To Wish or Not to Wish

by Mindy Klasky

  “You’re welcome,” he said. His reply was serious, solemn even, but a jangling sense of urgency grew beneath his words. Teel’s entire being yearned for the Garden, for the freedom he’d been so long denied.

  Still, I couldn’t let him go without finishing what I wanted—what I needed—to say. “Especially, thank you for Justin. He needed you more than any of us did.”

  “He’s a good boy.” Teel shrugged, as if he’d had nothing to do with Justin’s behavioral turnaround. “He’ll remember what we shared. He’ll be strong until his father comes home.”

  Somehow, when I heard Teel say it, I believed him. “Well,” I said, strangely reluctant to let him go. “Thank you. And good luck. I hope the Garden is everything you dream it will be.”

  For answer, Teel returned his hand to his ear. “As you wish,” he said, and then he tugged twice.

  The electric shock was stronger than I expected. I felt the jolt in the marrow of my bones. It shot through my heart, fired through my fingertips. I closed my eyes involuntarily, screening out the light, the noise, the sudden flaring power of Teel granting my last wish.

  And when I opened my eyes, everything had changed.

  CHAPTER 17

  THE COURTYARD HAD TURNED INTO A MOVIE SET.

  Folding canvas chairs were scattered in a loose semicircle on the flagstones. Metal stands held bright lights, and white umbrellas reflected the brilliance onto Garden Variety’s front door. A half dozen people swarmed the flagstones; all of them wore headsets with rectangular electronics packages clipped to their belts.

  I glanced at the restaurant window. The For Rent sign was gone, erased as if it had never existed.

  Someone was calling for a sound check. Another person was ordering the lighting instruments to a different corner of the courtyard. Staff scrambled around like pieces of glass in a high-end kaleidoscope, falling in and out of endless patterns. No one seemed to notice me; I felt as if I were invisible.

  I edged up to the restaurant door. When no one hollered at me to keep my distance, I tested the knob. It turned immediately; someone had unlocked the restaurant. I slipped in before anyone could order me not to.

  The inside of Garden Variety was an island of calm after all the chaos in the courtyard. The tables were arrayed for dinner; each was covered with a sheet of butcher paper. Someone had taken care with the random dishes and pieces of silverware; absolutely nothing matched at any table, and yet the overall look was perfectly balanced, flawlessly ordered. Fresh flowers sat on each table—sprigs of lavender, I noted with a sudden breathless grab of my heart.

  A headset-bound technician hurried past me, rushing from the kitchen out to the courtyard. She frowned at me as she jogged by, and I braced myself for her to challenge my presence. Instead, she pulled her mouthpiece closer to her lips and enunciated, “They’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, tops.” I leaped out of the way, lest I impede her passage. She pulled the door closed behind her with enough force that it slammed.

  I realized that the woman’s twin remained in the dining room. She was circling the tables, one by one, tweaking the already-perfect place settings. She swapped out one knife for another. She polished a water glass against a linen towel. She turned one spray of flowers slightly to the right, another to the left.

  I was mesmerized as I watched her. Her job was clearly to create the illusion of perfection. And I could see that she was very, very good at her job.

  In the eerie stillness, I could make out sounds from the kitchen. Timothy’s voice flowed from the back room like maple syrup over waffles—smooth and even, despite an underlying sense of disruption. I glanced through the window in the galley door, and I could see two people, strangers, huddling by the stainless-steel center island, the same horizontal surface that I had last seen snowed under with the pages of Amy’s unsuccessful business plan.

  As I turned my head to catch a better angle, I realized that I knew both of the people in the kitchen. There was Lena, the homeless woman who had occupied the two-top on my very first visit to Garden Variety. She had pulled her hair back into a ragged ponytail; her face looked round and vulnerable. Her fingers plucked at the black apron that she wore over a plain white T-shirt and ragged jeans.

  Having recognized Lena, it took me less time to identify Peter, the man who had sent Sam running from Garden Variety. He had shaved his scraggly beard—only that morning, by the bright pink rawness of his cheeks. He, too, sported a black apron.

