by Lucy March
“Ms. Parker?” Desmond said again. I must have looked like I was gonna wobble, because he reached out for me, and I held out my hand to stop him from touching me.
“I’m fine,” I said weakly. I pulled on Seamus’s leash and somehow managed to lead him outside and drive home without getting us both killed.
*
I kicked the front door open and headed straight for the fridge, hollering.
“Get your transparent ass out here, Judd!”
Seamus settled down on the floor in the dining area, watching me as I wildly pulled food and drinks out of the fridge, my heart pounding.
“Whoa,” Judd said from behind me. “Somebody having a party?”
I whipped around to look at him. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt, sitting casually on the counter, his arms resting on his knees. I pointed an accusatory finger at him.
“I should have known,” I said. “I should have known that if you bought a house in the middle of nowhere, there’d be something more to it. But Jesus. You bought a house in a magic town? What the hell were you thinking?” I pulled out two Gladware containers and looked from side to side, stymied. “I don’t have any garbage bags. Dammit.” I set them on the counter next to Judd and wanted to smack him, but I knew my hand would just go through dead air. “What the actual fuck, Judd?”
“Calm down,” Judd said, hopping off the counter. “Have some more lasagna. Pasta’s good for the soul.”
I gasped and put my hand over my mouth. “Oh! The lasagna!” I went into the fridge and pulled out the aluminum dish with the telltale serving missing from the corner. I dropped it on the counter like it was radioactive, and took a step back. Judd, being dead and stupid, leaned closer over it, trying to smell it.
“Was it good, Ellie? Tell me it was good. You don’t appreciate food like that until you can’t have it anymore.” Judd eyed the pan with desire. “Eat some more, babe. Do it for me.”
I swung my hand out to smack his shoulder, and was deeply unsatisfied when all I hit was air. “I’m not eating any more of that. That guy might be a conjurer. There could be potions in all of this stuff. Are you crazy?”
“No,” he said simply. “Look at that lasagna. Why would anyone lace a lasagna like that? Lasagna’s a sacred food, Ellie. A man goes to hell for something like that.”
I put my hand to my forehead and tried to regulate my breathing. “It’s been sixteen years. If he found me, he could have just called me, right? This is a lot of trouble to go to, just to get to me.” I felt myself start to calm down a bit. “I’m being paranoid, right?”
Judd shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s your dad. You ran away and changed your identity to get away from him. Maybe he thought you’d send him straight to voice mail.”
I paced a couple of times in the small kitchen space. “Okay. Okay. Okay.” I turned to Judd. “Judd, I need you to focus, and tell me the truth. Why did you buy this house, in this town?”
His smile quirked up a bit at one side. Even as a ghost, he was working the charm hard. “Look, Ellie, you didn’t tell me about the magic, and I didn’t know about it. Like Dr. Fliegel said, I’m just a figment of your imagination. So my guess is as good as yours why I bought this house, but … I’m leaning toward coincidence.”
“Oh, shut up. You’re useless.” I threw a hand towel through him and turned back to the refrigerator. All that food, and here I was unemployed and destitute and I couldn’t eat any of it. But I couldn’t throw it away, either, not until I had garbage bags. And a garbage can.
And garbage service.
“Augh!” I said in a whiny, frustrated voice, and leaned my butt against the counter, facing Judd. “What the hell did you do to my life?”
Judd slid off the counter and moved closer. “I made it fun.”
“Stop it,” I said, my voice weakening.
“I love you, baby,” he said, his voice soft. “I hate that you’re so scared.”
“Don’t.” I closed my eyes, and for a moment, in some parallel reality that had taken pity and revealed itself to me, he was there. I could smell his spicy Judd scent, and I could feel the backs of his strong fingers gently grazing my cheeks.
“Oh, babe, I miss you so hard it hurts,” he whispered.
“Stop,” I said, my voice cracking.
