That Magic Mischief

by Susan Conley

  “It was just the part about, ah feck it, I don’t know. Between your Pooka and my aunt, I felt … ” This conversation was a nightmare!

  “Backed up against a wall.” Annabelle nodded again, sympathetically. “It’s not like I don’t like you,” she offered, tentatively.

  “It’s not like I don’t like you,” Jamie did some vociferous nodding of his own. “I do, I mean, like you. A lot. In fact.”

  “Wait’ll I tell all the girls in home room!” Annabelle joked.

  “What’s home room?”

  “Forget it.”

  “Oh,” Jamie said. “Like kids in school, yeah, it’s sad altogether.” But they smiled at each other, and Annabelle folded up the hanky (a hanky!) and put it in her pocket. They sat in silence, companionably, and watched life go by. A soft breeze blew over from the Hudson, and Jersey glittered in the distance. Would it be a nice summer here? She’d never missed an East Coast summer in her life. She might even miss Thanksgiving. Weird.

  The hand waving in front of her face made her laugh. “I always come back, have a little patience.” Annabelle turned to him, and sighed. Oh, well. Pooka or no Pooka, she would have liked to have gotten to know him better. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t coming back. Was it? But a guy like him wouldn’t be single for long, not in this town, and even if they kept in touch via email, it wouldn’t be the same, and it would dribble off, and then it’d be awkward if she tried to reconnect if she — when she came back, and —

  “It’s especially weird to watch you do that when you’re looking right at me,” Jamie said, and narrowed his eyes. “Were you thinking about me?”

  He had almost surprised her into admitting it. “I need to have some secrets.”

  He looked at her keenly, and flustered, she looked away. “So. My news. I have news.”

  “I was only going to ask.”

  “I got an agent. I signed a contract last week.”

  “That’s brilliant! Congratulations! So they get you work and whatever?”

  “They’ve already go me work. Big money work. The pressure — ”

  “Ah, you’re very good, you’ll have no trouble at all — ”

  “Thanks. I’m excited but nervous, too. It’s normal, I guess.” It was exciting to talk about, but it made her nervous, so Annabelle looked up and down the street and changed the subject. “I was chasing Callie.” Okay, so maybe not the best choice, but time to get this out in the open. “She had shapeshifted into a waiter and dumped a trayful of something horrible on the head of my ex’s fiancée. She’s long gone now. I can’t believe she even made me run after her — oh.”

  “She sure has a knack for throwing us, em, together,” Jamie said.

  “I’m sure she’ll have unpacked all my bags again.” Annabelle stood. This is too uncomfortable, she thought, and we’re not getting anywhere, and it’s making me sad.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “I’m going to Ireland. For a year. That first big job, for the agency. I’m, uh, going on tour with a musician, writing about him for a book.”

  “That’s massive, really cool. Hey. What musician? What musician tours Ireland for — ”

  The penny dropped like a bomb. Annabelle watched the envy, disbelief, pain, and pride (Pride? Oh, man!) pass over Jamie’s face like a wave, and he was struck dumb.

  “I’ll send you a postcard … ” Annabelle offered, and Jamie took deep breaths, pulling himself together.

  “That. Is. Amazing. Janie Mac. When are you off?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Tomorrow night?” he stuttered. “Tomorrow? Night?”

  Annabelle strangled her hands with her purse strap again. “Yeah. And I better get going. I guess.”

  He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Em, can I meet you for a coffee or something? Before you go?”

  Damn it! “Um, I have a lot to do — call me on my cell? I’ll be running around all day, I have to do some last minute, uh, running around.”

  “You?”

  “Yeah, well.” Annabelle shrugged, and turned to hail a taxi. “Even I couldn’t get it all together in less than a week.”

  A cab pulled up beside her, and Jamie opened the door. Medieval looked good on him, she thought, and moved to get into the car.

  “I hope I can see you tomorrow. Before you go.” He reached out and stroked her arm.

  “Me, too.” She hesitated in the door of the taxi.