  Both Lena and Peter held large knives, the sort favored by Iron Chefs and serial killers. As I shuffled forward a half step, Timothy came into view. He held a matching knife. His fingers, though, were comfortable on the handle; he looked as if he’d been born with a blade in his grasp. I watched as he took a carrot out of a mesh shopping bag. He trimmed the ends with two clean chops, then reduced the vegetable to a perfect pile of orange coins. He narrated his action as he cut, as he changed angles, as he folded the fingers of his noncutting hand, guiding the blade with his knuckles. Even with his steady patter, I was astonished by how quickly he worked.

  “There,” he said. “Now, you try it.” He handed a carrot to each of his students. Not surprisingly, they moved more slowly than he had, and their resulting piles of carrot coins were far from the uniform jewels that Timothy had created. Nevertheless, he said, “Excellent! You’ve both come so far in the past few weeks! Now, take a few more. Practice. Think of this as a warm-up exercise for when the camera crew comes in.”

  A warm-up. Just like the exercises I completed at the theater before I went onstage. I must have made some sound at the familiar expression, some noise that made Timothy look up. The smile that bloomed across his face shook me to my toes. “Erin!”

  He set down his knife, automatically taking care that the blade was safely settled on the countertop. He shoved the mesh bag of carrots toward Lena and Peter and hurried around the table. “And here we are! A Broadway star in our midst!”

  I blushed. “I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

  “Isn’t that what ShowTalk is saying?”

  “How do you know about ShowTalk?” The site was private; only theater people joined up.

  “Dani told me about it, when I stopped by for the carrots first thing this morning.” He nodded toward the stainless-steel table. “She said something about using her son’s access. She wanted to check up on you, to know if she was living across the hall from a celebrity.” Her son. That was Ryan, of course, the playwright who had gone to Africa with Becca months ago. Their trip had cleared the way for me to move into the Bentley. To get Teel’s lamp.

  I gestured toward Lena and Peter. “What is all this? Who are all those people in the courtyard?”

  “It’s New York Eats. The cable show. Don’t you remember? They’re featuring Garden Variety next month.” I must have still looked confused, because Timothy stepped a little closer to me. “We’re the focus of their ‘Green Dining’ month, because of the way we work with Dani and the Gray Guerillas? Because of the career mentoring, with Lena and Peter?”

  I wanted to ask him when all of this had happened. I wanted to pin him down on specifics, to find out precisely when he’d been contacted by the producers. I wanted to know how far back Teel’s magic had reached, how many memories my genie had manipulated to make Timothy’s dream a reality.

  And yet, I said nothing. There was no reason to question Timothy. No reason to test the strength of my genie’s magic on real, human memory.

  “Of course,” I said. My voice was a little weaker than I wanted it to be. My words were simply washed out by surprise, by astonishment at how well Teel had done his job.

  “Are you okay?” Before I could answer, Timothy glanced over his shoulder at Lena and Peter. “You guys are doing great! When you finish with those, why don’t you get started on making the vinaigrette for the salad—the same recipe that we worked out last week. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  As Peter nodded and Lena set down her chef’s knife, Timothy edged his fingers
under my arm. He guided me into the dining room, back to the corner where I’d sat with Amy and Teel, with Shawn and Justin, six weeks before. A lifetime before. It seemed like centuries since we’d gathered in the restaurant. So many things had changed in my life. In my life, and apparently in Timothy’s, as well.

  “Hey,” he called to the black-clad technician, the woman who seemed to be taking yet another round to make sure that the tables were perfect from each and every possible angle. “Could we have a minute here?”

  “Of course, Mr. Brennan,” she said, but I heard her mutter something into her microphone as she slipped outside.

