by Mindy Klasky
“Mabon is in three weeks. The Autumn Equinox. You have to find Ariel by then.”
“Mabon,” I said, and it sounded like a promise.
“Now, let’s see what we can learn here. Maybe one of these books can help us out after all.”
I set aside my tea mug and took a deep breath. I knew how to do this. I knew how to be a librarian. I knew how to track down resources and bring them to an interested patron. Even if my catalog had been destroyed six months before. Even if I couldn’t read the texts on my own. Even if I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be part of the solution.
“David,” I said. “I’m scared.”
“I know,” he replied. “I know you are. We’ll get through this together.”
And then we worked side by side in companionable silence, until long after our chamomile tea grew cold.
10
So, it took a week. A week of careful thought. A week of tossing and turning at night. A week of wondering if I had done the right thing, letting Will leave after our dinner at Don Lobos, driving off Neko, working with David. A week—well, every other day—of getting a voice mail message from Will at work, and calling him back, fingers crossed, hoping to get his own voice mail, hoping not to, trembling with relief when I heard his recorded message. A week of telling Kit that I’d be the one to pick up the daily sweets at Cake Walk, so that I could rehash things, each and every morning, with Melissa.
“Jane,” she finally told me. “I don’t have anything left to say. You acted. Now live with it. Or change it. But don’t just keep telling me about it. Call Will when you know he’ll be there, and ask him out. What’s the worst that can happen? He’ll say that you hurt his feelings, and he’ll refuse? From everything you’ve said, it sounds like he’s fine with what happened.”
I wanted to protest. I wanted to tell her that she was making things too simple. I wanted to huddle on a stool at her counter, drinking endless cups of Apricot Pekoe and ignoring the Peabridge, and its reference desk and its cottage.
But I wasn’t a complete idiot.
“Can I use your phone?”
She nodded toward the wall.
I glanced at my watch. 8:40. Maybe he wouldn’t be there. Maybe I could leave another witty and entertaining nonreply. Maybe I could get all the “cool girl” points, without worrying about the real world penalties. Ring. My heart started pounding. Ring. My lungs constricted, making me gasp for breath. Ring. My knees started to buckle in relief; I knew that his answering machine picked up after the fourth ring.
“Will Becker.”
That was it. That was my cue. That was the trigger that was supposed to make me reply, make me say something out loud. “Hi,” I finally managed. “It’s Jane.”
“Jane!” He honestly sounded pleased. “I’m so glad that you kept trying to end the phone tag.”
“Yeah,” I said, hoping that he couldn’t hear any silent confession, any whisper of just how hard I had hoped that I’d get his answering machine. Again. “Look, I’m sure that you’re busy. I just wanted to know if we could maybe go out to dinner next week. You know, we agreed that it was my treat next time. After dinner. At Don Lobos. Before you walked me home. Before—” Melissa made a slicing motion across her throat, reminding me that I needed to shut my babbling mouth. I stammered, “W-w-well, you know…” And then I trailed off, tucking the phone against my shoulder and grabbing for my mug of tea like a drowning woman clutching a life vest.
“That would be great,” he said.
“It would?”
He actually chuckled. Chuckled. Like a comfortable, easygoing guy who had no idea that he was dealing with a madwoman. “Did you have anything particular in mind?”
Something particular. That’s right. If I was going to be a liberated woman asking a guy out on a date, I should have something specific planned. Something intentional. Something thought through before I asked out the first totally normal guy that I’d met in a million years. I looked at Melissa, panicked, but she shrugged her incomprehension. What, I mouthed at her. She screwed up her face, but she clearly had no idea what I was asking.
“Um…” I said, knowing that I’d sound like an idiot, but I was afraid that I’d never breathe again, if I didn’t say something. “I thought…” Yeah, right. I thought about nothing. I thought that I’d hated Sadie Hawkins dances when I was in middle school, and obviously nothing had changed since then. I thought that my face was probably about ten different shades of crimson. I thought that I might as well just hang up the phone. I thought that it was absolutely, utterly, completely impossible that teenaged boys were expected to carry on this sort of conversation on a regular basis, if they were going to have any sort of love-life whatsoever.