  “Speak to you?” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  “Okay. Bye.” She touched him lightly on the chest, and leaned in a fraction —

  And he leaned in a smidgen —

  And they kissed each other, lightly on the cheek —

  And as the cabbie honked impatiently, neither consciously felt the little spark, the burst of heat, the frisson of a glimmer of something big, much bigger than a harmless peck on the cheek would normally evoke. Neither knew it at that very minute, but as Annabelle’s taxi zoomed away, and Jamie turned to go (where the hell was he supposed to be going?) both would mull it over during the long, sleepless night ahead.

  There’s nothing I can do, Annabelle thought, blindly staring out the window as the taxi sped toward Brooklyn.

  • • •

  Could I? thought Jamie. It’s madness. It’s bonkers. It’s insane …

  But, sure …

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Annabelle debated taking a taxi all the way home. Since she was as far uptown as she could be without being in the Bronx, it wasn’t a decision to be taken lightly. As lovely as it was in Washington Heights, it wasn’t precisely the place she’d have chosen to go to on her last day in the city, and if she’d known that the German mime lived all the way up here, she’d have met him for the key exchange in Midtown, at the very least. But no, Annabelle: a people-pleaser to the end.

  She could take the Number 1 all the way to Brooklyn Heights, but then there was that twenty five minute walk home … and it was hot … and she hadn’t slept at all last night … and she’d been running around all day long … and … oh, the hell with it.

  How quickly she was going to get a cab was another matter. She was practically in the suburbs, and taxi culture wasn’t really a part of the vibe on Broadway and 215th Street. She did a time check: 3:15 and all was well. Her flight wasn’t until 8:45, and she wasn’t planning on leaving the house until six, she hated hanging around airports, especially when she was nervous and anxious and excited … and disappointed that Jamie hadn’t called her after all.

  She wandered to the curb, phone in hand, and rang her answering machine while she kept an eye out. Nothing. She yawned, and taking off her denim jacket, tied it around her waist. Leaning against a mailbox, she checked her list one more time. The laptop had been ready and she’d gotten a friendly send-off from the guys at Tecserve. She’d seen Kelli, still over the moon with the news that her play was moving uptown, all the way to Ninth Street, for an open-ended run. The German mime, Günter, seemed solid and reliable, and if she remembered correctly from the cast party, was a good dancer as well. She had her e-ticket, and now all she had to do was go home, pack again, and wait for Lorna and Maria Grazia to pick her up.

  She checked to make sure that her phone was working by going over to a payphone and ringing herself.

  I, thought Annabelle, am acting like a teenager.

  Maybe it was the lack of sleep, nerves, and worry about Callie, but Annabelle’s belly tingled deliciously at the thought of that silly little kiss on the cheek. Maybe she hadn’t gotten any sleep because of that harmless little peck. Maybe if they had just gone a little bit further, everything would be all figured out and sorted and she could go off to Ireland with a clear conscience.

  Maybe if they had just gotten it over with, she wouldn’t have spent the whole day in a haze,
wondering what it would be like, how it would feel, to kiss Jamie properly. If that tiny, inconsequential smooch was any indication …

  “Callie, if you’re out there somewhere, would you mind sending me a taxi? I really need to get home.”

  A yellow cab peeled around the corner of 215th Street and screeched to a halt beside her before she’d even had the chance to raise her arm.

  The driver looked dazed, and turned on his meter by rote. He didn’t even blink an eye when Annabelle shouted “Brooklyn, Carroll Gardens,” through the plexiglass. As the taxi tore away from the curb, she leaned her head back against the blue leatherette seat and closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again, they were well into the hundreds, passing by Columbia University’s lovely campus. Ah, Columbia, thought Annabelle fondly, site of many a drunken revel and rebound. The taxi cruised down Broadway, not a red light in sight, and they were soon passing Lincoln Center, the great fountain in the middle of the square playing host to idling New Yorkers and weary tourists. She’d only been in the place once, with Wilson, to see some opera or something. She couldn’t even remember which one it was, or what she had worn.

  That, she thought, is a very good sign.

  Times Square. Annabelle leaned forward, watching the lights shift and change and blink and flash, watched the churning crowds gather at every street corner, waved to the people queuing at TKTS for cheap seats for Broadway shows, heard the dissonant sounds of competing buskers and smiled up at the big screen, currently playing Dan Minnehan’s latest video. Ah, coincidence, thought Annabelle. It’s a good omen, anyway.