  Timothy barely waited for the door to close behind her. “I’m sorry,” he said to me. He reached toward my face, snagged a lock of hair that had slipped from behind my ear. He curled it around his fingers, and I could feel the tiny hairs between his knuckles as they brushed against my cheek. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there after the show last night. They had me up until three in the morning, going over the menu for the shoot, working out who would wait tables, how we’d highlight Lena’s story, and Peter’s.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. I barely trusted my voice, though. I was remembering my devastation that very morning, when I’d stood in the deserted courtyard. I could still feel the resounding shock as I registered the date, as I realized that Timothy was lost to me, that Garden Variety had been destroyed.

  Keeping that gaping loss in mind, it certainly felt petty to be upset that Timothy hadn’t stuck around after the show. Especially since it seemed like he was prepping to be a major media star.

  “No,” he said, interrupting my thoughts. “It isn’t okay. I know how much last night meant to you.” His fingers moved from the single lock of hair to the back of my head. I could feel the warmth of his palm radiating through me, his calm power steadying me as he snared my gaze. “I knew that you could do it. I knew that you could play the part. But I should have been there to celebrate, all the same.” He had known it. He’d been certain, even when I’d been unsure. He’d been confident, even when I’d been a wreck.

  “Timothy,” I said, and there were so many things I wanted to follow up with. Thank you for bringing me dinner. Thank you for running lines with me. Thank you for leaving me tea and breakfast, lavender, salt scrub. Thank you for waiting for me, when I’d spent the past two months finding ridiculous, immature ways to delay, to keep us apart, to drive you away forever.

  I felt the balance between us, the quiet promise in his fingertips. I felt the power, the energy, the strength, that had drawn me to him every single day since I’d first crossed the threshold of Garden Variety.

  Every single time that he’d moved toward me, I’d backed away. Every single time that he had offered something of himself—raspberries, hot meals, a fireworks display fit for the gods—I’d edged myself into a defensive corner. I’d left him dangling, left him vulnerable, ignored the potential, the possibility, the rightness, of life with him.

  I’d told myself—I’d told him—that I was bound by the tenets of my Master Plan. But I’d been lying to both of us. I’d used the Plan because I was a coward. I’d used the Plan to keep from feeling emotion, from accepting the reckless, falling sensation of being committed. Of being in love.

  “Timothy,” I sighed again, and I closed the distance between us.

  This kiss started as a gentle expression of friendship. After all, Timothy was the man who had restrained himself before, who had pulled back, acknowledging my boundaries, my rules and restrictions.

  But then I tangled my fingers in his unruly curls. I pulled him closer to me. I opened my lips; I told him with the perfect absence of words that I was ready.

  And he awakened, like a panther stirring to the hunt. His lips hardened against mine. He was driven, driving. His fingers arched into claws, pulling me closer, gathering me into the rock-hard lines of his body.

  This kiss was completely different from the others. This kiss stripped away the boundaries between us. This kiss sparked from my lips to my belly; it weakened my knees until I was clutching at Timothy’s shoulders, trembling against him, scarcely managing to keep my balance. We laughed as we kissed, and he said my name, murmuring it as he explored the pulse point in my throat.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, regretting all the time that I’d kept us from getting together, all the steps I’d taken to drive him away.

  He stopped the words before they fully formed, his fingers orchestrating a distraction against my spine, along the waistband of my pants. I tried again, but he growled me to silence.

  I don’t know how long we stood there, how much time passed as we explored all the things we could have said, should have said, in the preceding months. Both of us were startled, though, when the restaurant door crashed open. A wave of summer heat rolled in, shocking in its intensity. A gaunt man loomed in the doorway, glancing around as if he were the lord of the manor. Two assistants hovered behind him, jostling smartphones as they spoke into their headsets.

  I knew a director when I saw one. After all, I was a trained theater professional.

  Timothy sighed and loosened his grip on my hips. He leaned his forehead in to touch mine. Both of us worked to slow our breathing, to offer up some semblance of mature, sober normalcy. He caught my hand and interlaced my fingers with his own, before he raised my wrist to brush his lips across the heartbeat that pounded there.

  “I’ve got to go,” he whispered.

  “I know.”

