That Magic Mischief

by Susan Conley

  The CD had played out. Her voice seemed to echo in the quiet. She took the bowl of salted water, and using her fingers, sprinkled some on the bloom of the plant, and on its branches. She poured the rest into its soil. Blowing out the candles, she gathered up all the bits and pieces and put the bowls in the sink. She suddenly felt a little sad, like she would miss it. She turned. It was still there. Maybe it looked a little wan around the edges? Nope. Nothing had changed.

  “And that, in a nutshell — no pun intended — is my problem.” Annabelle gathered up the books she’d brought back from the store, and headed off to bed. “Expecting everything to happen instantaneously.” She’d check the book again and see what kind of time frame she was looking at. She really needed to think positive. She knew that, of course, all the books said that a positive attitude was the most important tool in the magical toolbox. I wonder if there’s a spell to get rid of all these stupid thoughts that are always going through my mind, she thought as she drifted toward bed …

  Annabelle’s bedroom door clicked shut. The rays of the waxing moon filtered down the airshaft into the living room, and the plant was bathed in gentle blue light. Had anyone been watching — and of course, no one was — they would have seen the plant begin to glow as a blue halo emanated from it, root and branch. As the glow intensified, the branches of the plant began to wave, and with a rather inelegant sound akin to that of someone slurping spaghetti, its tentacles retracted, in the blink of an eye, into the pot.

  • • •

  In the middle of slicing the loveliest leek she’d seen in a good while, Maria Grazia’s phone rang.

  MG closed her eyes as she picked up — sometimes it was still nice to be surprised, ya know?

  “Hi, there, Maria Grazia, how’s every little thing?”

  And sometimes not. “Fine, Kelli. Listen, you don’t think I’ve even begun to think about your … wafty babushkas, ’cause let me tell you — ”

  “No, no, no, no, no! Of course not! Next week is plenty of time — ” MG slammed the knife down on the counter and walked away. Better safe than sorry. Whose fault is this, Maria Grazia, whose? Whose?

  “So what’s on your mind, Kelli.” This is what happens when people have money, frickin’ tons of money, they just call you in the middle of your dinner, well, in the middle of making your dinner, and you frickin’ jump like a poodle and —

  “I don’t know if you noticed … oh, I don’t know if I should … I know that our Annabelle has only really just begun to emerge from her heartbreak … ” Kelli trailed off predictably.

  What exactly is on your mind, Kelli? “What exactly is on your mind, Kelli?”

  “It’s just that Jamie was asking after our Annabelle.”

  “Yeah, the white shirt guy, the artist guy, you already told me.”

  “Yes. Jamie Flynn. He’s Irish.”

  Huh. Annabelle was into Ireland. “Yeah, and?”

  “Well … ”

  “Kelli, I don’t want to rush you, hey, who would, but I’m in the middle of something here.”

  “I — I had this idea, and I need your help. If you agree. Only if you agree!” Her voice dropped, dripped with a whisper of slyness. “And Lorna’s help, of course … ”

  Maria Grazia’s risotto thickened with the plot, as she stirred and heard Kelli out.

  • • •

  Lorna had painstakingly applied a cucumber and yogurt mask, carefully polished her toenails, and was about to start thinking about getting her summer clothes out of storage when the phone rang.

  “Yes?” she huffed.

  “Hi, it’s Maria Grazia.”

  “I know your voice, MG, for God’s — ”

  “Listen,” Maria Grazia rushed in, “Kelli called me.”

  Lorna sat back on her sofa bed and wiggled her drying toes. “Thanks for calling, darling, but surely you know I couldn’t care less?”

  “This isn’t about Kelli, not exactly, it’s about — ”

  Lorna lit a cigarette. “Dear, I was just about to mentally winnow through my summer collection, something that I’ve been looking forward to all day, all during an incredibly stressful and trying day, and — ”

  Maria Grazia cut in again. “I went to that thing, Kelli’s brainstorm thing — ”

  “I know — ”

  “And there was this guy there, well, a man, really, he was more a man then a guy — ”

  Lorna sat up and nearly smudged her pedicure. “Oh my Lord, are you going on a date?”

