by Amanda Heger
“I am.” Eliza let a tiny bit of frustration creep into her voice. “But I’m not exactly qualified to investigate pignappings.”
“I’m not qualified to investigate pignappings,” Yolanda said in squeaky mimic of Eliza before lowering her voice again. “You don’t seem qualified to do much, Eliza, and I think the authorities need to know.”
Click.
Eliza’s stomach dropped to Ron’s floorboard. That didn’t sound like an idle threat. Whatever had gotten into Yolanda over the last twelve or so hours had flipped a switch. A giant, angry, ready-to-do-life-ruining-damage switch.
With a shaky finger, Eliza scrolled through her contacts until she found the name she wanted. Just seeing the thumbnail photo beside Jake’s name and number—him laughing at some dumb joke she’d made the day he’d saved her from Ron Weasley’s tantrum—soothed her nerves. It would be fine. She’d call Jake, and he’d know exactly what to do.
“You’ve reached Jake. Please leave a message.”
She hung up and sent a text instead.
Still no luck finding Charleston. Yolanda is PISSED.
Three little bubbles appeared at the bottom of the screen, then disappeared just as quickly. She waited, thinking the text must have been delayed as it flew through the airwaves to reach her.
She waited some more.
And a little more.
Nothing.
“Baaaaaaaabe…” The upbeat Sonny and Cher tune exploded from the speakers.
Eliza started at the blast of music, then hit the dash. “Ron. Just shut up for once. Please.”
Shockingly, he did.
And then—thank the gods—the phone vibrated in her palm. But it was only a text from Yolanda that appeared on the screen. Charleston needs his probiotics. Bring him home today. OR ELSE.
And as if her words weren’t ominous enough, Yolanda followed them with the longest string of knife emojis Eliza had ever seen.
Eliza stared at the message for a solid ten seconds before throwing her phone back onto the passenger seat. She pressed her head to the steering wheel and willed Jake to call her. But when her phone stayed silent, Eliza decided to try her brother. She hadn’t seen him since he’d come home, because he’d stepped off the plane in the throes of conference crud (a.k.a. bronchitis). But it was high time that he helped her out of the mess he’d forced her into.
“Hi, you’ve reached Elijah…” his voicemail said.
“Hey. Call me. It’s important,” she said at the beep.
Asking her father for help was out of the question. He’d been prescribed another two weeks of no stress and cardiac rehab. Which meant Eliza had only one person left to consult: her mother.
The thought made her want to vomit.
“Oh well,” Eliza muttered as she pulled onto the road. “If she doesn’t know what to do, at least she’ll have some warning about the lawsuits.”
By the time she reached Herman & Herman, Eliza had nearly convinced herself this was a smart idea. Her mother had decades of experience as a Cupid. She’d served on the Northern California Cosmic Council, acted as liaison to the Department of Affection, Seduction, and Shellfish, and taught Public School Cupiding classes for years before Eliza and Elijah came along. If anyone would know what to do, it would be her.
A blue sedan sat in Eliza’s usual parking spot, so she wedged herself in next to her mother’s car—partially blocking her, but once she heard about Eliza’s epic failures, her mother’s blood pressure would probably be too high to drive safely anyhow.
Eliza pushed open the door. “Mom?”
The reception area sat empty and silent, but soft voices carried in from her mother’s office. Eliza followed them, trying to clear her mind. Thinking too much about what she needed to say would only backfire. Best to spit it out first and think later.
“Mom? Are you busy? I really need to talk—” Eliza stopped short in the doorway. All at once, her blood turned to ice and pounded behind her eyes. She forced them closed, but when she opened them, nothing had changed.
Her mother sat at the desk in a rose print dress, her tan legs crossed. She had a mug of tea between her hands and a look of utter shock on her face. Beside her, a man about her mother’s age cupped her father’s favorite coffee mug and leaned toward Eliza’s mother with a flirtatious grin, as if he hadn’t even noticed Eliza standing there.