  “Come by later. After the show tonight? I’ll make you dinner.” His eyes promised a lot more than food.

  “I’ll be here,” I said.

  I could still feel his gaze searing my back as I edged past the director and headed out to the real world. With rehearsals over, with Teel gone, with everything perfect in my world, it was time to return to real life. It was time to go to the grocery store, to pay some bills, to catch up on a hundred and one ordinary duties that I’d completely overlooked in the panic of rehearsals.

  I couldn’t wait.

  The show ran perfectly that night. I missed having special people in the audience, but that was going to be part of my life for a long time to come. I was able to concentrate on the energy that built with my fellow actors, on the magical theatrical spirit that we poured into one another.

  Afterward, we all chatted companionably in the dressing room. We sponged off makeup. We changed into street clothes.

  I thought about calling Amy as I walked toward home. We’d left messages for each other earlier in the day; there was nothing major for us to talk about, but I was accustomed to hearing her voice. It was late, though, almost midnight. I didn’t want to take a chance on waking Justin.

  As I turned into the alley that led back to Garden Variety, my heart started to beat faster. My fingertips grew numb with a sense of anticipation, and I resisted the urge to run my hands through my hair, to smooth down my blouse, to fiddle and fidget and fuss.

  I paused in the ivy-covered passage, just before the courtyard came into view. I took a deep breath, held it for a moment, telling myself that I was being silly, acting like a schoolgirl, letting my anticipation run wild. I exhaled slowly, counting to ten.

  And the world around me disappeared.

  “Teel!” I screeched, throwing all semblance of calm to the winds. If there had been winds at the Garden. Which I was pretty sure there weren’t. At least, I’d never sensed them there before, in that great, aching hole of nothingness. I glared down at the gray fog beneath my feet, the featureless blank that made me sway with sudden vertigo. I whirled to face my genie, furious that he still had this power over me, now, when I had made my fourth wish, when I had set him free.

  I could see the Garden.

  It was spread out before me, perfect and vivid and brilliant behind its ornate wrought-iron bars. A blue sky stretched into infinity, so painfully clear that my eyes vibrated with the brightness. Lush emerald grass came up to the very edge of the fence. I could make out each individual
blade, impossibly detailed, as if the scene in front of me had been captured on a high-definition television with an infinitely large screen.

  I staggered forward and caught myself against the iron bars of the fence. They were solid, warm to the touch, heated by the sun that was directly overhead. I pushed my face against the metal, breathing deeply, filling my lungs with the aroma of fresh-mown grass, of lilacs, of honeysuckle.

  Birds warbled from a nearby tree, songbirds that I didn’t recognize, that I didn’t think we even had in New York. If I concentrated, I could hear the breeze whispering through the shrubs around me. A brook laughed somewhere to my right. I closed my eyes, the better to concentrate on sound.

  “I thought you’d want to see everything here, but I was obviously mistaken.”

  The voice—a woman’s—was new to me. I blinked hard to make her come into focus; she seemed to glow with the power of the Garden around her. She was tall, almost six feet, and lean. Her chestnut hair fell in soft waves almost to her waist. She wore a chain of purple clover like a crown, and a necklace of the same flowers dipped between her breasts.

  I realized that she was naked, and I should have been surprised, but her bare flesh seemed appropriate, perfect, the only way that anyone should ever be, in the Garden. Her right wrist was covered in tattooed flames—the gold and red and orange leaping around each other with a vitality I’d never seen in any other genie guise. The tattoo wasn’t any ordinary ink; it flowed, moved, changed with the woman’s every heartbeat. My eyes were drawn to it, and my own fingers reached through the fence, desperate to touch the fire.

  “Teel?” I whispered.

  “Of course,” she said, and her laughter freed me to look at her face once again.

  “Is Jaze here?”

  She pursed her lips into a perfect pout. “He’s feeling shy.”

  As well he might, if he was as naked as Teel. I wasn’t going to argue the point, in any case. Instead, I asked, “How am I seeing this? How am I seeing you? I thought that all the magic was over.”