  “Of course not!” Maria Grazia shouldered her handset as she patiently stirred and stirred the risotto. “Kelli told me that he was flirting with Belle.”

  “Really.” Lorna touched up her toes and gently flapped her feet around to dry the polish. “And she was flirting back?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Hmmm. Interesting.”

  Maria Grazia cleared her throat. This was going to be the hard part. “She … she wants us to help her … to set them up.”

  Lorna’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, does she?” She swung her feet carefully onto the floor, and went into the bathroom. Who did Kelli think she was, especially since she, Lorna, was going to throw Anna in the way of a few horny twenty-somethings in a few days? Just exactly who were Anna’s closest friends, anyway, and who exactly would know her better than her very best friends, know what’s best for her, and with whom she should be rebounding?

  She glared at the hardening goo on her face. “I don’t think it’s any of her business what Anna gets up to, and who is this guy anyway — ”

  “Some Irish guy, a painter or something, he’s doing the backdrops or whatever.” Maria Grazia gently folded the walnuts into the rice. “And he’s very cute, well, okay, handsome, even. Tall, and he was wearing this white shirt, this pristine white shirt.”

  Lorna sighed internally at thought of a handsome man in pristine white shirt. “We both know how Anna hates being set up.”

  “We know, and Kelli knows, but — but I think Kelli’s right.”

  Lorna paused in her ablutions, her face half clean, half greeny-white. “You must be joking.”

  Maria Grazia turned off the stove, and poured herself another glass of pinot noir. “It gets worse.” She gulped down a mouthful of the tangy wine. “She wants us to meet.”

  Lorna switched ears. “I am unsure that I heard you correctly.”

  “She wants us to meet.”

  Lorna scrubbed the rest of the mask off her face and began to lightly apply serum to her damp skin. “Surely you know what my answer is — ”

  Maria Grazia roared down the line, “Listen! You know I am breaking my cardinal rule! I am meddling! I am running interference! I am colluding! I am plotting! You know what this is doing to me! All I am asking is that you entertain the notion that we might do something to make our friend happy!”

  Lorna’s sighed windily. “I have conditions.”

  “Fine!” Maria Grazia stuffed a spoonful of risotto in her mouth.

  “I will not meet for a meal, for a coffee, I will not meet for so much as a street corner pretzel.” Lorna dotted eye cream carefully on her lids. “In fact, I think a street corner is the perfect location for a spot of conspiracy. I would, of course, prefer to do this via email — ”

  “She’s got a foolproof idea — and her condition is that we meet in person.” Stuck in the middle again, Maria Grazia! Faccia di merda!

  “If she thinks she’s going to hypnotize me into taking on her ridiculous show — ”

  “This is not about you!” MG bellowed.

  “This,” Lorna’s voice held a threatening tone. “Had better be worth it.”

  Maria Grazia sank onto her hand-reupholstered divan, replete with the cushions she’d run up just the other day, and sighed with relief. “It will be … I have
a feeling about this … ”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Annabelle lowered herself down to the floor, and leaned against the foot of her bed. It was now three weeks and two days since Wilson had broken things off. Every Tuesday since then, she had taken time out to have a bit of a twinge or a pang in the early afternoon — they had always marked the anniversaries of things, why stop now? She could visualize an appropriate line of greeting cards: Thinking of you … even though I dumped you last year. There might be some money in that.

  Or not. Anyway, she felt that she’d been taking pretty good care of herself, although she seemed to be back on the cigarettes again. The drama surrounding the plant had taken her mind off things, and having work had helped, too. So why was she sitting on the floor of her bedroom in front of her open closet, wearing nothing but panties, a bra, and a long face?

  Why had she agreed to go to this stupid party with Lorna? Not only did it mean dragging all the way into Manhattan on a Saturday night, it also meant getting cleaned up and dressed up and having to talk to strangers and maybe meeting some guy, some rebound kind of guy, and doing that rebound kind of thing. She supposed all of it was essential to her getting over Wilson, but she had certainly tried this kind of no-holds-barred post-party bang in the past, and it had only made her feel bad. The idea of kissing somebody, frankly, made her feel a little bit nauseous, much less the possibility of nakedness and a mattress marathon.