  The cabbie shifted over to Seventh Avenue, and as Annabelle gazed west, she could see flashes of the Hudson River, gleaming in the spring sunlight. Goodbye, Macy’s, she thought as they passed the retail giant’s flagship store. Thanks for not sending me too many nasty letters when I couldn’t pay my charge card, junior year in college!

  Goodbye, Madison Square Garden, where that wrestler guy had taken her to a monster truck rally. What was I thinking? She laughed to herself. “What was I thinking!” she yelled out the window, causing a bunch of Knicks fans to holler back in her wake. She laughed again, and the cabbie didn’t even blink an eye.

  “Brooklyn?” he asked, “Where?”

  “Carroll Gardens. Brooklyn Bridge to Court Street.”

  “Okay, lady. Okay.”

  Bye, bye Chelsea, goodbye Village, and The Riviera Café and Film Forum and The Ear Inn, goodbye, see ya, goodbye.

  Goodbye, Wilson, she mused, without sadness or longing or anger. Goodbye to Wilson and to the Annabelle she’d been when she was with him, goodbye to Connecticut and New England and all those stuck-up girls who had made her feel like an interloper and the banker guys that had tried to hit on her when they got loaded. Goodbye to all those boring company dinners and tiresome bowling parties and who knew what else.

  And, to be fair, goodbye to all those boat trips and barbecues and the nice meals by candlelight in new and trendy restaurants in Soho and to slumming it that time on Ludlow Street in Max Fish, drinking Michelob and making out at the bar at four o’clock in the morning. Goodbye to all that, thought Annabelle, fondly, easily, and finally. Goodbye.

  Canal Street: see ya! A circus of storefronts bursting with knock-off handbags and backpacks and watches and jewellery and sunglasses and DVDs and CDs and boom boxes and gym socks. Goodbye, Chinatown, and the roast ducks hanging in the window, and the little old ladies shoving all the youngsters out of the way, grappling for oranges at ten for a dollar, the fish stalls with their tanks of lobsters and slabs of silvery trout, the steam emitting from the endless array of lunch counters, restaurants, and noodle shops —

  “Hey! I said Brooklyn Bridge!” Annabelle leaned forward and rapped on the glass.

  “Manhattan Bridge, quicker, quicker,” said the cabbie, and Annabelle automatically deducted a dollar from his tip.

  Oh, Brooklyn Bridge. Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea, she thought, and added the dollar back. As much as she loved driving over the beautiful span, it seemed even nicer right now to have a good, long look at it. It rose gracefully out of the bay, and the setting sunlight that gleamed off of Lower Manhattan gilded it delicately. Goodbye bridge … We stayed up all night once, Lorna and Maria Grazia and I, along with a crew of new and nervous freshman the last Saturday before the first term began, stayed up all night and then walked from college to you and crossed you halfway as the sun rose and we all sat down, huddled together in the early morning chill, talking about everything we knew about life, which, at eighteen, wasn’t as much as we thought it was. Bye, bridge, Annabelle thought, and felt a pang of homesickness already.

  For simplicity’s sake, she had the cabbie leave her at the corner of Union Street, and she slowly walked the half block toward home. I, thought Annabelle, am a bit of a homebody. I like having all my things in one place … and I haven’t a clue where I’m staying after the first few days, and if I’ll have to lug all my stuff with me everywhere we go, or if they’ll find me an apartment — flat — or something …

  She locked her door behind her. It already seemed like she didn’t live there anymore. She’d reorganized her ‘office’ closet and packed up everything she could, including her desktop Mac, and in the process had discovered that she didn’t have as much stuff as she thought she had. Her framed photos and knick-knacks had been stored away, and her CDs had gone into Maria Grazia’s care. The bathroom was stripped down, and her towels were bundled into a box that now sat at the bottom of her bedroom closet. The hardest part was the empty corner that once was the site of her altar.

