Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie

by Merry Jones

  He seated me. Pulled out the chair, waited for me to settle, then to lift myself up so he could slide the chair further under me. I was aware of him being aware of me, my movements, my balance. Of the rhythm of sitting and rising and sitting again. I was aware of his hands on my chair, his eyes watching my nether parts lowering onto the chair. Thank God Jen had helped me pick out pants that fit snugly, flattering my butt. And when I was seated, his hands lingered for a moment on my shoulders, giving them the slightest, most tender squeeze.

  I wanted to moan.

  Lord. I needed a drink. My moods over the last several hours had risen and plummeted repeatedly. As Joel took his seat, I glanced around the restaurant, felt cushioned by the flicker of candles, the hushed voices, the oil paintings on dark walls. The slow, patient background of piano music.

  He leaned forward, eager eyes on mine.

  I needed to cool down. I didn’t know anything, really, about this man. Except that he’d somehow known Charlie well enough to come to the viewing. And that looking at him, being near him made my blood roar. But he was talking. I needed to listen. “—even at Jeremy’s, I found you hypnotic.”

  Hypnotic? “Oh, please.” My neck felt hot.

  “I’m serious. Afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about how stupid I’d been not to get your number. When I was walking away from you, I was hoping you’d stop me—you know, ask for my phone? Punch in your number? But you didn’t.”

  No, I didn’t.

  “Why not?”

  Why not? It hadn’t occurred to me. I’d never given my number to a stranger. But I couldn’t say that. It sounded prissy, even to me.

  “I mean, did you feel anything like what I did? Any attraction? Tell me the truth.”

  The truth? What had I felt? I remembered him offering me a coin, producing from nowhere a scarf, a rose. His eyes had singled me out, focused on me as if I were the only woman in the room. But why? He was so handsome. So practiced at flirting, and paying so much attention to a self-conscious, inexperienced, not-as-glitzy-as-he-was woman. So, what had I felt? Panic. The desire to run for the door. But another feeling stopped me.

  Kind of a déjà vu, a familiarity. A sense that—almost that I’d met him before. That something other than chance had brought us together. Maybe fate.

  But I wasn’t going to admit any of that. Would never have said any part of it out loud. Certainly not to him.

  He chuckled at my silence. “Okay. I guess not. I was hoping it was mutual—”

  “No, that’s not fair. Remember, I had a headache. And, truthfully, it was my first time out since—” I stopped. Heard both Jen and Becky yelling at me: Do not talk about your marriage!

  “Actually,” the words popped out, “I felt familiar. Kind of like I already knew you.”

  Joel smiled, tilted his head. Reached out. Touched my hand. A bottle of Rosenblum Petite Sirah arrived. Warm fresh bread. We ate red meat. Joel’s lips were neither too full nor too narrow; they looked firm, smooth as they parted to admit his fork. And his jaw rippled, made shadows on his cheeks when he chewed. He didn’t look at all like Charlie. Longer, slimmer, he moved more gracefully, like a river. And his voice flowed more smoothly. I told myself not to think of Charlie. He had no business here. This was my night. My first date with another man. I knew I needed to ask Joel for information. Find out about his relationship with Charlie. But there was no rush. My questions could wait. It was all right to take it slow, to savor the attention. The subtle seduction of conversation, the maddening, almost accidental touches, the slow embrace of wine.

  We talked, laughed. Never ran out of topics.

  “How did you get into magic?”

  “Magic?” He grinned, reached over, touched my wine glass, and suddenly there were two of them. Two glasses of wine.

  What? “How did you—”

  “You mean how did I do this?” He smiled. And now there was a third. Three in a row. Full of wine.

  I was baffled. Alarmed.

  Joel shrugged. “I took up magic to cover my shyness.”

  “Your shyness?” Was he joking? “You don’t seem shy.”

  “See? It worked. Magic gives me a way to approach beautiful women without using the same old tired lines—instead of asking, ‘Do you come here often?’ I can reach into her ear and say, ‘Is this yours?’” He reached behind my ear and, this time, presented a bracelet. A gold bangle just like the one I’d been wearing. I checked my wrist, saw it was bare. Took the bracelet, replaced it, puzzled and impressed.