The exact way he’d acted thirteen years ago, when Eliza had walked into the house to find him leaving her mother’s bedroom. Sure, he’d aged since then—more gray hair than black, some slackness in his jaw, a little more paunch around the middle—but there was no mistaking it. Her mother’s paramour had returned.
Or he’d never left at all.
“Mom?”
“Eliza.” Her mother stood ramrod straight as her cheeks turned a shade of primrose pink. “I didn’t think you were coming in today.”
“I wasn’t.”
Finally, the man unfurled himself and stood. He had to be at least six and a half feet tall, and his body held an incredible amount of muscle, considering he must have been pushing sixty by now.
“Hello, Eliza.” He stuck out his hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Eliza didn’t move. She was being rude, but she didn’t care. “Interesting. I’ve heard nothing about you. Who are you, exactly?”
“Weston Presley. You’re even prettier than your mother described. Join us for a cup of tea?”
Dry-heave city. She’d rather pour scalding tea onto her ladybits than sit here with these two. She couldn’t believe her mother would do this. Again. It’s not like her father had died; he’d gone off to cardiac rehab. He came home every night and slept in their marital bed.
“I was just leaving,” Eliza said.
“Eliza, wait. I—” Her mother’s voice followed her to the door, but Eliza slammed it closed. She wouldn’t be caught dead asking her mother for help. Not now. Not ever.
She was officially on her own.
* * *
“Please. If you’d both just sit down and listen to me—” Eliza’s words were lost to the sound of a shattering plate. And then a bowl. Finally, a mug flew across the Johansens’ kitchen and smashed against the wall.
“You never do the dishes, so why should I?” Mitch Johansen snarled. “Might as well eat off paper plates from now on.”
“Why should you do the dishes?” Lily asked. “Maybe because I wash your crusty socks every Sunday. Explosive blister disorder, my foot. That’s not even a real diagnosis, Mitch.”
Eliza raised her voice even louder. “Maybe if we all just take a minute—”
“That’s the problem with you, Lilian. You never believe me. Maybe if you’d taken off work just once to go with me to see Dr. Sphincter—”
“Dr. Sphinter. His name is Doctor Sphinter, and he’s a chiropractor! He can’t diagnose your foot disorder.”
For one glorious moment, Eliza forgot all about the fight going on around her. What a shame that someone named Dr. Sphinter hadn’t gone on to become a proctologist. But then a wooden spoon—the wooden spoon—clattered to the floor in front of her, and Eliza found herself back in the thick of it.
She’d walked into the Johansens’ home feeling reasonably confident about her plan to reenchant them, but by now, after ten minutes of them yelling and breaking things, Eliza’s confidence had gone down the drain, fled through the city sewer system, and run away to China. She was left with nothing but her bag of weapons and a newfound knowledge of the Johansens’ chore schedule and medical concerns.
Eliza tiptoed into the living room, hid the Johansens’ prized engagement spoon under the love seat before one of them could throw it out in a fit of rage, then slid back into the kitchen. Something had to give soon, and it was going to be either this fight or her sanity. Gathering her resolve, she hiked one leg up on a dining room chai
r, then the other. “Mr. and Mrs. Johansen—”
“Maybe if you’d tried to enjoy the cruise, instead of spending all your time at the casino, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Lily said.
“Maybe if you’d tried to help me get the triple egg bonus, instead of spending all your time up on the deck ogling the lifeguards…” Mitch retorted.
“Maybe if you tried to stop being such a ninny…”
Ugh. Why hadn’t Eliza learned to do one of those eardrum-piercing, fingers-in-the-mouth whistles she always saw on television? She stepped from the chair onto the kitchen table and promptly knocked her forehead on the light fixture. The whole thing rattled, and for a second Eliza saw stars.
Then her vision cleared, and she realized the stars were more pieces of plasticware flying around the room.
She reached into the messenger bag slung across her chest and plucked out her phone. With a few quick swipes, she pulled up a video of sirens—the fire-truck kind, not the mermaid kind—and hit Play.