Then a British voice said, “Ms. Parker?” and it was like a shock of cold water. I screamed, my heart pounding furiously as I gripped the counter behind me to keep from falling over. Judd was gone, but in my open front door stood the Brit from the bar, and my stupid, useless dog didn’t so much as fart to give me a heads-up.
I swiped at my eyes and took out my aggravation on Desmond, who simply stood in my doorway, staring.
“What the hell is wrong with you? Don’t you knock?”
“When a door is wide open? Not typically, no.” He met my eyes and said, without a hint of shame, “I followed you home from the bar.”
“Oh my God. That’s not okay.” I spoke as forcefully as I could, hoping he didn’t catch the tremor in my voice. “You can’t just follow women home from bars. Not unless you’re a bad guy. Are you a bad guy, Desmond?”
“The answer to that question depends entirely upon whom you ask,” he said, without a smile to indicate whether he was kidding or not. Jesus, he was the polar opposite of Judd. Judd never said anything without smiling. “I heard shouting. I was concerned.”
“I was yelling at the ghost of my dead husband,” I said, hoping the crazy would make him go away.
It didn’t.
“Ah. I see.” There was a long silence before he went on. “You seemed very upset, when you left the bar. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine. I just … I had a shock. A surprise…”
I stared at him, wondering what kind of magic he had. Conjurer? Conduit? Full magical? But really, it didn’t matter. There was only one question I needed the answer to.
Just ask him, I thought. Ask him and find out for sure.
“This is a small town,” I said. “You know everyone here?”
He shrugged. “Most of them. Is there someone you’d like me to call for you?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Definitely not. But do you know … is there a man here by the name of…?” I hadn’t said his name in sixteen years. It felt weird coming out of my mouth. “Emerson Streat?”
Desmond’s eyebrows knit together slightly, but I didn’t see any name recognition on his face. “Why do you ask?”
I sighed, but my shoulder muscles didn’t relax at all. “No reason. Nothing.” I put my hand to my forehead. “My brain might be exploding.”
“Are you all right? Can I fetch you anything?”
I pulled my hand away from my face, suddenly annoyed. “No. I’m a grown woman. If I need something I’ll fetch it myself.” There was no hint of either hurt or annoyance on his face, but I immediately felt guilty anyway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s all right,” he said. “You’re American. I’ve rather come to expect it.”
“Hey!” I said in mock offense at what I presumed to be a joke, even though he wasn’t smiling. Maybe he wasn’t joking. Who the hell knew? His face was impossible to read, and it was pissing me off. Judd’s active, charming deceptions were preferable to Ol’ Stone Face here. “Go away, please. I’m fine. It’s just been a weird day, that’s all.”
“I apologize if I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to intrude. It’s just…” He moved forward slowly, eyes on me as though I was some kind of wild animal that might strike at any moment, and placed the picture of Judd down on the counter in front of me. “You left this at the bar. I followed you home to return it, that’s all. I thought it might be important to you.”
I leaned forward, looking down at the picture of my stupid, grinning, lying jerk of a dead husband.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Of course.” He started toward the door, absently patting Seamus on the head as he went. He paus
ed at the doorway and turned back. “Do you prefer the door open or closed?”
“Closed,” I said. “Please. Thank you.” See? Americans are polite, you big jerk.
Desmond nodded, and disappeared through the door, shutting it silently behind him. I stared at the doorway for a while, my vision going out of focus while my mental gears churned.
Judd hadn’t known I was magic. I was sure of this because of one simple fact; if he had known, he would have built a con around it. He’d loved me, as much as Judd had it within him to love anyone besides himself, but he was what he was. Tricking people out of their money was like breathing for him, and if he had any advantage, magical or otherwise, he would have used it. Used me. In a heartbeat.
But if Judd didn’t know, did that mean it was just a coincidence that he secretly bought a house in a town with magical people in it? Maybe. Magicals were a very slim percentage of the population at large, and conjurers were even fewer in number, but they were out there, so in any given town, there could easily be one or two. And for all I knew, Desmond was the only one in town. The most comforting detail was that it was a small town; Desmond had been here for a year, and he hadn’t recognized my father’s name.