  Now that the plant’s branches were gone, she could chance a phone call to Lorna, begging off. Both the thought of the plant’s absent tentacles — surely her fault — and the idea that the only reason Lorna was doing this was to get Annabelle back into the swing of things, made her feel guilty, and as she was filled up to the brim with stupid feelings, she really wasn’t into adding a new one into the mix.

  Well, all this grief had had one interesting by-product; she was pretty sure she’d gone down at least one dress size, if not two, and that therefore opened up the possibilities inherent in the Skinny Section of the closet. She hadn’t dipped in there since last year, before all the rich dinners and various fancy lunches she and Wilson had shared had begun to catch up to her thighs. Just for the sake of argument, she looked through the Party Time Section, and didn’t feel up to all that taffeta and sparkle. The Casual Section was just that, too casual for a ’do in North Chelsea (for crying out loud!) and the Dumpy PMS Section didn’t even rate a look.

  The only thing about the Skinny Section was that every scrap of fabric in there had associations with the early part of her relationship with Wilson. She wasn’t big on shopping, and hated to waste hours over racks of tops, bottoms, and everything in between. Until she became the significant other of an up-and-comer like Mr. Monroe, black jeans and a low cut top seemed to work just fine, no matter the situation. Dating Wilson had changed all that, and she had the clothes to prove it.

  The flesh-colored floor-length jersey had always given her the creeps and she’d only worn it once. She had felt naked, and couldn’t take all the double takes all night long that told her that everyone else thought that she was naked, too. That gold brocade circle skirt with the crinoline had gone very nicely with the one hundred per cent silk tank top — except for the fact that one hundred per cent silk wrinkled like a tissue at the wearer’s first breath. Unlike those Connecticut girls that made up Wilson’s social circle, girls who were bred knowing how to avoid wrinkling fine fabrics through the kind of controlled breathing that rivaled that of Indian yogis, Annabelle routinely had the thing in such a state that she felt like she had wrapped herself in a raisin.

  Ah, the cherry red scrap of satin that had cost her a kidney and her spleen. Despite the fact that she gotten it cut-rate at Filene’s Basement, it was still designer, still unbelievably expensive — and unbelievably short. That had been interesting, and in fact had inspired the best sex of their relationship, the kind of impatient, heightened, sweaty, demanding, up-against-the-wall sex that Annabelle found she really really liked. Wilson had apologized for a week, and now Annabelle wondered, for the first time, what had she been thinking?

  What red-blooded American male would apologize for participating in mind-blowing, exciting, spontaneous, fun sex? He had even sent flowers. What a … jerk.

  “That’s a good sign,” said Annabelle to the inflammatory little dress. “We’ll keep you in reserve when a likely suspect shows himself.” A flash of curly hair, green eyes, and shoulders hugged by pristine white cotton flitted through her brain, but she refused to let it linger.

  Ugh. That hideous, stuffy, depressing trouser suit. As gray as a pigeon in Grand Central Station, and not half as attractive. Double-breasted and pin-striped, the trousers didn’t fit her properly and made the womanly swell of her belly appear gargantuan. The jacket was tailored in such a way as to stick straight back out behind her, over the curve of her rump, so that the overall impression was that of a stuffy, puffy, female impersonator.

  No up-against-the-wall sex after that event. What a disaster. It had been one of (not that she knew it at the time) their last outings, an afternoon wedding that Wilson had assured her would be businesslike and efficient. Imagine my dismay, Annabelle thought, blushing scarlet even at the memory, when it became apparent that the thing was full-out black tie — perhaps if I’d known the party was in the Empire Room, I’d have made another choice?

  The Empire Room was the kind of place that would inspire one to commit hari-kari were one dressed incorrectly. She’d been as incorrectly dressed as she’d ever been in her life, and did Wilson care? Nope! Just told her she’d looked fine, avoiding eye contact, wearing the strained, bored look that he’d been sporting for the last few weeks. She slinked off to the bathroom to take off her top — no, really, it had been a great idea, she was wearing a lacy camisole over her Wonderbra and with the jacket buttoned up, she looked like she was working a pin-striped sexy vibe … until she’d returned, and was faced with the redhead.