And somehow, miraculously, magically, I don’t know how, Will stepped into the breach. “Maybe we can go to a lecture at the Smithsonian? It’s on Thursday night, six o’clock. It’s about Greek temples and contemporary architecture—one of my friends is the speaker. She’s going to talk about classic architecture and then lead a quick tour of the Mall. I’ve got a couple of free tickets.”
“Perfect!” I said, and the vise that had constricted my chest suddenly sprang loose. “That would be wonderful! We could go out for Greek food afterward. Stick with a theme,” I said in a flash of sudden inspiration.
“One of my favorites,” Will said, and I was pretty sure I could hear him smiling down the phone line. “Should I swing by the Peabridge to get you? You get off at five o’clock?”
“Yes. But give me fifteen minutes to change.”
“Five-fifteen. At your house, then?”
“I’d like that.” I let my own smile tilt my words. It was actually really easy to ask a guy out. Why had I gotten so worked up over this? I glanced at the clock on Melissa’s wall. “Oh! I have to run! I’m going to be late to work!”
“Have a great day,” Will said. “See you Thursday.”
I hung up the phone and turned to Melissa, beaming. “See?” I said. “I can take some responsibility for my life!”
“Some,” she said, shaking her head, but she smiled. She handed me a pasteboard box of baked goods. “But you really will be late, if you don’t get moving.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And about the other stuff? The witchcraft?” she said as she ushered me toward the door. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”
I shrugged as best I could, carrying the box. “I actually came up with an idea over the weekend. But I’ll have to call David.”
“So call him.”
“I can’t. It feels strange.”
“What is it with you and phones? This is a magic thing, right? Not related to the other thing.” The other thing. The bedroom thing.
“Well, they’re all tied up together.”
“No. You tie them together. To anyone else, they’d be totally separate. Think of it like working together, you know, in an office building. If you had to ask the vice president of Special Communications a question for your job, you’d just go ask him.”
“Not if I’d slept with him once, and then he’d tossed me out on my ass.”
Melissa frowned. I didn’t know if she didn’t approve of my language, or if she accepted the flaw I’d found in her analogy. “Okay. So, sexual harassment in the workplace probably doesn’t apply here. But, wait! It sort of does! David is your employee. Your own employee can’t harass you.”
I suspected that the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission would have some argument to the contrary. I sighed heavily, but I didn’t bother to argue. Bottom line—no pun intended—Melissa was right. I needed to call David. I wasn’t going to get this whole disappearing-anima-loss-of-power-what-is-the-purpose-of-my-life-as-a-witch thing under control without him.
“I’ll call him from the Peabridge. First thing.”
“Brew a pot of coffee, first thing. Don’t let Evelyn catch you shirking too badly.”
I laughed and hurried through the morning streets of Georgetown. I wasn’t ac
tually sure what Evelyn would do if she caught me shirking. Both of us had come to rely on Kit more and more to answer basic reference questions. Evelyn had taken advantage of my supposed free time to give me more and more management work—analyzing our budget, preparing reports for the trustees. I appreciated the recognition of my advancement, but it wasn’t what I really wanted, what I enjoyed. It wasn’t what I’d signed up for when I became a reference librarian.
Even if my work at the Peabridge was part of the white-picket-fence-happy-happy-home-life that I imagined every time I thought about cashing in my witchcraft chips for good.
That was the problem with me. I was never happy.
At least I followed Melissa’s advice when I got to work—the coffee was brewed and the Cake Walk treasures were nestled beneath their crystal domes by the time Evelyn walked in the front door. I smiled breezily and crossed to my desk, picking up my telephone like a woman on a mission.
Why was it so damned difficult to phone David?