The whirring and screeching of the sirens cut through the arguing, and the couple fell silent. They each stared up at her—standing on their kitchen table, while their light fixture rocked back and forth—as if they’d completely forgotten she was there.
Eliza turned off the siren video. “Listen up. I’ve got a plan, and I need you both to cooperate.”
Lily stared at the floor, but Mitch crossed his arms and stared Eliza down. “Unless you can turn this woman into a bottle of scotch, I don’t want anything to do with her.”
“You don’t even like scotch, you pretentious jerk!”
“Oh, I’m a jerk? You’re—”
Eliza hit Play on the siren video again, and they quieted. “Sit. Now.” She hopped down and put two chairs together back to back. Maybe if they couldn’t see each other, they’d stop fighting. Or at least stop throwing things.
It must have been Eliza’s commanding, no-nonsense presence that did it. Or, more likely, the fact that the Johansens were members of AARP and running out of steam. But either way, they sat.
“I’m going to talk now, and you’re going to listen.” She didn’t give them a chance to respond before she continued. “You love each other. Deep down inside, under all this”—she gestured to the mess on the floor—“you two really care about each other. You’ve had a bad reaction to your enchantment, and we’re going to make it right, simply by starting it over again.”
“No, ma’am.” Mitch crossed his arms. “I’m done with this Cupid business.”
Lily broke into sobs. “What’s the point? We don’t love each other anymore.”
Eliza pulled a set of photos down from the refrigerator and handed one to each of them. Mitch held a picture of them with their grandkids, eating ice cream with sugar-soaked smiles. Lily held a picture of the two of them in front of a sign for Grand Canyon National Park, both laughing at something unseen in the distance.
Lily dabbed her eyes, and even Mitch sniffled.
“See?” Eliza said. “You love each other. This is just a rough patch, and it’s going to be over soon. Here is what we’re going to do—”
Ding dong. Ding dong. Ding dong.
The doorbell rang three times in quick succession, and Lily scurried from her chair. “That’s probably my package. I put a rush delivery on it.”
“Did you order one of those Mandroids? I swear, Lilian, if you made it look like my brother…”
The old woman disappeared without an answer. Once she’d gone, Mitch turned back into his kindly, distinguished self, like someone had flipped a switch. “Where are my manners? Can I get you something to drink, dear? I think we have some lemonade and peach iced tea.”
Eliza blinked, trying to figure out where the surly old man with explosive blister disease had gone. “No, thank you. I’m fine. Mitch, are you sure I can’t convince you to try one more enchantment? I really think—”
Lily returned empty-handed. “Just one of the neighbors. She wanted to make sure everything was okay.”
“I hope you told her no. That this Cupid is holding us hostage,” Mitch snarled.
I see we’ve completed the circle. “Mrs. Johansen,” Eliza said. “Would you mind terribly if I had a moment alone with your husband?”
“Keep him. I certainly don’t want him anymore.”
The second she’d gone, Mitch’s shoulders relaxed, his breath slowed, and everything about him said fun grandpa. “Did you say you wanted lemonade or tea? It’s unsweetened, but we keep some Sweet’N Low around here somewhere…”
Hypothesis confirmed: When they were apart, Mitch returned to his sweet-old-man self. Together: nuclear warfare. If Eliza couldn’t handle them in the same room together, she’d never convince them to gaze deeply into each other’s eyes for an enchantment.
Her plans had slid right out from under her.
“Mr. Johansen, do you have any family you could stay with for a few days? Maybe one of your kids is around? I think giving you and Lily some time to cool off could really help things.” Not to mention giving Eliza a few days to figure out what in the Underworld was going on.
“My kids all moved away.”
“Oh.” Here Lies the Last of Eliza’s Hope. Rest in Peace.
“But I do have a cousin who lives across town, over in the retirement villas on Fifty-First Street.”
“Really?” Her hope rose from its grave, crooked and slow like a zombie. “Can you call him and ask?”
“I guess. If you really think that’s the best thing to do.”
“I do.”