  “You’re good.” I laughed. Lifted my napkin, realized it wasn’t a napkin anymore, but a lavender chiffon scarf. Wrapped around my house keys. Wow. My napkin, it seemed, had moved into my purse. I found it when putting my keys back. When—how had he done all this switching right in front of me? His tricks made me uneasy. As if I didn’t know what he was up to. How to keep my privacy and protect my stuff.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll stop—I was just showing off. I make it a personal rule never to abuse my skills.”

  Apparently, he wasn’t just a magician, but a mind reader, too. “Good. Because you’d be a great pickpocket.” I had the urge to check my wallet, restrained myself.

  He lost his smile. “Making money wasn’t my goal. Girls were. I was a skinny, bashful teenager, afraid to talk to girls, much less ask them out. Magic was my ticket.”

  His ticket? “Magic” and “ticket” in the same sentence made me think of the travel agency. Magic Travel. Maybe he’d heard of it. But why would he? Just because of the word, “magic”? “So you’ve gotten a lot of women to pay attention to you?”

  He smiled. “Well, yes. But so far, no one’s been right. I’m still looking.” And he looked into my eyes. Deeply.

  My face got hot. I reached for one of the wine glasses. Sipped. It tasted real.

  “Elle, honestly, I’m at an age where I’ve done enough singles bars and traveling alone. My friends tell me I’m a born bachelor, but the fact is, I’d like to settle down.”

  I felt his gaze. The heat of it ran down my neck, my chest. I didn’t dare look back. Busied myself with the stem of the wine glass.

  He paused. “But magic—it’s more than a gimmick to help me meet ladies. It’s a way of life. Kind of a philosophy.”

  “Oh?” I swallowed more wine, dared to look at him.

  “Really, there is no such thing as magic. It doesn’t exist. It’s all illusion, just like everything else in life. People see what they want to see, or what they expect to see, and they miss everything else. They want to believe there’s a trick. But the only trick is in their perceptions.”

  I was confused. Must have looked it.

  “An event only seems magical because the audience doesn’t see—or doesn’t pay attention to all the pieces of the puzzle.” His voice lowered, became private, almost a whisper. “You don’t see where the coin is hidden. I distract you, or move in a way that you don’t see the sleight of hand that takes your keys. You don’t know the scarf is there all along. You don’t expect it, so it seems like magic. That’s how life is, isn’t it? We see what we expect, what makes sense. What we want to see. What we can bear to see. And we reject the rest.”

  I stopped breathing, replaying his last few sentences. Lord. Could Joel possibly know about the holes in my memory? The things I couldn’t bear to recall? Had he created his little speech about rejecting pieces of reality just for me?

  I swallowed more wine. Smiled. Nodded. Tried again to do an Elle and mentally float up to the ceiling and watch our table from a safe distance. But I couldn’t. Why not? Maybe it was Dr. Schroeder’s pills—I’d taken a double dose. Maybe they’d begun to work. Or maybe it wasn’t the pills. Maybe it was Joel. The square line of his jaw. The hint of a smile on his mouth, flickering in his eyes.

  “So,” I scrambled for a comment. “Is all magic fake?”

  His eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “No, not fake. Just a manipulation of perception.”

  Perception? As in perceiving the presen
ce of a dead husband? I thought of Charlie’s kiss on my neck, our conversations. The rose that had moved through the house. Was that illusion, too?

  “What about, say, the supernatural?”

  “The supernatural?”

  “Yes. Is any of that real? Like Ouija boards. And mediums who contact the dead. Or ghosts—”

  “Whoa—Hold on, Elle. What’s this about? Are you thinking of holding a séance? You want to contact your—”

  “No.” My answer came too fast, too loud. Before he could mention the word husband. “No, of course not.” I looked away. Mentioned or not, Charlie had somehow joined us. “I was just wondering if you thought it was all illusion like magic.”

  He told me he had no idea, never messed with the dead, doubted that any of it was real. And then he changed the subject. Talked about me. Asked about my work.

  I told him about my class, that I missed the kids. I mentioned Abbey’s fabulous spelling, Benjy’s photographic memory. Lily’s art. Roxy’s lisp. Aiden’s mischief. I told him about our hamsters, Romeo and Juliet, that Juliet might be pregnant.

