to be perfect!” He turned back to Timothy before I could begin to figure out what he was going to say. “Come work craft services for
Menagerie!
” Shawn exclaimed. “For the show that Erin and I are in.”

Amy barely had the decency to cut off a snort of amusement. “Inside voice,” I muttered, glaring at her. She should have been proud of me. Supportive. I’d proven to her, all night long, that I was sticking with the Plan, that everything was perfect. Well, almost perfect. I felt Teel stiffen beside me, and he shot his cuff at Shawn’s invitation to Timothy, as if he needed to check the time.

I turned to face Timothy head-on. Part of the motion was so that I wouldn’t be snared by Teel’s tattoo. But part was truly because I wanted to hear what Timothy would say.

“Isn’t craft services more of a movie thing? Catering on a set?” Timothy sounded polite, but perplexed.

Shawn guffawed, his enthusiasm enhanced by the sweet peaches-and-whiskey liqueur in his glass. “Exactly. We’ve got a movie star in the cast. A true diva.” He explained about Martina. “After the trick she pulled today, the director is desperate. You could name your price, if you could just get Martina to shut up.”

Timothy whirled on me, his eyes narrowed. For the first time since I’d met him, I felt a little frightened by the power he kept under control, intimidated by the energy he kept under wraps. “Did you tell him?” he asked, nodding toward Shawn with an intensity that seemed completely disproportionate to our lighthearted conversation.

“Tell him?” I managed to ask, astonished by the force of Timothy’s question.

“About my deadline.” Timothy’s eyes drilled into me. His nicked pride shimmered around him like an aura. “About the lease.”

“No! I didn’t say a word!” Amy was nodding, though, clicking her fingernails against the table in that way she had when she was speculating on a good business deal. Okay, maybe I had shared a few details, but only with my sister. She didn’t count.

Shawn saved the day with his perfect look of confusion. “Erin didn’t tell me anything. But your food certainly did. If you can turn out this sort of stuff for a minor patriotic holiday, I can’t wait to see what you could do for us on a regular basis.”

And that was when it struck me: Timothy was an artist. Just like I was, like Shawn. He created something out of practically nothing, manufactured a party out of raw ingredients.

Everything that had happened that evening should have thrown Timothy for a loop. Shawn’s outrageous interference. Teel’s possessive attention toward me. Justin’s restlessness at a table full of grown-ups. Amy’s moodiness, her occasional tearfulness as she contemplated her uncertain future.

But Timothy had risen to the occasion. He’d presented a dinner that would make any chef proud, as casually and as gracefully as if he were boiling a couple of eggs for breakfast. He made everyone—even me, as I struggled to prove that my Master Plan was in full force and effect—feel comfortable.

Timothy’s restaurant business was like my acting—it was part of him. It was his power, his soul. I understood that in a rush of intuition, the same way that I’d understood his sorrow and frustration when he’d told me that he might need to shut down Garden Variety.

And Shawn had just presented a way for Timothy to hold on to that power, to have a fighting chance to keep his dream intact. Shawn pushed. “Will you do it? I can give you the stage manager’s number tonight.”

Timothy directed his mocha gaze at me. “Erin?”

There were layers of questions embedded in those two syllables. Did I mind if he catered for the show? Would it matter, for whatever fledgling thing might be growing between us? What exactly
was
that unshaped thing? And did Teel have any rights to smother it, to smash it? What did I want? And why hadn’t I been in touch for the entire week since I’d seen Timothy in the hallway outside my new apartment?

Dammit.

I had a plan. A Master Plan. A Master Plan that I’d advanced that very afternoon, by acquiring Tennessee, by following through on this entire dinner.

Women with Master Plans didn’t blush, did they, just because a man they had kissed one time might be working beside them? They certainly didn’t look at
another
man they’d kissed—twice—as if seeking permission, did they? They didn’t have to fight for breath, struggling against an attack of nervous butterflies that threatened to do all sorts of extremely unfortunate things to their very full stomachs. Right?

Teel’s sapphire gaze was bemused. Timothy’s expression was expectant.

For good measure, I glanced at Amy, who had actually raised a hand to her mouth, waiting to see what I would do. Shawn was staring at me, too, shooting me with little daggers of impatience, of disbelief that I wasn’t immediately leaping on the bandwagon for his perfect solution to our rehearsal woes.

I swallowed hard. “Please, Timothy. Your catering is exactly what we need. We’d be lucky, if you chose to do it.”

Shawn whooped. Amy sighed. Justin demanded that someone draw him a Soldierman, this one eating a star-shaped cookie.

But Timothy only nodded, like a lion assessing some new domain.

And Teel took the opportunity to plant his hands on the table, to let his sleeve ride up just enough to reveal the whorls of his tattoo. For one chilled second, I wondered if he would use Timothy against me, if he would find some way to force my fourth wish through Timothy’s catering.

I avoided looking at the ink. Whatever happened from this day forward was going to be a result of my own thinking. My own decisions. My own desires. That was what I’d learned that afternoon in the Garden. That’s what it meant to be free. Alone. Independent. Strong.

A woman with a Plan.

Wasn’t it?

I nodded again and made myself smile with more certainty than I felt. “We can’t wait to have you join us,” I said.

TWO. THOSE PESKY bad things again, marching on toward their nearly inevitable
three.
If only I knew then what I know all too well now….

Tennessee the Flag Day fish didn’t live to see the Fourth of July. I woke up one Thursday morning to find my poor little goldfish belly-up in his specially purchased glass bowl.

I was devastated. I had done everything in my power to keep him safe from harm, to help him live a happy and healthy life. I had changed his water every third day, rapidly becoming an expert at using my little white net to catch him, to scoop him into a holding bowl (okay, a water-filled Pyrex measuring cup, but I didn’t use the cup for anything else), then transfer him back to his meticulously scrubbed home, newly filled with fresh tap water.

The past week, though, he had worried me. Tennessee had lost the brilliant orange gleam he’d had when I carried him home from the street fair. His scales had taken on a dull coat of slime, and he seemed to hover at the top of his bowl too much, bobbing up and down.

Hoping to avert what I feared was his increasingly imminent demise, I’d increased the frequency of our bowl-cleaning regimen, upping the water changes to every other day, then every day.

And now, all that effort was for naught. Farewell, Tennessee. I hardly knew ye.

As I scooped him out of the bowl for the last time, I felt a twinge of guilt. He’d been a good fish. A loyal fish. He’d made so few demands on me—a few flakes of food, a quart or two of fresh water. I sniffed back tears as I deposited him in the toilet bowl, wondering if a regimen of crumbled peace lily leaves would have made the difference. I’d never gotten around to trying.