Sorcery and the Single Girl (17 page)

An uneasy silence pooled around us, spreading like a puddle of viscous tar. I reminded myself to breathe. To relax. To say something to break the dark flow of our conversation.

“Lovely weather we’re having lately,” I said, forcing a laugh so that she’d realize I was making a joke.

Haylee’s eyes were dark, serious, as she asked, “Do you know how to change the weather?”

Immediately, I thought of standing on the Kennedy Center terrace with Graeme. I remembered the heat of his arms around me, the warm breeze that I had crafted, wafting off of the chilling river. I thought of the passion that had risen between us, the promise that had mounted until his cell phone had jangled us back to the real world.

“Um, I can work a few minor spells,” I said.

Haylee must have seen my cheeks flush. She pounced like a peacock discovering the tastiest of wormy morsels in the gravel at its feet. “What?”

“What what?” I tried for humor, chiding myself for acting like I was thirteen years old.

“Why are you blushing?”

I shook the ice cubes in my glass, wishing that I knew a spell for making more Coke appear. For making minor earthquakes happen. For distracting a witch when she was hot on the scent of gossip. “It’s nothing,” I said.

“Your lips say ‘nothing,’ but your eyes say more, more.” She laughed at her corny words, and I couldn’t help but join her.

I stared at her Torch, unable to meet her gaze. “It’s just this guy I met, a few weeks ago.” She arched a perfect eyebrow but remained silent, forcing me to take a deep breath and continue. “We’ve only gone out a few times…”

Her smile was soft. “But you like him.”

I let myself nod, and I finally looked away, shy. “A lot.”

“Tell me all about him!”

Tell her about the cute boy I liked. That’s what friends did, right? I would tell her, then she’d tell me about some guy she had met. We’d commiserate over past mistakes. We’d remind each other of the good things about guys, warn each other off about the bad things. Share and share alike. That’s how girls made friends.

I thought of poor Melissa, with her parade of Mr. Wrongs. As miserable as those men had made her, they were one of the key reasons that she and I had bonded over the years, one of the reasons that we continued to get together for mojito therapy and commiseration. Except it had been ages since we’d managed to find time for cocktails and gossip. Almost two weeks had passed since that weird night that David had joined us, and it had been months since we’d spent time alone, just the two of us, catching up. I’d been too swamped.

“Go on!” Haylee pressed, leaning closer.

And so I did. I told her how Graeme had come into Cake Walk a month ago. How we had laughed about Almond Lust. How he had left me his card. How we’d been on three dates, and each had left me a little more intrigued. Okay. A lot more intrigued. How we’d teased each other over the phone for the past week.

“He sounds like something,” she said, when I trailed off.

“He is,” I said, and I sighed. “If we could only keep from getting interrupted. Maybe I should wear sodalite the next time we get together.”

“Sodalite?”

I heard David’s voice in the back of my head, droning on in professorial authority, and I thought about the ancient guide to crystals that even now was opened on the book stand in my basement. “Sodium aluminum silicate chloride.” I might as well have been speaking Greek, given Haylee’s opaque expression. “It’s a crystal that increases motivation. It gives confidence to the wearer, but can reach beyond that person. Maybe that’s all that Graeme needs. Some clarity of vision, to keep us both on track.”

“Clarity.” Haylee said the word decisively. “Sodalite. Where
do
you learn this stuff?”

I was shocked. Didn’t every witch know about crystals?

But of course they didn’t. Most witches didn’t have the hoard of books that I had in my basement. Most witches didn’t have my librarian’s compulsion to organize information, to pull together facts and details, to memorize, memorize, memorize. Haylee’s strengths must lie elsewhere.

“I’m not sure where I picked that up,” I said. “Just something I collected along the way, I guess.”

“I’ll have to remember it. And I’d love to learn more about crystals from you.”

“Anytime!” I said, and I meant it. Here was a witch—an honest-to-goodness witch, and my first friend within the Coven. I would do almost anything to keep building our friendship.

Haylee glanced around us, and for the first time, I noticed that the café was emptying. She said, “Well, it looks like they’re about to throw us out of here.”

I frowned. “I wanted to go back through the painting galleries one more time.”

“Not today.” Haylee pushed back her chair. “You’re not still thinking about that stupid bird, are you?”