“C’mon, honey. Smile for me.”
I looked up to see Judd grinning down at me. I couldn’t help it; I smiled back.
“That’s my girl,” he said, his voice soft. “You know it’s all gonna be great, right? New town, new life, new everything. Fresh start.”
I gnawed at my lip and stared absently at my new front door. As annoying and dead as Judd was, his optimism was appealing. For sixteen years, I had been faithful to my mother’s dying pleas. I’d drunk the potion she gave me to bind my magic. I’d used the identity documents she gave me and left my life as Josie Streat behind to start my life as Eliot Parker without question. I’d managed to stay away from both magic and my father, and as a result, he hadn’t been able to use me in any more experiments, and no one else had died as a result, which was a very good thing.
But in that moment when I’d said my father’s name again and Desmond hadn’t recognized it, what I’d felt wasn’t fear, or even relief.
It was disappointment.
“You’ve gotta get some sleep, babe,” Judd said. “You look tired.”
“Of course I’m tired,” I said. “I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep in sixteen years.”
He smiled at me, reaching his hand up to brush my hair away from my forehead, the way he used to. Of course, my hair didn’t move, but it’s the thought that counts. Judd wasn’t any more use to me dead than he’d been when he was alive, but it was nice, in those brief moments, to feel loved again, even if it was by a figment of my imagination.
Chapter 3
The village of Nodaway Falls was cute, the kind of place you’d see on a 1950s postcard. Brick buildings all huddled up next to each other lined the street, with businesses on the ground floors and apartments up top. There was a drugstore, a waffle place, a little grocery store, and of course, Grace and Addie’s antiques shop. I held Seamus’s leash tight before opening the door and said, “If you break anything, I’ll make you stand on the corner and dance for quarters to pay it off.”
Then, we went inside.
I’m not sure what I was expecting. I think something like Mrs. Kim’s shop from Gilmore girls. You know, every inch covered in something, chairs stacked three deep, breakable little trinkets covering every level surface. What I walked into looked less like an antiques shop than just someone’s house. There was a glass hutch with knickknacks in it, but far fewer than my friend Del’s grandmother had in her house when we were growing up. Rather than a dusty little room with no walking space where you’d find the odd treasure if you had the will to paw through all the junk first, this was a comfortable sitting area with mismatched furniture, from a Victorian couch that had been impeccably reupholstered in red stripes, to an overstuffed light blue chaise longue, to a mid-century oval coffee table that looked like it had come straight off the set of Mad Men. There was plenty of space in which to move and appreciate what was there, and lighting that made you feel like you’d just walked into a warm home on a blustery day.
“Hello?” I said, taking one step farther in. There was no answer, no sound. I looked down at Seamus.
“So what now?”
Seamus settled on the ground, putting his big head on his paws and being of absolutely no use to me. I gave him a warning look which he ignored, and moved a few more feet inside.
“Um … Addie?”
Again, nothing. I checked my watch; it was ten o’clock. Maybe she was running a little late. It seemed like someone should be in there to keep people from walking off with the merchandise, but then again, this was a small town and it seemed to be pretty tight-knit. Maybe it was one of those mythical places where you could leave your doors unlocked. I wouldn’t be doing that, because in my experience it’s the people you trust who are most likely to steal your television, but to each their own.
I ran my hand along the flawless wood frame on the couch as I passed, and that’s when I looked at the shelf over the chaise longue and saw it.
“Oh my god, Seamus, the woman has an actual, honest-to-god record player!”
I walked over to it, my hands going out to touch the smoky-gray transparent plastic cover. I had grown up just as CDs were edging out records, but my father had been passionate about his vinyl. I ran my fingers along the spines of the albums that had been carefully placed there, with a very specific eye toward quirk and variety. The Beatles. The Supremes. Frank Sinatra.
“Seamus, this is amazing!” I clapped my hands together and plucked an album off the shelf. The blue and black cover was worn, and I ran my hand over it carefully, reverently. “Rock ’N Soul!”