Mitch pulled out his phone and ran his finger along the screen. “Hello? Is this the Gold Lea Retirement Villas?” He gave Eliza a thumbs-up. “I’m looking for my cousin, but he never hears his phone ring. Can you send someone down to get him? Yeah, sure. Apartment three-forty. Stu Vannerson.”
Chapter 20
Calif. CCR § 820.198. Cupiding establishments shall maintain procedures that ensure all complaints involving possible failure of an enchantment shall be promptly evaluated, investigated, and where necessary, reported to the Department.
Jake was really taking his rumpled look to new heights. His button-down shirt had more wrinkles than a naked mole rat, a dried coffee stain looked like a patch on the knee of his jeans, and the cowlick on the back of his head could have made Alfalfa jealous. Yet Eliza still found him incredibly attractive. She’d nearly said I’ll take two orgasms to go when they’d stopped by Starbucks in the Agora (yes, they really were everywhere these days), but she also found his frayed appearance and tired eyes worrisome.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked.
He nodded as he dumped a pile of books onto the nearest library table. “There’s got to be something in here about this.”
Eliza wished she felt as confident as he sounded. After leaving the Johansens’ yesterday, she’d retreated to her apartment and done a million and one internet searches for anything that could help. She’d found the Cupid equivalent of WebMD—CyberAffection—and read up on all the possible side effects of enchantments. Hemorrhage? Yep. Insomnia? Of course. Loss of appetite? More common than not. Even the tiniest risk of cancer by exposure to the weapon cleaners got a nod. But actively hating the person you were supposed to be enamored with? Nothing. By the time Jake finally called her back and suggested they meet at the Agora to do some in-depth research this morning, she’d nearly given up.
And, of course, convinced herself she had thirteen kinds of cancer and a rare tropical brain parasite.
The gentle whir of a pneumatic tube filled the library, followed by a satisfactory thump. Mrs. Washmoore rose out of her tube and peered over those fire-engine-red glasses. “Well, well. I had assumed you two were going to the Pythian Game trials downstairs, just like everyone else.”
“Hi, Aunt Rebecca. What books do you have on enchantment troubleshooting? I found these.” Ja
ke pointed to the stack of books he’d dropped in front of Eliza. “But we want to see everything you’ve got. Even the really old stuff.”
The woman looked back and forth between the two of them with a disapproving stare. “Trouble in paradise, dears?”
Eliza looked at the carpet (boring), the stack of books (dusty), and the ceiling (intricately painted with portraits of Athena spread among olive trees and owls). Did Mrs. Washmoore know she and Jake were…whatever they were? Dating seemed too simple, but a couple felt way too complicated.
“Just doing some research,” Jake said, his gaze pinned on the table. Apparently, he felt as awkward about the whole situation as she did.
“Well, let me see what I can find. Any particular troubleshooting techniques you’re looking for? It would certainly help to narrow it down. Your kind does have a lot of troubles to wade through.”
On the table, Jake’s phone began to vibrate. He scooped it up before Eliza could hand it to him. “I’ve got to take this—”
“No cell phones in the library, dear. No exceptions, not even for family.”
He jogged toward the oversize wooden doors and pushed through. “This is Jake Sanders,” he said, just before the door swung shut behind him.
“Now, then. Where were we? Oh yes. What type of troubles are you having, dear? I mean, I assume you’re the one having the troubles. The Cupids in my family tend to have less trouble than most. An exception, really.”
Gods, did she wish Jake hadn’t left her alone. Should she give Mrs. Washmoore a few details or continue with Jake’s vague story about research? Had he looked so uncomfortable a moment ago because they hadn’t officially defined their relationship? Or had it been because he didn’t want to tell his aunt exactly how bad Eliza was at her job?
“Between you and me”—Mrs. Washmoore pulled off her glasses and let them hang from the chain around her neck—“I’ve heard some rumors.”
Eliza leaned in. “You have?”
“One can’t work as many eons around here as I have and not pick up a few things. Of course, I don’t say a word about what I hear.”