We were working together on a problem. I had come up with a possible solution. This was all a business proposition. If he didn’t answer, he didn’t answer—my ability to speak to him was not a referendum on our entire relationship. I cleared my throat and punched in his number.
He answered on the first ring, snapping his name out, as if it were a two-word spell.
I stammered for a moment before telling him what I needed. At first, he was skeptical; I thought he was going to refuse. But when I explained, he listened, and then he finally agreed. “You’re going to need Neko there to make this all work out,” he said.
“I know.”
“Good luck getting him to join us.”
“I’m his witch!” I said, reciting the justification that I’d come up with while I was trying to bolster my courage.
“Good luck,” David repeated, and the click as he hung up seemed to have a note of finality.
But I knew Neko better than anyone.
I dialed his cell phone, but he didn’t answer. I glanced at the clock. Who was I kidding? He had to be home, still sound asleep, most likely. I punched in his home number and let it ring away. Forty-seven times.
“What!” he finally snapped.
“Hunan shrimp. My place. Tonight. Seven o’clock.”
“I’m busy,” he said petulantly.
“I’ll order it with extra shrimp.”
“I can’t just drop everything—”
“And ask them to hold the vegetables.”
“Jane—”
“And an order of shrimp toast, as an appetizer.”
“And a side of crab shumai,” he said.
What were a few dumplings between friends? I grimaced and agreed, “And a side of crab shumai.”
“Seven o’clock,” he said, and then he cut the connection.
Gran and Clara were easier to bring into the loop. They would have agreed to see me without the bribery of food; in fact they both sounded delighted to hear from me. Pork fried rice was just an extra benefit. I glanced at the locked drawer where my poor, suffering wallet waited, credit card unsuspecting.
If my plan worked, a Chinese feast was worth it.
David arrived first, carrying two large boxes, one in each hand.
“How much trouble did you have finding them?” I asked as I closed the door behind him.
Instead of answering, he said, “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
Before I could elaborate, Neko strolled into the living room, as confident as if he still lived there. He looked sleek as ever and a little dangerous, and he held himself with a certain aloofness. “I didn’t realize we were supposed to bring gifts,” he said, a single eyebrow arched in inquiry at the boxes in David’s hands. I wondered if he could sense the contents, even from across the room.
“I was hoping that you could help me, Neko.” I’d spent part of the afternoon plotting out my peace offering. “Gran and Clara will be here in just a minute, and I want Gran to know I’ve been thinking about her wedding. I’ve chosen my jewelry, to wear with the maid of honor dress. What do you think of these?” I turned to the coffee table, where I’d laid out a pair of silver earrings. Their sharp spikes stood out like spines on a sea urchin, and they radiated a certain early-1980s’ malevolence.
Neko looked as horrified as I’d expected. “What? Are you hoping to get a satellite signal in the church?”
“I just thought—”
“You just thought that you’d ruin your grandmother’s one perfect day of happiness.” He clicked his tongue with the disdain of a Hollywood costume designer. David actually laughed out loud at my familiar’s tone of horror. “Melt those things down. Pearls,” he said, as if he were teaching me a new word. “Peeearls. Drop earrings. Classic.”
“Drop earrings,” I repeated. And then I couldn’t keep from saying, “Are you sure they’ll go with orange and silver?”
Neko shuddered. “Your grandmother is one strong-willed woman.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said, thinking of years of teenage conflict.
“You know, it’s not just the colors. She is insisting on opera music for the service. For the processional and the recessional.”
“That’s not too bad. Is it?”
“The Queen of the Night aria? For a wedding?”
I smiled. “I think she’s just trying to include Uncle George. Opera has always been his thing, you know. She wants to show off a little for the guests, let everyone know how much they have in common.”
He rolled his eyes. “I know.” I smiled, pleased that we had gotten past our little tiff so easily. Neko, though, was not quite ready to let bygones be bygones. “While we’re talking about showing off in front of assembled friends and family, you have got to do something about your highlights. I’ve seen genie lanterns with less tacky brass than you’re showing these days.”