“It’s right on the tip of my tongue…”

“Peacocks,” she said, and then started ticking points off as she slung her purse over her shoulder. “They’re symbols in every major world culture. They represent the glorification of the soul. They stand for saints, because medieval people thought their flesh didn’t rot.”

“Their voice!” I finally remembered, as we walked out of the museum into the early autumn evening. “Hearing the peacock’s cry is bad luck.”

Haylee paused on the marble steps. “Isn’t that owls? I heard the owl call my name?”

“Peacocks, too,” I insisted. “That’s what I’ve been trying to remember all afternoon.”

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about accidentally overhearing one in the city.”

“How did you know all the rest of that stuffs?” I asked.

“I’m an interior designer, remember? You wouldn’t believe the number of people who want to know the spiritual meaning of the things they put up on their walls.”

I thought of Clara, and her obsession with harmonic New Age interpretations of every last thing around her. “Oh yes,” I said. “I would.”

We took another couple of minutes to chat about the paintings we’d seen, and then we promised that we’d get together again. Soon.

By the time I got home, I was exhausted. I might have impressed David by being ready for that morning’s session, but I had definitely awakened too early. And invested too much energy into the centerstone training. I glanced around the living room, grateful to find that Neko was out, somewhere, presumably with Jacques.

Dinner was going to be a giant bowl of microwave popcorn.

I had already changed into my pajamas and burrowed my feet into my bunny slippers, when I realized that the message waiting light was flashing on my answering machine. I pressed the playback button and almost squealed when I recognized Graeme’s voice.

“Hello there, Lady of the River. I hope you enjoyed the gallery with your friend. If memory serves, I still owe you from last week. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you. Maybe you can even show me a little more of what you can do. Soonest, Jane.”

Show him what I could do.

The notion excited me. I thought again of how I’d hidden my powers from the I.B., kept him from knowing the extent of my abilities until I needed to use my magic against him. The idea of being honest with Graeme filled me with a glow of happiness.

He knew about me. He understood. He was even more attracted to me because of who I was.

I knew I should play things cool. I should curl up on my couch and read a book, go to bed early, to prepare for my busy work week.

But I couldn’t keep from dialing his phone number. The digits were now firmly memorized, burned deep enough that I no longer needed the silver-lined Acquisitions card. I caught my breath, ready to say something witty and entertaining, but the line went immediately to an answering machine.

He must be on the phone.

I tried back a few minutes later, and a few minutes after that. By then, my popcorn had gotten cold, and I realized I was too tired even for that snack of a dinner. I tried to reach Graeme one last time, but nearly broke my jaw biting back a yawn as his machine picked up yet again.

I should listen to the signs of the universe, I told myself. I could always reach Graeme in the morning. I should go to sleep.

And so I did.

S
ome mornings, even the coffee machine had it out to get me.

The first time I attempted to grind Colombia’s finest, the grinder detached itself from the main machine, sending coffee dust into my eyes, ears and nose. When I finally stopped coughing, I wiped the tears from my cheeks, certain I was leaving behind prison-bars of mascara. Keeping Health Board regulations in mind, I cursed at the mess, ran downstairs to the restroom, cursed at the dim light, washed my face, cursed at the drying soap, rinsed my withering cheeks, cursed at the raspy towels, and then climbed the stairs to begin the process all over again.

The second batch of coffee stayed in the grinder—along with one of the blades, a screw, and a strange metal flange I’d never seen before. It took me the better part of half an hour to reassemble the machine. And, of course, I needed to curse, wash, curse, dry, curse, and start all over again.

By that time, I had already turned away three mothers and their precious children, a total of five brats—ahem, Junior Colonial Explorers—who had arrived early for my weekly American Family reading hour.

American Family had seemed like a brilliant idea when I’d first thought it up. I’d imagined sitting on the floor, surrounded by a circle of adoring fourth-and fifth-grade children who all longed to learn about the history of our country. I had pictured myself choosing favorites from my childhood, books that would stretch elementary school reading levels—
The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Johnny Tremain.
I could still remember laughing at Johnny’s short temper, crying over our colonial battlefield losses, learning without ever realizing just how much history was being slipped into my daily entertainment quota.

Reality was a little different from my dreams.

First of all, I wasn’t reading to ten-year-olds. They were all in school, of course.

