Hex and the Single Girl (18 page)

Sherman said, “Marcie, this is Emma.”

They shook hands. Marcie said, “Have we met?”

Emma was still adjusting to the model up close. At eleven on a Wednesday morning, Marcie looked like Saturday night. Platinum hair piled atop her head, strands artfully flowing downward with haphazard perfection. Her makeup, especially the black vamp eyeliner, was penciled on with the precision of a diamond cutter. Her lips were glossy and frosty, her skin spritzed with peony perfume, dazzling Emma’s eyes and nose.

The Good Witch said, “We haven’t met. I’d remember.” But they had. Twice. At Ciao Roma (but Emma looked a lot different that night, with straight hair, no shades, and full makeup), and with Victor at Haiku, when she’d been disguised as Emeril. Also, like hundreds of others, Marcie had seen her face in William’s portraits.

The model almost connected the dots. She said, “You seem so familiar.”

“I must have one of those faces.”

Frowning, the model said, “No, your face is unusual. That low forehead and pinched chin and too-wide cheekbones, those kooky blue glasses.”

Sherman Hollow, Esq., interjected. “Marcie, why don’t you get to the point?”

“I hear that you are a witch and you cast spells and boil potions, then invade the minds of men and haunt their dreams and make them fall in love with whoever you tell them to.”

Emma laughed. “Your sources are a bit off. I’m a telegraphopathic matchmaker. I can’t boil an egg, much less concoct a magic potion. And I don’t haunt men’s dreams or make them fall in love.” Except for William, or so he claimed. But then again, he’d given up on her after only one polite rejection. That couldn’t be love.

Marcie said, “So what do you do?”

Emma said, “I guarantee a first date. Although I find it impossible to believe that you can’t get first dates on your own.” It occurred to Emma that Marcie might’ve come to her to lure William back.

“You’ve been working with Daphne Wittfield,” said Marcie.

“I can’t say,” said Emma.

Marcie pouted. “Just between us girls.”

Emma said, “What’s it to you?”

“Daphne and I are old friends,” said Marcie.

“And colleagues,” added Emma. “The diet pill ads. You as a cow. A parade float. A whale.”

Sherman winced. Red dots surfaced on Marcie’s otherwise flawless cheeks. Her voice jumping an octave, Marcie said,

“I lost fifty pounds. And it was brave of me to do it. Very brave and very hard.”

Only in America was dieting considered an act of heroism, thought Emma.

“You should be proud,” said Sherman.

“I am proud,” said Marcie to Sherman. To Emma: “Tell me about Daphne. Who she’s fucking, for how long, and how it got started. I have a right to know.” Like a spoiled child, Marcie was used to getting what she wanted.

Sherman whispered, “Twenty thousand dollars.”

“I can see that you have a real concern for Daphne’s well being,” said Emma. “That your interest in her romantic life comes from a giving, loving place.”

Marcie said, “That’s exactly right. I love her and want to make sure she’s chosen a deserving, trustworthy man.”

“Such devotion,” said Emma, marveling. “How long have you and Daphne known each other?”

“We were college roommates,” said Marcie. “Which didn’t always work out for Daphne romantically. What could I do? Hide in my bedroom? Ignore her guests? How could I remember to close the shower door
every time?
”

Emma nodded sympathetically. “You can’t help being beautiful,” she said.

“Daphne blamed me when she got dumped,” she said. “For years, I’ve been trying to get her to see the truth: It was her own fault for making poor choices in men.”

“I get it now,” said Emma. “You want to test her new boyfriend? Prove his mettle?”

Marcie trilled, “That’s it!”

“You have a plus-sized heart in a size four body,” said Emma.

Sherman said, “All Marcie wants is a name.”

“I give you a name and you give me twenty thousand dollars?”

“Marcie is an extremely wealthy woman,” he said, reaching into his pocket and removing a checkbook. “Shall I make it out to you or cash?”

“I don’t want your money,” said Emma.

Marcie said, “You have to take it! Sherman, make her take the check!”

“Settle down,” said Emma. “It would be wrong for me to take your money to further assist the needs of a client—

although I won’t confirm whether she is or not.”

“But you’ll give me a name?” asked Marcie.

