For Love or Magic (7 page)

“That's about all anyone else has done in that job. You're a sharp girl. You'll pick it up.”

I sighed. The good news was, I'd be making adequate money, and tips would give me cash before I starved. Plus, I wouldn't have to leave Seamus at home alone to chew up my shoes. But still … working for Happy Larry …

“There's really nothing else in town?” I asked.

Addie sighed. “Not really. There's a fair-to-middling chance that Amber Dorsey will get herself fired from her receptionist's job, but when I spoke to Emerson about it, he seemed like he was willing to give her another chance…”

My body processed what she'd said before my conscious mind could, and it was the cold prickle down my spine that made me realize what I'd heard.

“Did you say … Emerson? Like a … Mr. Emerson?” It wasn't an uncommon last name.

That's probably all it is … just someone with that last name.

But even as I was thinking that, I knew what was coming.

Addie shook her head. “No, she works for Emerson Streat, over at Community Cares. He has a little office just a few doors down…”

The shock of hearing his name rippled through me, and it took a moment for my brain to understand what was going on, so it helped that Addie just kept rattling on, making it unnecessary for me to respond.

“… does such amazing work. He's been here less than a year, and already he's set up a farmer's market and a community garden…”

Emerson Streat,
I thought.
He's here.
But it didn't feel real. It couldn't be real. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe there were two Emerson Streats in the world …

“Sweet man, and he has the loveliest accent. I think he's from down south somewhere. Georgia maybe?”

South Carolina,
I thought absently.

She sipped casually at her tea and kept on going. “I think he only puts up with Amber because he's just too much of a gentleman to fire her, but that girl is trouble. Last week, she went after her boyfriend, Frankie Biggs, with pinking shears and almost cut off his—”

I pushed up from the chair, almost knocking over my tea mug. “I have to go.” I grabbed Seamus's leash and started for the doorway, and then turned around. “I'm sorry. Thank you. I mean—”

Addie stood up, concern on her face. “Eliot? Are you all right?”

“Fine. I'm fine.” My voice was squeaky and unconvincing, even to my own ears. “I just … I remembered … there's a thing.” I turned around and led Seamus through the kitchen toward the door. I just had to get through that door, to the air. I had to breathe.

“Eliot.” Addie's voice came from behind me, following me. “Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine. Thanks so much! I'll stop in again soon.”

I hurried out, momentarily blinded by the sunlight. It felt like the world was spinning around me as I heard Addie's words repeating in my head.

 … Emerson Streat. He has a little office just a few doors down. Sweet man …

I arbitrarily turned to the left, walking with Seamus tight on my heels, looking at the signs on the businesses that lined the village street. One was for lease, another was a real estate agent's office, then there was the waffle place, Crazy Cousin Betty's, on the corner. Across from that was the pharmacy …

I turned around and headed back the other way, quickly passing by Addie's shop and not looking in, hoping she wouldn't come out after me. She didn't. I passed by a pizza place, an independent bookstore, and then, on a freshly painted shingle hanging outside a modest storefront, there it was.

N
ODAWAY
F
ALLS
C
OMMUNITY
C
ARES
O
RGANIZATION

And underneath that, a smaller rectangle hanging from delicate chains hooked into the bigger sign:

E
MERSON
S
TREAT,
C
OORDINATOR

 

Chapter 4

I glanced through the storefront, keeping a tight hold on Seamus's leash so that I could feel him physically next to me, which gave me the strength I needed to not run away. The office looked much like every other nondescript office space my father had rented throughout the years. Beige carpeting, simple and forgettable décor, and a receptionist who drew attention and kept it off my father. In this case, it was a skinny redhead with wild, frizzy hair and eyes with so much crazy I could see it from the street. That must be the girl Addie had been talking about.
Amber.

I took a deep breath. I could go in and see my father for the first time in sixteen years, or I could run.

I did neither. I froze, right where I was. I stepped back a bit, just out of sight so I could take a moment to think and make a decision about what I wanted to do, but right as I was about to step back, the office door behind the redhead's desk opened, and suddenly, with no laser light show or evil musical motif, there he was.

My father.

Emerson Streat.

He was a bit more rotund than I remembered. His red hair had lightened and thinned some at the top, but even with those changes, he was shockingly the same. He wore a modest brown suit and tie and his classic horn-rimmed glasses, smiling like Santa Claus and looking like everyone's favorite uncle. Even knowing what I did, even having the history with him that I did, my heart lurched with love at the very sight of him.

I put my hand over my chest and tried to breathe. Now wasn't the time to get emotional, but I couldn't help it. My father was a powerful, ruthless son of a bitch, but he was also the guy who'd drawn my baths for me and read
Goodnight, Moon
to me in silly voices when I was a little kid. He'd insisted on teaching me how to drive a stick shift because he wanted me to be prepared for every possible situation. He held my hand and made goofy faces at me as the doctor stitched up the gash on my elbow after I fell off my bike when I was seven, and when my power came in at thirteen, he taught me how to use it, how to bend metal to my will, how to hide it and control it so no one would see it if I didn't want them to.

He loved me, and he'd been a good father to me. But he'd also been single-minded to the point where I'd watched my mother die because of his choices. My best friend, her parents, and too many others. All dead, because of him. And those were just the ones I'd known about; in sixteen years, who knew how many more there might have been?

He's a killer,
I thought, and then I touched my fingers gently to the glass and thought,
Daddy.

“Ms. Parker?”

I swiped quickly at my face and turned on my heel to see … who else?… Desmond Lamb.

“You lying son of a bitch.” My voice was low and dangerous as I moved toward him, angling us away from the storefront so my father wouldn't see us.

Desmond had the nerve to quirk his head at me in question, and that little move lit a fire of fury in my gut. I had enough presence of mind to know that Desmond Lamb wasn't the cause of all my anger, but not enough to stop myself from venting it all on him anyway.