  The sleek, petite, and sparkling redhead who was hanging on to Wilson’s arm. Her auburn French twist crowned a heart-shaped face that appeared as innocent as the dew, until the eyes revealed a shrewd and calculating gleam. A thigh-skimming, slim column of ice blue silk draped her slight form, and she barely topped Wilson’s shoulder — much less Annabelle’s.

  Who was this bitch?

  The bitch was Winifred Barnes, Wilson’s childhood friend. Their family’s acres had corresponded, and as Winnie’s tinkling little laugh attended to Wilson’s reminiscence of summers spent in the saddle, her eyes flicked up and down Annabelle’s ensemble, and her face set in an almost imperceptible mask of mocking disdain.

  Annabelle perceived it, attempted three times to get Wilson — whom Winnie teasingly called ‘Willie’ and made him blush — to join her at the buffet, the bar, anywhere that wasn’t Winnie’s side … and having turned to snatch yet another glass of bubbly off a passing tray, she found herself on her own. Just like that. Within in seconds, she was standing, like an ungainly pin-striped lamppost, in one of the most romantic rooms on the planet, planted like a pole on the edges of what was quite obviously the hoitiest, toitiest New York/New England society wedding in decades. She had watched Winnie lead Wilson around by the arm, watched the little bitch allow everyone to think that she and he were together — but no one in the room, not even the friends of Wilson’s that she’d met before and knew her as his partner, looked surprised to see the two of them working the crowd.

  And she’d run. She hadn’t made a scene, she hadn’t tried to work the room herself, she’d turned tail and fled.

  Annabelle balled up the suit and threw it onto the floor. Time to get together a bag for the Salvation Army. She slowly lowered herself to sit on the foot of the bed. Why hadn’t she seen that? No — she’d seen it, but it had obviously been too much for her. Winnie and Willie. Ugh!

  “I asked him, and he said no, he wasn’t seeing anybody — or did he? I asked
him, I know I did, I definitely remember asking … ” She stuck her head out of the bedroom. “Hey.” The plant barely twitched its bloom at her. “Come on, no hard feelings. Listen, I know you weren’t here or anything, but I can’t remember if Wilson answered me when I asked him if he had met someone else, and I thought maybe — ” But the plant was sulking, and turned its stalk on her.

  “Fine.” A burst of energy, part humiliation, part fury, surged through Annabelle’s veins, and she thought fleetingly of donning the red dress and the devil take the hindmost. She briskly shoved dresses down the closet rail and stopped dead at the Armani.

  The Armani. It looked like a scrap of polyester nothing on its hanger, but Annabelle knew from experience that it fit like a dream, and was a cunning blend of natural fibers that resisted unsightly wrinkling. Floor length, scoop-necked, short-sleeved, and body con, it was slinky and sexy without being smutty and slutty. If there was any magic in the world, it was in this dress, a dress that managed to be provocative and dignified at the same time.

  Wilson hated that dress. It had made her the center of attention at the Amagansett Yacht Club, and had left him sulking in its understated, sensuous dust.

  It would do just fine.

  Hmmm … and as Wilson had never liked it when she wore red lipstick, or when she applied mascara to both her top and bottom lashes, she chose her Chanel Premiere Rouge and laid on the Maybelline. A deft application of eyeliner to her inner lids was a nod to her adolescent past, and she had to admit, it did the job: the thin line of black lent a mysterious air to her normally wide and guilelessly dark blue peepers.

  A liberal spritz of smoky, sexy Addict by Dior added to the femme fatale aura, and gave Annabelle a huge boost in the esteem department, whether she was really trying for a fatality or not.

  She came up short when it came to footwear. Damn. A girl just never got over being the tallest in the eighth grade class. Deep in her heart, Annabelle knew that a nice, narrow, three-inch heel was what was required to do the outfit justice, but she simply didn’t own any. Again, an annoying image of wide, white clad shoulders and a six-foot-one, six-foot-two frame sprang to mind, but she drove it out and stepped into nondescript but functional black flats.