Emma would send Marcie to William exactly one day after Hell froze over. Then again, maybe she should point

Marcie in his direction. Daphne had had no compunction about stealing William from Marcie. It would serve Daphne right to put Marcie back on the trail. Perhaps William and Daphne and Marcie deserved to be locked in a lover’s triangle together. Emma could stay on the outside, and watch. Except the thought of William kissing either of the ruthless blonds was too horrible to imagine.

But then she got a better idea.

“As I said, it’d be wrong for me to violate my oath of confidentiality,” said Emma. “I can’t talk about it. But I will do something to help. And I’ll do it for free.”

Sherman said, “Free is good.”

Emma said to Marcie, “Give me your hand.”

Marcie handed herself over. Emma held on, and closed her eyes.

“Oh!” said Marcie, as if she’d been goosed. “Oh! Oh, my!”

“What is it, Marcie? Are you hurt?” asked the solicitor.

Emma let go and said, “Did the image of a man pop into your head?”

Marcie said, “Yes!”

“Do you recognize him?”

“Absolutely!”

“Then go get him,” said Emma, brain fuzz coming on.

Sherman said, “Are you sure you won’t take a check?”

“I couldn’t possibly.”

“Thank you so very much,” said Marcie.

Emma climbed out of the limo. The door shutting behind her, Emma heard Marcie yelling, “Luis! Luis, to Brooklyn.

NOW!” The driver peeled out. Marcie sped off to find her man and throw herself at his feet like Cleopatra to Caesar.

Alfie Delado, penis artist, was in for the surprise of his life.

Chapter 20

E
mma watched Marcie’s taillights zoom downtown. Brain fuzz approaching, she did some jumping jacks to clear her head. She was puzzled by the ringing in her ears—that wasn’t a usual symptom. The sound of a weakening vessel?

But then she realized: cell phone.

“Hello?”

“It’s Susan,” said her newly engaged friend. “I’m in the lobby at the Tribeca Grand, hiding behind a column and watching Jeff Bragg eat an early lunch. At this very moment, he’s chewing.”

Alarmed, Emma said, “Stay away from him. He’s dangerous. I’m hanging up and calling the police,” she said,

fumbling in her purse for the card Hoff had given her.

“Don’t you dare,” warned Susan. “That man took advantage of me, threatened you, and pulled a gun on my future husband. I want five minutes with him.” She drew breath. “I’m going in.”

“No!” said Emma. “Wait. I’m on my way. Don’t do anything. Just keep an eye on him. Okay? You’ll wait?”

Long pause. Too long. “Okay,” said Susan reluctantly.

Emma started down Sixth Avenue and asked, “By the way, what’s he eating?

“Burger. With mayonnaise. The sick bastard.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” said Emma, hanging up.

Eleven minutes later (Emma spent the extra sixty seconds buying a pom-pom tam on Canal Street to hide her hair), the Good Witch walked into the lobby of the hotel, head down, hat on, glasses on, protective shield that transmitted “don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, stay six hundred feet back” engaged.

As she unobtrusively walked though, she glanced at the lobby café. Jeff Bragg sat alone, reading the business section of the
Times,
his plate and cell phone on the table in front of him. With her super vision, Emma could made out the headline: “Dearborn’s ArtSpeak: Record Sales Projected.”

A tiny hand grabbed Emma’s wrist and dragged her behind one of the lobby’s load-bearing columns. Emma smelled vanilla.

“I might need this,” said Emma to Susan, detaching the vice-like grip on her arm. “Engagement becomes you.” The petite brunette’s cheeks were glowing pink, her lips bruised and swollen from kissing, and her brown eyes, which Emma had previously admired for their intelligence, crackling with excitement.

“Thanks,” said Susan. “You look good, except for that horrible hat.”

“What do you expect for five bucks?” Emma gave her a hug. “Congrats, by the way.”

Susan said, “Last night was revelatory, being with a great guy who treated me like a queen. I fell in love with him when he gave me the most incredible back rub.”

Emma remembered his back rubbing talent fondly. “He could do it with a broken rib?”

“Vicodin,” said Susan. “Believe the hype.”

The two women crouched behind the column, taking turns poking their heads out to watch. Jeff put down the paper and looked out the window, showing his profile.

Susan said, “So Jeff might be certifiably paranoid, but you can’t deny he’s a damned handsome man.”

Emma said, “He does nothing for me. All right angles. Perpendicular. Emphasis on
dick.
”

“Perpendicular is bad?” asked Susan.

“In angles and men, I prefer acute. Emphasis on
cute.
”

“Like William Dearborn, for instance? He’s acute.”