Now that stung. Especially when I saw David fake tremendous interest in the packages that he had set down beside the couch. “You were the one who told me to color my hair in the first place!”
“But you haven’t been back to Jacques for the touchups, have you?”
Busted. “No.”
“Jane, Jane, Jane, when are you going to learn?” He sighed, as if we were discussing starving children in some distant corner of the world. Fine. At least he’d spewed his nastiness, and now we could move on. I’d suffered enough cosmetic and sartorial humiliation.
But, no. Neko was only warming to his job. “What have you been doing without me? You couldn’t possibly think that green eyeliner would help the hazel mud you’re stuck with, could you?” Before I could protest, he moved in for the kill. “And you might think that you’ll get more dates if you dress like a boy, but I’m here to tell you, that is never, ever going to happen, girlfriend.”
I glanced at my oxford cloth shirt, suddenly aware that it did nothing to bolster my less than robust figure. A distant part of my scattered mind wondered what my green eyeliner looked like now, against a face that must be flushed the tint of merlot.
I was beginning to regret that I’d added crab shumai into the bargain to lure Neko here. Surely, my complete humiliation should have been sufficient currency to bring my familiar back into the fold.
At least I was managing to entertain my warder. I was certain I heard David smother a laugh before he said, “Can I get the two of you something to drink? Before you move on to round two?”
“There won’t be any more rounds,” I muttered darkly. “And I’ll get the drinks. What’ll you have?” I turned to Neko, pasting a sweet smile on my lips.
“Do you still have the Fish Eye Chard?” Neko purred.
“No,” I said, determined to keep my voice sunny. “You went through all six bottles before you left. Besides, we’re going to be working tonight.”
His lips moved into a taut O. “Soda water for me, then. With a splash of lime. And a mint leaf or two, if you’ve got it.”
Great. We were reduced to virgin mojitos. Watery, virgin mojitos.
I escaped to the kitchen and started to play bartender. Just as I was trying to knock the last ice cubes out of their stubborn plastic tray, there was a knock at the door. David did the honors, and I heard Gran’s surprised exclamation as she registered his presence. “It’s always so good to see you, dear,” she said, and I could picture her patting his arm, even though I could not glimpse the interaction from the kitchen.
“We ran into the deliveryman as we walked through the gate, Jeanette. Er, Jane.” Clara sailed in from the living room, trying to finesse the fact that she still had trouble remembering my preferred name. “We tried to pay, but he insisted that everything was taken care of.”
“The magic of credit cards,” I said, taking a large brown paper sack from her and trying not to put too much emphasis on the second word. The smell of soy sauce and hot oil—or maybe a twinge of apprehension—twisted my belly.
I’d improvised, ordering for Gran, Clara and David. The good thing about building a menu for five, though, was that you could justify enough dishes that everyone was ultimately satisfied. In addition to Neko’s Hunan shrimp-with-shrimp, I set out white cardboard containers of mu shu chicken, beef with broccoli, Szechuan green beans and pork fried rice, with a glorious plastic bowl of crispy sesame chicken anchoring the feast.
Locusts had nothing on us. We moved through the food like an army on the march, juggling chopsticks and serving spoons like high-grade weapons. Gran went back for thirds, and Clara devoted herself to picking out every last piece of beef from the surrounding bright green broccoli. Keeping in mind the magical feats to come, I limited myself to a couple of bites from each dish (Neko’s shrimp excluded—I got none of those, given how tremendously possessive my familiar could be).
I caught David looking at me with something akin to approval.
When we’d decimated the main dishes, I passed around dessert. Clara declared the almond cookies the finest she’d ever tasted, and Neko pounced on his fortune cookie. “Here!” he called, as if we’d all only just arrived. “Take a fortune cookie! Come on! Everyone! Open them up! Hurry! Now we’ll go around in a circle and read our fortunes out loud!”