“I asked you last night,
directly,
if you knew his name and you said no.”

Desmond glanced up at the sign with my father's name on it, and his confused expression cleared a bit. “I didn't say no. I asked you why you asked.”

“You did not—” I began, but replaying the conversation over in my head, I realized he was right, that was exactly what had happened, and the realization made me even angrier. “Of course. Of
course
that's what you did. That's what every man does to me. It's all charm and smiles and stupid sexy accents, but it's still lying, you asshole. What
are
you, anyway?”

Desmond stared at me, a blank expression on his face. “I'm sorry. What …
am
I?”

“You're not a full magical, I can tell that much. So what are you? A conjurer? Conduit? Are you one of those fetishists who only sleeps with magic women hoping some of the power will rub off?” A look of shock crossed his face and I stuck my index finger at him in accusation. “That's probably it. Pervert.”

Desmond looked around, then back at me, his piercing eyes cutting into me as much as his dangerous tone. “I request that you lower your voice.”

“Why?” I said. “Emerson Streat is here. The place is probably littered with you guys. Did he send you to spy on me? Did you already know who I was when we met yesterday?” I gasped with sudden realization. “Of
course
you did! The Sartre! Nobody reads Sartre in public unless they're trying to strike up conversation with an unemployed philosophy major. God, I'm so dumb!”

“Perhaps we should have this conversation somewhere more private.” He touched my elbow, but I whipped it out of his grip.

“Don't touch me. I'm not having a conversation with you.” I started down the street, away from Emerson's office and toward home, pulling Seamus along with me. But before I got far, another burst of rage ran through me and I turned back to Desmond to vent it at him. He obviously hadn't been expecting me to slow down, let alone stop, and he had to pull himself up short to stop from knocking me over.

“You probably work for him, don't you? You're not agency, I can tell that much, but neither is he anymore, and you're exactly the kind of slick-talking, Sartre-reading asshole he'd throw in my path to distract me. Son of a
bitch
.”

“I'm not—” he began, but I said, “Shut up. Don't talk to me,” and started down the road again. Desmond's long strides kept him easily at my side, even as I hurried to walk faster and get rid of him.

“Go away,” I said. “I have to go home and fucking pack the fucking stuff I just fucking unpacked.
Fuck
.”

We passed by Addie's antiques shop, and I couldn't believe that just a half hour before, I'd been happily sipping tea, planning my bartending career. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

“I understand that you're upset,” Desmond said, his voice quiet but firm, “but you're on the verge of making a public scene over something that the people in this town have worked very hard to keep secret, and I won't risk the danger you'd present in doing so. I'm walking you home.”

I turned on him. “You're walking me
nowhere,
you limey bastard, and if I want to make a scene, I'll make a scene and you can't stop me!”

He grabbed both my elbows in his hands and pulled me closer to him, but nothing about the gesture was gentle. He glanced around to see if there was anyone close enough to hear us, and after deciding it was safe, he looked down at me, his eyes blazing.

“I
will
stop you from talking about magic in public,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “and I'll do it by whatever means necessary. Underestimating me will not serve you well, I can promise you that.”

I met his eyes, saw danger there, and heard Addie's voice in my head.

Desmond Lamb is not a good man.

I let out a breath and opened my mouth to say something sharp and cutting, but I must have burned up all my anger, leaving me with nothing but grief left to express, and I started to cry, a hard, ugly, sobbing cry. Desmond released my arms immediately, looking almost as freaked out as I felt.

“Ms. Parker? Are you all right?”

“No,” I sputtered, sobs breaking my words into pieces. “I'm not … all right, you idiot. I just saw … my father.” I motioned back down the street, toward the office where my father was amiably going over bullshit office busywork with his crazy receptionist. “I haven't … seen him … for sixteen years.” My voice cracked and my stupid eyes flooded with heat and tears and I began to whine like a radiator springing a leak, releasing pressure that would scald me if I got too close to it.

“Are you … um … would you perhaps … um…?” he stammered. It was almost comical, considering how moments before he'd been idly threatening me, and now he was acting like Hugh Grant in his fumbling romantic-comedy phase.

Men. A few tears and they fall apart.

“I'm fine,” I lied, swiping at my face. “I'm okay. Great, in fact. Never been greater.”

“I have no doubt,” he said. “I would still like to walk you home, if I may.”

I sniffled and looked up at him. “Can I stop you?”

He had the decency to look a little ashamed even as he shook his head.
No.

God, he was so … weird. He was wearing a crisp, white button-down shirt with brown pinstripes, and brown pants, and a brown tie. He looked so starkly different from the rest of the people in this town, and oddly, he made me feel … I don't know. Less alone, somehow. Plus, I'd been raised by one bastard and I'd married another; it maybe wasn't a sign of mental health that I felt comfortable around someone like Desmond, but it made a twisted sort of sense.

“Fine,” I said, and pointed in the direction of home. “Let's go.”

I swiped at my face as we walked. After a few moments of tense silence, he reached into his pocket and offered me a pristine white handkerchief, folded into a perfect square.

“I know they're horribly old-fashioned, but my mother never let me leave the house without a handkerchief,” he said. “It's one of the enduring habits of my childhood.”

I took it from him and swiped my face. I was beginning to feel calmer. The gentle rhythm of walking, with Seamus on one side of me and Desmond on the other, was helping me even out emotionally. Still, every few steps, I'd feel it rise up again … the panic, the sadness, the anger … and keeping it in check was exhausting me. I had to have a distraction.

“Talk to me,” I said after a few moments, and he glanced around us again. There weren't many people on the street, but it was a summer day in a village, so there were enough, and he said, “I'd like to wait until we're in private.”