  I talked too much, expected him to be bored. But he asked questions about curriculum planning, about gifted and slow learners. He was asking about trends in children’s literature when the waiter brought our entrées.

  Charlie had never asked me about my work. Not ever. Not in ten years.

  I picked up my fork. Looked at my hand to make sure that the glow was just inside me, that it didn’t show on my skin.

  I watched Joel’s knife slide smoothly into his steak, the juice spilling onto his plate, soaking his potatoes red. I watched him chew. His jaw muscles flexed and rippled. His tongue flicked across his lips. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, reached for his wine. I was fixated, crossed my legs, pressed my thighs together. Thought about what his chest would look like without his shirt.

  Lord, I’d been without a man too long. Did it show? Did he know?

  I tried to cover my thoughts, but stumbled. Forgot what I’d been saying. Laughed at myself. Pretended it was the wine. That it had nothing to do with the glimmer in Joel’s eyes, the reflection of the candles glowing there, making them look like dancing fire, the heat of which made my skin sizzle, the rhythm of which shook my bones.

  I’d had too much wine. Needed coffee. Needed to cool down. Over espressos, I realized that we’d talked a lot. About where we’d grown up—he was from Quakertown—how we were both only children, what pets we’d had as kids—Joel had raised cockatoos—our worst first dates—his had thrown up in his vintage Triumph—where we’d gone to college—he’d gone to Penn State, majored in Business Administration—how we’d chosen our careers—he’d always wanted his own business. Talking had been easy. We’d had no clumsy silences, no hesitations. We’d laughed. We’d told stories about our families, ethnic backgrounds, favorite foods. But there was one significant topic we had not talked about: Charlie.

  Charlie was the elephant in the room, obvious and huge but not acknowledged or discussed. I hadn’t asked how Joel knew him, had been avoiding the subject, almost not wanting to know. I heard Becky warn: Don’t talk about Charlie. Don’t bring your marriage on the date with you.

  She was right. I didn’t have to ask him. Didn’t absolutely need to know. I could find out later, if we kept seeing each other. Which was a ridiculous idea, considering my impending arrest. I wondered if Joel would write to me in jail. Decided that, no, of course he wouldn’t. I’d had too much wine. Felt sorry for myself. Wanted to cry.

  He was watching me, eyes gleaming. He tilted his head, as if aware something had shifted. Silently asking what it was. Waiting.

  I didn’t want to mention jail. Didn’t want to talk about it. I lifted my cup, not intending to speak, but the words came out on their own. “So, Joel, how did you know my husband?”

  Joel blinked, his face blank, revealing nothing. “Through his partner, Derek Morris. Derek did some investing for me. For my business.”

  “What kind of business?” He hadn’t told me.

  He paused, cup in the air. “Travel. I have an agency—”

  “Magic Travel.” My stomach knotted. I saw the neon hat and wand.

  “Yes.” He grinned. “You’ve heard of it.”

  Yes, I had. A chill snaked up my spine. My hands got cold. I was having dinner with the man who owned the travel agency that had arranged the sex-with-children trip to Russia. I clutched my coffee cup, mind racing, deciding what to do. Ask him about his connections to child prostitutes? Accuse him of abetting pedophiles? The list went on. Got more aggressive as it progressed, until mentally, I was shouting and throwing utensils at him and storming out of the restaurant.

  Actually, I sat still, saying nothing, watching his fingers holding his cup, the economy of his motion, his easy grace. I told myself to hold on. Not jump to conclusions. I had no evidence, not a single reason to believe that Joel knew anything whatsoever about the child sex trade, much less that he was involved in it. In fact, he was probably an innocent travel agent, simply booking flights and hotels. I needed to relax. Stop assuming the worst. I took a breath. Tried to listen to what he was saying.

  “Over time, we referred more and more clients to each other, and eventually I met Charlie.”

  When he said, “Charlie,” I actually felt a pang. I bit my lip, waiting for it to pass. I had to get over it, had to get used to Charlie being mentioned in conversations, couldn’t fall apart every time I heard his name.

  “And I liked him. Your husband was a good man.”