  She’d lugged the broken-down sewing machine out into the street Thursday afternoon; by the early evening, someone had taken it. She’d wrapped up the candlesticks, and the other bits and pieces, but had tucked the altar cloth, the chunk of rose quartz, some incense, and a small ceramic bowl into her luggage. She could set up anywhere, really, and thought that would make a nice new age-y product: Porta-Shrine, the traveller’s sacred space in a bag! Why not?

  It seemed pointless to moan that a Pooka who wasn’t even showing itself had yet again unpacked her bags. Annabelle stepped around the clothes and equipment that littered the floor and immediately tucked her e-ticket into her passport. She checked her phone again (nothing) and her email (nope) and figured it was time to let that go. If she was meant to see or hear from Jamie again, she would.

  She sat down on her couch and started refolding her clothes. She picked up a sweater and the bulky wool still smelled of the sage she used to love to burn in this place. She held it to her face and breathed deep, and sat back. “Cal? I bet you can hear me. My flight is at 8:45, and I don’t know where you are, or what I have to do. I don’t know if you’re sulking or dead or what. I don’t see why we can’t make a try at loading you in my luggage or something. I have, technically, kissed Jamie Flynn and you are, technically, free to go.”

  The silence that filled the flat was deafening. “Callie? I said I wished I could help you, and I know I didn’t do a very good job of it, but I’ll say it again: I wish I could help you. I wish I knew what to do. I wish I could just apologize for you, or take that necklace thing back for you, anything. If I could, I’d do it. I’d kiss Jamie Flynn properly if I had the chance!” She rose, and addressed the ceiling. “I would have liked to say goodbye in person, and to thank you in person too. I know you get all embarrassed and stuff, but I would like to say thanks face to face … ” Annabelle trailed off. I, she thought, am a sentimental sap. “If there is anything I can do, even at the eleventh hour, well, let me know.”

  Annabelle went to check the bedroom, one more time. The closet was stuffed to the rafters on the left side, and she made sure that the boxes were well balanced and wouldn’t crash on poor Günter’s head. She’d left the right side clear, even though he’d assured her that he only had jeans, T-shirts, and leotards, and that the
y didn’t take up much space. She paused and looked at herself in the mirror that hung over her bureau. That’s me, she thought, I’m back. I may even be more ‘me’ then I ever have been before. She smiled at herself, and went back in to the front room to tackle the bags.

  Everything had been packed up, and her luggage was very helpfully waiting for her by the door. Annabelle sat on her little couch and waited, in the gathering dusk, for the beginning that was right on the heels of this ending.

  • • •

  “You didn’t have to come all the way out here to see me off.” Annabelle kept hugging her friends as they prepared to get her and her bags into the car service Lorna had booked. It was a protracted event, as Maria Grazia was worriedly going through each case, ensuring that everything was in its place, and Lorna kept collapsing onto the little sofa.

  “You got your ticket? You got your passport?” MG fussed.

  “She’d shown it to you five times,” Lorna snapped, her eyes squeezed shut behind her dark glasses, in the grips of the most epic hangover of her life.

  “I’m going to miss this place,” Annabelle said, as she gave up and sat down on a ‘dining room’ chair. Maria Grazia was going through her big backpack for the third time.

  “You’ll be back before you know it,” Lorna wheezed.

  “I — I don’t know.” Annabelle clutched her hands in her lap and fought the urge to say goodbye to her bedroom one last time.

  “Oh, no, no you don’t, no projections or premonitions, please, and definitely not of an ominous nature!” Maria Grazia put her foot down. “Magical Pookas are one thing, but predictions of death and destruction are definitely not allowed.”

  “No, nothing like that. I may want to stay on a bit, travel, I don’t know.” The plan was so new, it couldn’t even be precisely called a plan. Not at this point. Because, agent or no agent, how stupid would it be to move to Ireland permanently? Annabelle shook her head, and changed the subject.

  “I hope Callie remembered to pack my toiletries properly. I had them all wrapped up in my underwear and tucked in shoes and things so they wouldn’t take up too much space. I double-checked her on the computer stuff, but I didn’t want to push it, in case she got insulted and unpacked it all again.” Annabelle sunk down a bit in her seat. “She was so high maintenance.”