For Love or Magic (6 page)

“Hello?” I said, taking one step farther in. There was no answer, no sound. I looked down at Seamus.

“So what now?”

Seamus settled on the ground, putting his big head on his paws and being of absolutely no use to me. I gave him a warning look which he ignored, and moved a few more feet inside.

“Um … Addie?”

Again, nothing. I checked my watch; it was ten o'clock. Maybe she was running a little late. It seemed like someone should be in there to keep people from walking off with the merchandise, but then again, this was a small town and it seemed to be pretty tight-knit. Maybe it was one of those mythical places where you could leave your doors unlocked. I wouldn't be doing that, because in my experience it's the people you trust who are most likely to steal your television, but to each their own.

I ran my hand along the flawless wood frame on the couch as I passed, and that's when I looked at the shelf over the chaise longue and saw it.

“Oh my god, Seamus, the woman has an actual, honest-to-god record player!”

I walked over to it, my hands going out to touch the smoky-gray transparent plastic cover. I had grown up just as CDs were edging out records, but my father had been passionate about his vinyl. I ran my fingers along the spines of the albums that had been carefully placed there, with a very specific eye toward quirk and variety. The Beatles. The Supremes. Frank Sinatra.

“Seamus, this is amazing!” I clapped my hands together and plucked an album off the shelf. The blue and black cover was worn, and I ran my hand over it carefully, reverently.
“Rock 'N Soul!”

I hesitated for the smallest of moments, then lifted the plastic cover off the record player and whipped the album out of its cover.

“My dad used to play this album all the time when I was a kid.” I flipped the album cover over in my hands. “Solomon Burke. Everyone was so crazy about Sam Cooke and Ray Charles, but this guy was the real thing, you know?”

I carefully turned on the record player and lifted the head to place on the album, feeling almost giddy over the scratching sound the diamond-tip needle sent through the speakers as it made contact with the record. There was something about that sound that felt like home, like safety, like normalcy. I hadn't realized how much I had missed it. Like most everyone else, I loved the sturdiness of CDs, and later the convenience of MP3 players, and despite the fact that I'd often mocked music nerds for their obstinate insistence that vinyl produced better sound—
different,
yes;
better,
that's arguable—I couldn't resist the time-travel power the hiss and scratch of a real vinyl record had to transport me back. I set the record to play Solomon's plaintive “Can't Nobody Love You,” then took the album cover and sat down on the blue chaise longue and promptly lost my mind.

“Oh my god,” I said, sinking into its softness. “What do you think the chances are of Addie just letting us move in here?”

I was so absorbed in the music and the comfort of the chaise that I didn't even notice when Addie first walked in. If Seamus hadn't jumped up, tail wagging, to attack her with slobbering love, I might not have noticed her at all.

“Oh!” I hopped up off the chaise and turned off the record player. “I'm sorry. The door was open. Seemed okay at the time.” I swallowed. “Now, I kinda feel like a criminal.”

“Don't be silly,” Addie said, her voice muffled by the kissy-faces she was making at Seamus. She was wearing a cotton dress with little blue flowers on it and a tightly tailored bodice that made her look like a well-aged Lucy Ricardo. “That's just silly, isn't it, Seamus? You were invited, weren't you?”

She laughed as Seamus hopped down and danced around her.

“He really loves you,” I said. “You sure you don't want a dog? I'll trade him for that chaise.”

“Are you kidding? Grace would kill me in my sleep if I came home with a dog.” Addie laughed, straightening up after giving Seamus one last scratch behind his ears. “Besides, he's your dog.”

He doesn't have to be,
I thought, but instead of pushing the point I just said, “This place is amazing. It's like going back in time. I don't think I've heard Solomon Burke since my dad danced me around the kitchen to him, me standing on his toes.” It was such a goofy memory, and I hadn't thought about that in years, but hearing that song again made it so fresh, it suddenly felt like yesterday.

“Aw, so sweet!” Addie said. “My father used to play tea with me with his grandmother's Revolutionary War china. Ooh, speaking of tea, I could really go for some. How about you?”

