That Magic Mischief

by Susan Conley

  So much for that. “I am beginning to realize that I’ve spent the last three years and nine months of my life getting subtly pushed around by the guy that I thought — I hoped — I would have married. So I object to this less-than-subtle manipulation regarding my personal life, my professional life, my choice of vacations — ”

  “Aren’t you sick o’ bangin’ on this way?” The bird landed on Annabelle’s shoulder, and hissed into her ear. “If you would have married that aul’ tosser, why not the next fella you meet? Why not … him?”

  The waiter who had come out to place the sandwich board in front of Chez LuLu found himself spun around by the scruff of the neck and planted in Annabelle’s path. A flutter of a feather spun him around on his toes, and his eyes began to dart with increasing unrest as another light flick of a wing caused his mouth to drop open, giving Annabelle a good look at the state of his teeth.

  “He’s got ’em all,” said Callie. “And all his hair.”

  “Let him go!” Annabelle, appalled, giggled. “He’s a waiter in a place called Chez LuLu. As if he was straight.”

  Dropped back down to terra firma, the waiter fussed with the board as if nothing had happened. Annabelle and the Pooka made their way across Bergen Street. Her conscience flaring up, Annabelle turned to check that the poor waiter was okay, and as she turned back, found herself face to face with a muscular male decked out in jogging gear. His slightly flushed face took on an alarming scarlet hue as Callie bounced him up and down in a parody of his former movement.

  “No. Let him go.” Callie did, and the jogger broke into a flat-out run. “I wouldn’t guess he was playing on my side of the field, either. Are you a boy bird or a girl bird?”

  A gauntlet of likely suspects were momentarily jerked out of their present moments and paraded before Annabelle’s discerning eye. It was actually a bit of a hoot, and despite the rumors and what everyone said, there really were plenty of men in New York City — except Callie seemed to be an equal opportunity Pooka, and wedding rings, sexual preference, and advanced age didn’t seem to be any part of the criteria. Annabelle spun around, her back to the action, and had to laugh. The crow settled to rest on the rear view mirror of a motorcycle.

  “You’ve got no standards at all.”

  The crow huffed. “Maybe you have too many!”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Annabelle rolled her eyes. “You’re as bad as Lorna, fixing me up with anything with a penis. I don’t want a married, bisexual, ninety-year-old man! I want someone to like me because he likes me, not because you’ve, like, bewitched him or something. I don’t want you to make anybody like me!”

  The big black bird ruffled its feathers and stretched out its wings. “It’s bloody useless exercise in any case. You know as well as I do that somebody already ‘likes’ ya, but you’re being dead thick and stubborn about it. ‘Like’! Ha!” The Pooka’s voice dripped with scorn, and it took to the air, flying low, beating its wings to stay level with Annabelle’s annoyed face. It flew at her, and forced her to step back and back and back. “Love! Lust! That’s what you should be aiming for, missus. ‘Liking!’ HA!”

  With that, the bird lightly pecked Annabelle on the nose, making her jump back in surprise — and right into Jamie Flynn’s waiting — and curious — arms.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “I told you I’d catch you.”

  Annabelle leaped away, and, as it became increasingly apparent that the earth at her feet wasn’t going to do her a favor and swallow her up, she made a bit of a show of straightening her hair, her denim jacket, her shoelaces … Unless I run away down the street with my head in my bag, she thought, I’m going to have to look up at him sometime.

  “Hi.” Oh, very good, Annabelle. Pithy, yet appropriate. Succinct, yet suitable.

  Jamie removed his Ray-Bans and scratched his nose with an earpiece. “Howaya. Working?” He gestured towards the smaller version of her monstrously organized bag dangling precariously off her shoulder.

  “Interview with a celebrity personal chef. And you?”

  “Delivered a hope chest to a client.”

  Annabelle’s eyes lit up. “A hope chest? For a bride? Like they used to do in the Fifties?”

  “She’s practically in her fifties,” said Jamie. “Fourth time around, and she’s running around town after linen and lingerie.”

  “Four weddings. That’s something else.” Annabelle had cause to ponder the unfathomable deepness of her middle-class mindset. I am middle-class, she reluctantly added to her mental list of qualities, and sighed.