“Hoff told you about me and Dearborn?” asked Emma, surprised.

“He hasn’t told me anything,” said Susan. “Wait,
you know William Dearborn?
Can you introduce me?”

Emma shook her head. “I would, but since I’ll never see him again, I won’t get the chance.”

“You can see him right now,” said Susan, aiming her finger at the front door. “He just walked in the lobby.”

Emma’s pom-pommed head swung to the left. Everyone in the lobby’s head swung to the left. William Dearborn was magnetism itself. Only Susan stayed focused. She said, “Jeff’s leaving.”

Sure enough, Jeff Bragg was pocketing his cell, signing his bill, and standing up to leave. He walked out of the restaurant and toward the hotel elevator bank. Was he staying here now? In his paranoia, he must have checked out of the Four Seasons immediately after his confrontation with her.

Meanwhile, William was headed in the same direction. People had started to approach him, fawn over him.

Susan said, “What now?”

Emma didn’t want to be seen by either Jeff or William. “Why do you want five minutes with Jeff?” she asked.

“I’d like to know the truth,” said Susan. “Why he left me. What he’s hiding. Just get answers. Ideally, some closure, or satisfaction. And then I can forget him.”

Emma would love to forget William too. But she was sure that five minutes with him would not get her closure—or satisfaction. Looking at him from fifty feet or five inches, Emma felt an instant physical reaction, a gravitational yank toward him. She imagined reaching all the way across the lobby to touch his lovely neck.

William’s head suddenly turned in their direction. Emma quickly ducked behind the column.

Susan said, “The elevator door is opening.”

“Go,” said Emma. “Get in there. Act surprised to see him, and tell him you’re visiting a friend at the hotel. Ask him to meet you for drinks tonight.”

Susan asked, “Then what?”

“Don’t get off the elevator before he does, but pay attention to which floor he’s on.”

A quick nod and Susan was off. Emma watched as her gutsy friend greeted her ex with convincing astonishment.

William, meanwhile, was occupied with some fans.

The elevator doors closed on Susan, Jeff, and William. Emma crept over to watch the numbers rise. The car stopped on the sixth floor. Then it went up to the tenth and top floor. Emma jabbed the call button and waited forever for an elevator to come back down.

Assuming she’d find Susan back in Hoff’s room, Emma went straight to 512. Armand let her in.

“You’re here,” said Emma. It was after noon.

“Sorry I was late,” he said. “I had to go to church.”

“On a Wednesday?” she asked.

“I’ve had unclean thoughts.”

Of a naked nun? wondered Emma. “You smell spiritually clean now.” He did. Like Pine-Sol.

Hoff was napping. No Susan. Emma wondered if her friend was ballsy enough to go to Jeff’s room and get her five minutes with him, unchaperoned.

Emma sighed heavily. To Armand, she said, “I’ll be back.”

Armand said, “Mind if I watch TV?”

Emma could not have cared less. She helped the orderly find the remote, decipher the channel guide. She took the stairs to the sixth floor, intending to search methodically, pressing her ear against each door to listen for Susan’s voice.

She’d only done two doors when Emma’s cell phone rang.

“Emma!” said Susan.

“Where are you?” whispered the Good Witch. “Are you okay?” In the background, she heard music, laughter. She

went back into the stairway to talk in private.

“I’m in the penthouse suite!” said Susan. “This place is incredible. It’s a triplex with an enormous roof deck. The furniture looks like giant rubber noodles. Someone told me—hello?—Emma, you there? This guy told me the suite goes for three thousand dollars a night. You have got to come up here.” A muffle. Susan said, “Parker Posey just asked me where the bathroom was.”

One act of daring-do and Susan had both met
and turned into
a Party Girl. Emma said, “You crashed?”

“William Dearborn brought me in.”

“William is at the party?”

“Yes, he’s standing right here. He asked me to call you.”

Emma blurted, “He’s right there? How did he…”

“He saw us together in the lobby.”

Another muffle. Perhaps Jude Law was asking for a cigarette.

“Hello, Emma,” said the voice on the phone.

“Susan, that is a pathetic British accent.”

“Funny,” said William. “Are you coming up? It’s just a little impromptu get together. The host signed his divorce papers two hours ago and decided to throw a party. Isn’t this a lucky coincidence, the two of us in the same place at the same time.”

Usually, they were at the same place in each other’s mind.