She walked past me, patting me on the shoulder as she did, and headed toward a door in the back. I followed her, keeping Seamus's leash held tight, into the next room, which turned out to be a full kitchen. It was a throwback to what I'd guess to be late fifties, early sixties. The cabinets were blue, the counters butcher block, the appliances classic stainless steel, and a wall covered in blue-painted pegboard sported an improbable array of copper cookware. Seamus sniffed a low-hanging saucepan and settled on the floor in front of the display.

“Wow,” I breathed.

“Yes, it's wonderful, isn't it?” she said, grinning as she filled a copper-bottomed teakettle with water from the sink. “It's less a replica of Julia Child's kitchen—we have nothing like that kind of space—and more of an homage, but I love it.” She cranked up the gas burner and put the kettle on.

“It's a working kitchen,” I said. “Is it all for sale? There are no price tags on anything. Because not for nothing, I'd like to be buried in that chaise.”

Addie smiled. “It is lovely, isn't it?”

“I'm serious,” I said. “I know I can't afford it, but what is the price on that thing? A girl can dream.”

“It's not for sale, yet,” she said, motioning for me to take a seat at the long table, covered in a solid print burnt-orange cotton tablecloth. “I don't put tags on anything until I can bear to part with it.”

“So … how is it a business, then?” I asked.

She shrugged. “My wife is independently wealthy. Her family is old Connecticut money, too busy exploiting the worker and raping the environment to reproduce. Both her father and her uncle left her everything, and while we don't have quite the moral fortitude to reject the cash altogether, we do give generously to the hippie liberals, which I'm sure made the greedy bastards whirl in their graves like rotisserie chickens.” She giggled and sighed. “Twice a year we have a date night where we give a good chunk of their money to Planned Parenthood, drink one of their ridiculous bottles of old wine, and have sex on her uncle's bear rug, supposedly made from some poor animal Hemingway shot.” She gave a good-natured eye roll. “Honestly, I prefer the wine that comes in the box, but it's really about the principle of the thing.”

I smiled, liking her even more, but also pretty sure I didn't want to hear any more sex stories. Time to change the subject.

“So, I was wondering if you had leads on any jobs for me? I'm gonna need to buy some food soon.” I dropped that last bit lightly, but it was sadly true. The first thing I'd done that morning was dig the trash bags out of my truck and throw in everything from the Welcome Wagon that hadn't been factory sealed. Then I drove to the IGA, threw the perfectly good food into the Dumpster in the back, and spent my last few bucks on a box of Cheerios and a half-gallon of milk. I had enough in my checking to pay the utilities, feed Seamus, and put gas in that stupid truck, but after that things were gonna get dire, fast.

“Oh, yes, of course, we'll get to that, but first … I need to talk to you about something.” The teakettle started to whistle and she pushed up from the table to tend to it. “Herbal or classic?”

“Oh. Um. Classic. So, what's up?”

She dropped tea bags into a delicate floral teapot, and poured the boiling water, waiting until she was finished before looking at me with purpose. “Desmond Lamb.”

I almost wanted to laugh at the seriousness on her face, but there was also a hint of genuine worry in her eyes, so I didn't. She set down a tray with a red polka dot teapot, two stoneware mugs, and a matching white porcelain creamer and sugar dish on the table. She poured a cup for me and a cup for herself, then motioned toward the cream and sugar. “Help yourself.”

I pulled my mug toward me and said, “Thank you. Now, what is this about Desmond Lamb?”

She patted me on the arm. “It's okay, honey. There's no judgment here. We all make poor choices. I would tell you about some of the women I slept with in the eighties, but it might put hair on your chest.”

“I'm sorry. Are you under the impression that I slept with Desmond Lamb?”

She gave me a disappointed look. “We're all women of the world. Let's not be coy. Larry told me that you two left his bar together yesterday.”

“We didn't leave together, and … wait. Larry?
Happy
Larry, you mean?” I couldn't picture Happy Larry even noticing when I left, or with whom, much less caring.