  Jamie misinterpreted the sound. “You fancy four walks down the old aisle?”

  “Oh, God, no!” Annabelle reddened again. “I was thinking that I’m old-fashioned and hopelessly middle-class since I’m shocked by the idea of three divorces. I guess that’s the issue, looking at it as four weddings as opposed to four marriages.”

  She thought she heard the cackle of a crow blow by in the wind …

  “So!” She carried on brightly, refusing to acknowledge either omens or portents. “So, how’d she like it?”

  Jamie shrugged. “Ah, you know, she’s mad about everything at this stage. The ceremony’s tomorrow.”

  Annabelle grimaced. “Cutting it a bit close, weren’t you?”

  “Sure, it added to the drama.”

  “You look a bit wiped out.” I am a clod, Annabelle thought. “I mean, like you’ve been working hard.”

  “Ah, sure,” Jamie said, wryly. “I’ve got this deadline for a thingie, over in Ireland, a commission kind of thing, and I’ve been working flat out.” He held up a phone card, still wrapped in its cellophane. “I stopped in here to buy this so I can call the Council while I’m out, let them know I’ll be a bit late with it.”

  His complete lack of concern with lateness threatened to send Annabelle into a tizzy, but hey — not her business. But — “So … an extension. You’ll get an extension.”

  “Things are much looser over there than here.” Jamie grinned into her dilating pupils and shook his head. “It makes things over here hard to get used to.”

  “Even after almost seven years?”

  “You remembered.” His smile widened. “It’s almost worse, in a weird, inverse related way.”

  Annabelle tried not to stare too hard at the thrilling stubble on his chin, at the even messier-than-usual head full of curls, at the smiling green eyes. Staring in general was not only rude but also kind of disturbing to her as well. The more she looked at him, the more used to it she got, and she felt extremely wary of getting used to Jamie Flynn, not the least of which was the fact of that bloody Pooka’s threats re: husband-y things and, and, and the state of her heart in general —

  “Huh?” There I go again, off on a tangent, she thought; Jamie had asked her something.

  “Do you live around here?” He repeated himself patiently.

  “Oh, uh huh. Carroll Gardens, between Court and Clinton. Do you know it? I’ve been at that place for four years, but I’ve been around the neighborhood since I graduated college. And this,” she gestured to Smith Street at large, trying to stop the babble. “It’s unbelievable, the way it’s changed.”

  “I lived on Atlantic Avenue for a week — crashed with a cousin — and it was dire down here. Deadly. Literally.”

  “And now look at it.” They scanned the upscale restaurants, and hip, jewel-box bars, cheek by jowl with a few stalwart laundromats and Spanish bodegas.

  “It couldn’t know itself.”

  Annabelle narrowed her eyes. “You still have your accent. That’s kind of unusual.”

  He laid it on thick. “Ah, now, missus, and sure it’s only useful to have a bit o’ the auld accent going now.”

  “Where did you go after Atlantic Ave? Woodside?”

  “Jesus, no!” Jamie exclaimed.
“No, I stayed away from the displaced Irish, and moved in with the displaced Poles. I’m in Greenpoint.”

  “Oh, the hip new gallery scene. I read about in the New Yorker.”

  “Most of it’s like, stolen clothes hung up on sheets of tornado fencing and spattered with red paint for blood, and shite like that.” Jamie’s lip curled with disdain.

  “I’ve never made it over there, so I’ll take your word for it.” A torrent of schoolchildren, liberated at last, came pouring down the street toward them, and they had no choice but to fall into step to avoid the deluge.

  Jamie scratched his head with his cell phone. “Why not come out and have a look. Greenpoint’s not at the other end of the earth.”

  Uh oh. Annabelle kept in step, but her mind whirled off in a thousand directions. Was he — did he mean — what if — oh, for crying out loud. “I vaguely remember seeing it at the end of the L.” Non-committal, but not dismissive, she thought. Your move, Irish Guy.

  Jamie forged on. “Ah, sure, some Saturday afternoon, I’ll show you around, take you to Jimmy Polgardi’s Polish Palace for a meal. No strings.” He grinned, beguilingly. “No pressure.”