I hesitated for the smallest of moments, then lifted the plastic cover off the record player and whipped the album out of its cover.
“My dad used to play this album all the time when I was a kid.” I flipped the album cover over in my hands. “Solomon Burke. Everyone was so crazy about Sam Cooke and Ray Charles, but this guy was the real thing, you know?”
I carefully turned on the record player and lifted the head to place on the album, feeling almost giddy over the scratching sound the diamond-tip needle sent through the speakers as it made contact with the record. There was something about that sound that felt like home, like safety, like normalcy. I hadn’t realized how much I had missed it. Like most everyone else, I loved the sturdiness of CDs, and later the convenience of MP3 players, and despite the fact that I’d often mocked music nerds for their obstinate insistence that vinyl produced better sound—different, yes; better, that’s arguable—I couldn’t resist the time-travel power the hiss and scratch of a real vinyl record had to transport me back. I set the record to play Solomon’s plaintive “Can’t Nobody Love You,” then took the album cover and sat down on the blue chaise longue and promptly lost my mind.
“Oh my god,” I said, sinking into its softness. “What do you think the chances are of Addie just letting us move in here?”
I was so absorbed in the music and the comfort of the chaise that I didn’t even notice when Addie first walked in. If Seamus hadn’t jumped up, tail wagging, to attack her with slobbering love, I might not have noticed her at all.
“Oh!” I hopped up off the chaise and turned off the record player. “I’m sorry. The door was open. Seemed okay at the time.” I swallowed. “Now, I kinda feel like a criminal.”
“Don’t be silly,” Addie said, her voice muffled by the kissy-faces she was making at Seamus. She was wearing a cotton dress with little blue flowers on it and a tightly tailored bodice that made her look like a well-aged Lucy Ricardo. “That’s just silly, isn’t it, Seamus? You were invited, weren’t you?”
She laughed as Seamus hopped down and danced around her.
“He really loves you,” I said. “You sure you don’t want a dog? I’ll trade him for that chaise.”
“Are you k
idding? Grace would kill me in my sleep if I came home with a dog.” Addie laughed, straightening up after giving Seamus one last scratch behind his ears. “Besides, he’s your dog.”
He doesn’t have to be, I thought, but instead of pushing the point I just said, “This place is amazing. It’s like going back in time. I don’t think I’ve heard Solomon Burke since my dad danced me around the kitchen to him, me standing on his toes.” It was such a goofy memory, and I hadn’t thought about that in years, but hearing that song again made it so fresh, it suddenly felt like yesterday.
“Aw, so sweet!” Addie said. “My father used to play tea with me with his grandmother’s Revolutionary War china. Ooh, speaking of tea, I could really go for some. How about you?”
She walked past me, patting me on the shoulder as she did, and headed toward a door in the back. I followed her, keeping Seamus’s leash held tight, into the next room, which turned out to be a full kitchen. It was a throwback to what I’d guess to be late fifties, early sixties. The cabinets were blue, the counters butcher block, the appliances classic stainless steel, and a wall covered in blue-painted pegboard sported an improbable array of copper cookware. Seamus sniffed a low-hanging saucepan and settled on the floor in front of the display.
“Wow,” I breathed.
“Yes, it’s wonderful, isn’t it?” she said, grinning as she filled a copper-bottomed teakettle with water from the sink. “It’s less a replica of Julia Child’s kitchen—we have nothing like that kind of space—and more of an homage, but I love it.” She cranked up the gas burner and put the kettle on.
“It’s a working kitchen,” I said. “Is it all for sale? There are no price tags on anything. Because not for nothing, I’d like to be buried in that chaise.”
Addie smiled. “It is lovely, isn’t it?”
“I’m serious,” I said. “I know I can’t afford it, but what is the price on that thing? A girl can dream.”
“It’s not for sale, yet,” she said, motioning for me to take a seat at the long table, covered in a solid print burnt-orange cotton tablecloth. “I don’t put tags on anything until I can bear to part with it.”