No, I inevitably played hostess to a circle of toddlers, along with the occasional four-or five-year-old who was home sick from regular school. The neighborhood mothers all looked upon me as a free babysitting service; I had actually heard one shriek into her cell phone with unrestrained glee when she discovered the Peabridge’s amazing community service.

Each week, the mothers collected their coffees (usually demanding an inordinate number of special requests—one pump of chocolate syrup rather than two, nutmeg sprinkled on top instead of cinnamon, anything to break the routine that just barely managed to keep me sane as I staffed the coffee bar.) One woman, the bane of my barista existence, ordered skim milk in her drink and full-fat foam on top. She acted as if I was attempting higher degrees of murder when I got the order reversed. Twice.

Okay, I took pleasure wherever I could find it at the ever-more-hated coffee bar. So, sue me.

Each week, the mothers lingered in the reference area until they had all been served their caffeinated treasures. Then, they retreated to the basement exhibit space, feigning an unholy interest in whatever diaries we were highlighting downstairs.

Downstairs. Where it was peaceful. Quiet. Child-free.

“Sit down, Jonathan!” I said for the seventh time in ten minutes. “No one else can see the book if you’re standing up.”

Jonathan finally obliged, crossing his chubby legs. I smiled, pleased that I had finally gotten through to him. He smiled back with his milky baby teeth, and then he plunged his index finger into his nose. He cleared the second knuckle easily, but I fought the urge to say anything. After all, by the time I found a Kleenex and got him cleaned up, there was no telling what the other kids would do.

As if on cue, three-year-old Kayla stood up and grabbed at the crotch of her adorable corduroy pants. “Potty,” she said, groaning for emphasis.

The word inspired two of her classmates, who also began clutching themselves and whining. Jonathan’s younger brother—what was his name? Aaron?—started to crawl away from the group. His mother had promised me that he wasn’t ready to crawl yet. He’d only just mastered rolling over two weeks before. (Yes, I had been thrilled to be the sole adult witness to
that
milestone, let me assure you.)

“Potty, potty, potty,” Kayla chanted, turning the two syllables into an eloquent dissertation on struggle and deprivation, broken dreams and strangled futures.

I glanced toward the stairs, willing the mothers to return. Surely they were attuned to their own precious offsprings’ needs. They must realize how much time had gone by. They had to require another freaking cappuccino, just to make it through the day!

Evelyn came out of her office, clearly distracted by the noise. She gave me a disapproving glance and then loomed over Kayla. “Young lady, we do not sing in the library.”

Kayla burst into tears. As if on cue, the infant Aaron collapsed onto his belly, looking like a startled turtle for the split second before he added his own shriek to the fray. Jonathan continued excavating his right nostril as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and the two other children resumed and amplified Kayla’s chant.

Evelyn shot me an accusing glance. I smiled as sweetly as I could under the circumstances and said, “Their mothers are right downstairs. Do you want to get them, or should I?”

Evelyn spun on her heel, as if she couldn’t leave the room fast enough. “Come on,” I said to Kayla. “There’s nothing to cry about.”

“I’m afraid of w-w-witches!” she said.

I looked down at my pinafore, noticing a streak of coffee grounds that I’d somehow missed in my earlier disaster cleanup. “Me?”

“The witch!” Kayla said again with even greater urgency, and she pointed after Evelyn’s departing back. In fact, she inspired Jonathan to add his own slimy digit to the mix, and they repeated to each other, “The witch! The witch!”

“So, they’ve found out the truth.”

Neko. I’d know his smug voice anywhere.

I turned to face him with a speed that might have been misconstrued as desperation. Momentary distraction was all that Aaron had been waiting for. “Stop that baby!” I cried as the infant started to race past my familiar. Neko looked down in horror, but it was Jacques who cornered the squirming child, trapping him between two wooden chairs.

“Kayla!” I shouted, loud enough that I shocked the girl into silence. “There isn’t any witch.”

“There isn’t?” Neko asked, apparently unaware of the chaos that surrounded him. I shot him a look that threatened to jolt him back into his statue form.

“There isn’t any witch,” I said again. “The nice lady who went downstairs is a librarian. She works here just like I do.”

Neko’s mouth stretched into a precise O, and I saw him recognize the error in his ways. He turned to me and mouthed,
E-ve-lyn?