  “Huh.”

  “Just friendly. Right?”

  “Oh.”

  They kept walking and now Annabelle was slightly insulted. Just friendly? Not exactly the anathemic ‘just friends’ but pretty darn close.

  “You, know, I guess I am a self-centered male after all,” he said. She stopped dead, and he turned to grin down at her. “I’m assuming that you’d be interested in spending any time with me at all, however innocently. You weren’t too pleased with your friend’s little scheming the other night.”

  “No, no, it’s not that! Not exactly. Well, kind of. I mean, I was pissed off at them — but — I’ve had a lot going on, I mean, well, I had this boyfriend and he … we broke up and I’ve been getting over that, and on top of it, Maria Grazia and Lorna and Kelli come up with their plot to get us together and that bugged me, and I’ve got this Pooka that’s been making a mess of everything — ”

  Whoops.

  Jamie cocked his head to one side. “A Pooka? You mean the Irish sort?”

  Annabelle blushed, and imagined that her head would spontaneously ignite and burn to a cinder in under five seconds. “Um. Yeah.”

  Jamie cocked his head to the other side. “Here? In Brooklyn?”

  Annabelle wondered if she throwing herself in front of a bus could possibly feel worse than terminal mortification. All she could manage was a nod of her head.

  “Huh,” he said. “That’s weird.”

  “It’s weird,” insisted Annabelle, “But I’m not making it up — ”

  “Because my auntie always told me that they never left ‘the auld sod’. How did you get your hands on one?”

  Annabelle stared at him. Was there something about Irish males that made them particularly open-minded? Or particularly screwy? No way was she going to tell him the whole story and risk scaring him off, even if she wasn’t interested in him romantically … or anything … at the moment. She expelled a slightly cowardly breath, and edited the experience.

  “Uh, well, the whole thing was an accident, and it’s begun began actively interfering in my, er, life. It’s kind of hard to explain. I have one, and I’m trying to get rid of it. Like roaches.”

  “Hmmm.” Jamie seemed lost in thought, as if he was trying to see a way out of relieving her of her Pooka problem, and not planning a daring escape. They continued down Court Street, mulling things over as if they were trying to figure out a problem on their income tax returns, or how to stop the bathroom tap from leaking even though you’ve changed the washer ten times.

  Like it was normal.

  Jamie shook his head. “I’ve never heard of this before in my life.”

  “I interviewed Dan Minnehan the other day — ”

  “Dan Minnehan?” Jamie cut across in a strangled voice. “Dan Minnehan? The Dan Minnehan?”

  Annabelle felt absurdly pleased and very, very cool. “Yeah, yeah, grumpy old Irish genius musician guy.”

  Jamie dropped his head into his hands, and tugged at his rampant curls. “Dan Minnehan! I’d sell my own mother into white slavery in Constantinople just to — no, I wouldn’t even dare shake his hand … only to breathe the air of the same room as Dan Minnehan, I would sell my nieces and nephews as well.” He looked at her with an added layer of respect laid over top of the attraction.

  Oh, my gosh, thought Annabelle. I know that look. He is, in fact, attracted to me.

  “Dan Minnehan!”

  “So he told me a piseog?” Jamie nodded, still looking dazed. “About how a bunch of Pookas messed with some Queen — “ More judicious editing, things were surely complicated enough with Pookas, much less throwing in Ban Sí, “And they got stuck helping generations of the same families of humans with their — ” Whoops. “Problems.”

  Jamie looked thoughtful. “There’s that auntie I was talkin’ about. She’s mad. A total nutter. Has the sight, like, drives us all bonkers with visions and premonitions and tea leaves and shite. She used tell us a tale, mostly to frighten us to pieces, you understand … ” He trailed off, apparently lost in thought, and Annabelle got a nice, healthy look at his strong and manly profile, and she almost giggled at herself for the ‘manly’ part. He turned to her, and caught her staring.

  “Go on,” she urged, blushing.

  It could not be humanly possible to blush this much in under one hour.

  “Right,” Jamie said. “I can’t really call it to mind, but I could ask her, if you like?”