“Yes,” she said. “Speaking of which, you start working for him tomorrow afternoon, four sharp. But we'll get to that later.”

“Wait. What? What do you mean, I start tomorrow? I haven't even applied yet.”

“That's okay. You don't need to. I talked to Larry last night, and it's all set. He liked you.”

Out of all the surprises in my life, that was probably the biggest one. Not necessarily that Larry had liked me, I'm delightful, but that he liked
anyone.
At all.

“I got you full minimum wage plus tips,” Addie went on. “That's a hell of a deal for someone with your weird skill set, no offense.”

“None taken,” I said, “but—”

“Oh, and he said you could keep Seamus in a doghouse in the alley if you don't want to leave him home alone.”

The surprises just kept on coming. “Wow. Really?”

She rolled her eyes, a gleeful smile on her lips, and I got the feeling that there was nothing that Addie loved more than managing other people's lives. “Larry puts on a show, but he's really just a big marshmallow. But don't distract me! We need to talk about Desmond Lamb first.”

I picked up my mug and took a sip of tea. “I'm not sure we do.”

She put her hand on my arm. “Now, I know he's all mysterious and British and good-looking in a beady-eyed kind of way,” she said charitably, “but you have to trust me. Desmond Lamb is not a good man.”

She said those words carefully, as though there was much more to the story, and it practically killed her not to tell me. But whatever had happened here with Desmond, it was obviously more than just a story. It was personal, and she was genuinely worried about me.

“Yeah, there seems to be a misunderstanding here,” I said. “I met Desmond Lamb yesterday, but there's nothing going on between us. Seriously. I'm freshly widowed, and dealing with that is enough for me right now.”

“Good,” Addie said, seeming to finally believe me. “You don't want a man like Desmond Lamb, especially not for your first after your husband died.” Her eyebrows rose. “I'm sorry. I'm assuming he would be the first. How long ago did your husband pass away?”

“Eight months, and yes, Desmond would be my first.”

Addie's eyebrows ticked up, and I realized what I'd just said.

“No, I didn't mean … he won't be. I'm not interested in Desmond Lamb. I mean, I find him … interesting. A little. Town like this, you meet a guy who's just sitting in a bar, reading Sartre…”

“Sip your tea, darling, you're getting a little red in the face,” Addie said, a glint in her eye as she nudged the mug toward me.

“Stop that,” I said, laughing. “Look, I'm interested, but I'm not
interested.
Curious, I guess, but not in a sexual way or anything. He's interesting. Just in the normal way that people interest other people.” I took a breath to reset myself and met Addie's amused eye as I spoke the honest truth. “I'm not in a place where I'm ready to get into anything romantic.”

Addie smiled and patted my hand. “That's fine, honey. If you say there's nothing between you and Desmond Lamb…”

“There isn't.”

“… then okay. I only wanted to warn you, just in case. Now, let's talk about the job.”

“Okay,” I said, and at that moment realized that I'd been so flustered at the idea of sleeping with Desmond that I almost passed up the opportunity to get more information about him from the town gossip. “What did he do?”

“Who? Larry? Well, before he inherited the bar he was going to college for—”

“No, Desmond. Why are you warning me about Desmond? He seemed perfectly nice to me yesterday. Is there…?” I trailed off, trying to figure out the right word to hint at magic without actually saying it, just in case Addie was one of the vast majority who knew nothing and was better off for it. “Is there anything … different about him?”

I could see the struggle on her face, the struggle every gossip has when faced with the opportunity to share particular information she either doesn't want to, or can't, divulge. “He's just a bad man, that's all. Keep your distance.”

I took that in, and my shoulder muscles tensed up. A possible-magical who was dangerous enough to frighten the town gossip … that wasn't a good sign. But I didn't have time to try and parse it all out now, so I shifted the conversation back to my gainful employment.

“So … this job at Happy Larry's. What will I be doing?”

“Bartending, some waitressing. You know, the usual.”

“Waitressing I can handle,” I said, “but I've never bartended in my life.”

Addie shrugged it off. “Can you pour liquid into a glass?”

I nodded.