  A good man? My husband? I sat up tall, bristling. Obviously, Joel hadn’t known him all that well. But Becky had been right. I shouldn’t have mentioned Charlie. The mood, like the espresso, suddenly cooled.

  All three wine glasses and the bottle were empty. I looked at the candles, suddenly recalling the dozens—no, hundreds of times I’d sat in restaurants with Charlie. Comfortable. Watching his face across the table. Not talking much. Not needing to.

  “What’s wrong, Elle?”

  What should I say? Should I talk about my unresolved feelings for Charlie? Or maybe the naked children? How about my impending imprisonment? “Sorry—it’s nothing.”

  “Is it me? Did I say something?”

  “No. Really. Of course not.”

  Lord, I wished I could drift away. Why now, of all times, couldn’t I pull an Elle?

  “Another espresso?” The waitress had black fingernail polish, a rose tattooed on her neck.

  I shook my head, no, before Joel could reply.

  On the walk home, he took my hand. Confidently, as if he had a right to hold it. But gently, as if he knew I was upset. His touch was soothing. Made me feel cared for, even safe. The night was chilly. And by the time we got to my doorstep, his arm was around my waist. Warm. Protective. I didn’t want him to remove it, didn’t want the evening to end. I opened the door, and we stood on the stoop like teenagers. Saying goodnight awkwardly. Was I supposed to kiss him goodnight? If I tilted my head back, most certainly, he’d take that as an invitation. All I had to do was lift my chin. I looked at his lips, imagined kissing them. Joel waited, talked about what a good time he had. The moment, the decision, the outcome were up to me. I took a breath, thought about the elegance of his fingers on the steak knife. The candle’s fire in his eyes. I looked at his lips, and then they were ever so softly brushing mine, tentative, flitting away. And then they were back, this time lingering, pressing, open and moist, tasting of coffee and wine. Suddenly, his arms wrapped me up, pulled me against him. His hands moved down my back, cradling my bottom, pressing me close so I could feel him, his heat. I didn’t resist, didn’t hesitate. I clung to him, surprised by a tidal wave of desire that had been building up since Charlie left. Closing my eyes, I had the sense of being swept away, caught in a current of rushing water. I needed air. I pulled away, inhaled deeply. And smelled the distinct, familiar scent of Old Spice.

  Old Spice?

  Oh God. I turned away, flushed, fumbled with my
key. Ask him in, I heard Becky urge.

  WTF? Jen cried. I told you: no sex on the first date.

  “Thanks for dinner, Joel.” I was breathless, my voice low. “Tonight—was great.” Before I could reconsider, I separated from his embrace, squeezed his hand and went inside, alone.

  For a long time, I lay in bed, thinking. Replaying the evening. The chemistry. The conversation. The waves of desire. Oh man. Those waves of desire.

  But I couldn’t have asked him in.

  Not because of Jen’s advice or my worries about being arrested. Not even because of Joel’s unlikely yet possible involvement with travel packages for sex.

  No. The sole reason I couldn’t ask him in was that I’d smelled Old Spice.

  I was afraid of bringing Joel into the house. Of what Charlie might do.

  The knife rose and fell, splattering blood. But this time I wasn’t stabbing Charlie. This time I was trying to grab it away from the killer.

  I reached for the handle, but the fist held it too tight. Moved it too quickly. Plunged it down again, aiming for Charlie’s back. I tried to stop it, reached for the killer’s hand. For the wrist. But the knife was already arching upward, slashing my palm. Blood gushed, smelled warm and coppery. Made my grasp slippery, and caused pain that was thin and precise. The knife came down again, slowly this time. Like a feather or a leaf. Lord. Why didn’t Charlie run away? Why didn’t he turn and fight? I watched the hand rise and swing down again, determined now, going for the kill.

  And then, as from above, I saw the whole room—Charlie and a woman. Tall and strong. She held the knife in her right hand—she wore a ring on it. A wedding ring? And she kept stabbing at Charlie while her left hand tried to grab the knife away. I watched, confused. The right hand went up; the left opened, ready, and when the knife came down, the left hand reached for it, closed around the right, but got sliced by the blade, not able to stop it. The blade slid through the left hand’s grasp, cut through Charlie’s clothing, skin, muscles, and bones and came to rest, embedded and deep in his heart.