  Annabelle stopped. They’d almost gone past her building. That was fast, she thought, ruefully.

  Rue? Uh oh.

  “This is me.” She turned to look at him, as he cased the building, the location, the amount of traffic.

  “Nice place, all right.” He shifted from one foot to the other like a teenager, and promptly put a stop to that. “So will I?”

  “Your aunt. Yeah. Sure. If it’s not too nutty.”

  “They’re pushy creatures, Pookas. Not as bad as roaches, but if you let one in, God only knows … ”

  “Oh, no!”

  Jamie tried to backtrack. “I’m only joking you. A cousin had one, and eventually it went away.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Em. So, well … I’ll ring you, I reckon, when I know anything, I mean, the aunt’s a bit hard to get hold of, she’s always off on her broomstick or whatever, em, so I could — Jesus, will you ever give me your phone number?”

  Annabelle dug out one of her business cards. “It’s got all my numbers on it, and both emails, and my Twitter. So. Cool. Thanks. Great.”

  Annabelle backed up the stairs as Jamie backed off toward Court Street. “Sound,” he said, as they slowly moved away from each other. “Sure, I’ll give you a bell. When I know.”

  “Excellent.” Annabelle paused at the street door, and nodded and smiled and stalled. “Hey, thanks, you know? Everyone else thinks I’m crazy.”

  “Ah, well,” Jamie grinned. “No imagination.”

  “Well,” said Annabelle. “See ya.”

  “Good luck,” said Jamie. “Mind yourself.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  “Bye.”

  “Cheers, bye.”

  Annabelle slipped into the vestibule and out of sight.

  • • •

  Jamie nodded — a good day’s work all in all. He slipped Annabelle’s card into the breast pocket of his leather jacket, and looked around.

  He hadn’t a notion where he was.

  Sure, he thought, there must be a subway around here somewhere …

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Annabelle slid stealthily into her apartment, soundlessly shot the locks
and drew the chain across. Hanging up her coat, she stepped out of her shoes and then, and only then, ‘arrived’ home — and noticed that Callie had once again made some adjustments.

  Candles flickered on every possible surface, and a light and beautifully floral scent filled the flat. She saw a ring of incense cones burning on the floor around her altar, and a large chunk of pink rock sat on the top. The whole place felt … clean? Warm? Lovely. “Thanks,” smiled Annabelle.

  “Took you long enough.” Callie floated down from the ceiling and dropped into the chair furthest from Annabelle’s sacred space. Of human size, and in the form of the cloaked figure, the Pooka leaned a weary elbow on the tabletop.

  “Sorry.” Worried, Annabelle moved toward her. “You look rotten.”

  “Your gentle concern is warmin’ me heart.” Callie waved her away. “I’m all right. Need a bit of a sit-down.” She clutched her cloak close to herself and sat back in the chair. “We’ve got some work to do this night.”

  A chill ran down Annabelle’s arms. “Work? Like … magic?”

  “Magic isn’t magic, missus, and the sooner you realize that, the better.” The Pooka shrunk down to about a foot in height, and repositioned herself on the edge of the table. “It’s time you let aul’ Wilson go.”

  Annabelle plopped into the chair that Callie had vacated. “I’ve let him go! I don’t expect him to call any longer, I don’t look for him on the streets, I don’t go past our ex-favorite restaurants — ”

  “Jesus, girl, are you as bad as that?”

  “ — I haven’t googled him in, like, six days! I don’t fantasize about a reunion, or even one-night stand scenarios, I don’t remember what he smelled like, or what his hands felt like, or the way that he used to twirl a bit of my hair around his index finger when we used to read the Sunday Times in bed, or how he used to like it when I went suit-shopping with him, or the way he used to chop carrots, kind of diagonally, not in strips or even little circles … ” Annabelle winced. “Gotcha. What do I do?”

  Callie smiled, the first genuine smile she’d produced in Annabelle’s presence — it warmed Annabelle’s heart, and made the Pooka look angelic, benign, and like a friend. Annabelle leaned forward and touched the edge of Callie’s cloak — it felt as cold as the pot did the day the hazelnut — or Callie-as-hazelnut — died. Oh no — was she —