I nodded grimly. Neko reached toward Kayla and patted her head with delicate fingertips, as if he feared contracting chicken pox—or some more horrific childhood scourge—from the contact. “You poor little girl. No wonder you were frightened.”

I glared at my familiar and took advantage of a momentary lull in the cacophony to ask, “What do the two of you want?”

“We just woke up,” Neko said, adding a delicate yawn to illustrate his words, “and you were out of coffee at home. We thought we’d come over here and have you make us some.”

“The coffee bar is closed during American Family hour.”

Jacques looked at his wristwatch. “American Familee. Is over at eleven, no?”

“Yes.” I glanced at the clock on the wall, thrilled to see that this week’s purgatory had finally ended. “Yes, it is,” I repeated with relish.

As if on cue, Kayla resumed her chant. “Potty, potty, potty.” Neko jumped back as if she were threatening to steal one of his lives. Jacques took a moment to process what she was saying, and then he, too, took a large step away.

“You,” I said, pointing to Neko. “Take those two by their hands. And you—” this time it was Jacques I pinned with my evil librarian eye “—pick up that baby. And Kayla, that is
enough!
Jonathan, come with me. We’re going downstairs now.”

Like the Pied Piper, I led the procession down the library stairs, trying to ignore the glares from the handful of patrons who were actually trying to get academic work done at the reference room reading tables.

Evelyn was the one who had created this problem, I tried to tell myself. Evelyn had turned the reading room into a café, complete with child care. Evelyn. Not me.

I scowled.

Neko seemed terrified to disobey me. He recognized the tone I’d used; he probably realized I was only a shade away from snapping out a magical word of power.

At the foot of the stairs, I found Evelyn chatting breezily with the mothers, laughing as one of them finished up a droll little tale about a family trip to Colonial Williamsburg. “Well,” my boss said, fanning herself and exclaiming as if the patron were the most brilliant storyteller ever to grace the Peabridge halls. “How were
you
supposed to know that the cider was alcoholic?”

Kayla launched herself at her mother’s knees, keening about her toileting needs. I accepted Evelyn’s glare, considering it worthwhile to get rid of the child, even at the cost of some professional standing. I jutted my chin from Jacques to the well-coiffed mother of Jonathan and Aaron. I let my voice freeze as I said to her, “You’ll be thrilled to know that Aaron has mastered crawling now.”

She smiled like a grateful saint. “These mornings at the Peabridge do him so much good. You really should host American Family sessions every day.”

“Every day?” Evelyn asked, as if the idea had never occurred to her.

“What?” I said quickly, hoping to dig out the idea before it could take root. “And lose out on them being so special?”

“Jane!” My name echoed in the stairwell, and I recognized the voice of Nancy, the circulation clerk. “Jane, we need you up here! There are some patrons who want coffee!”

What the hell? Who said that
I
was the only person who could make a fool out of myself at the coffee bar? When Evelyn had stumbled on the coffee brainstorm, she had intended all of us to learn how to grind the beans, how to foam the milk, how to make the endless variations on a steaming cup of joe. Somewhere along the way, though, I had been designated chief coffee-maker. And child wrangler. And bottle washer. It was a minor miracle that I even remembered how to use our online catalog.

“Excuse me,” I said, barely keeping an edge of professionalism in my voice. “Jacques, you can hand Aaron over to Mrs. Duchamp now.”

“Duchamp?” he repeated, perfecting the nasal pronunciation that I had merely attempted. “Madame Duchamp?” He squealed at the prospect of meeting a fellow countryman. Rolling my eyes, I left him and Neko to the joy of the Peabridge American Family community.

As I climbed the stairs, I watched my feet. The last thing I needed was to slip on the steps—my dignity had been injured enough by spending the morning babysitting. I smoothed my mobcap, making sure the muslin was still centered on my head. Wouldn’t that be perfect if it slipped into someone’s latte?

“Good morning.”

My heart stopped. One moment, I was a harried librarian, wondering how I could move a coffee bar out of my library and into the nearest Starbucks, where it belonged. The next, I was a lovestruck woman, staring into all-too-familiar light blue eyes.

“Graeme,” I said.

He smiled, obviously amused by the startled expression on my face.

“What are you doing here?” I whispered.

This wasn’t right! He was part of my real life. My important life. The private life that I lived away from the Peabridge. I didn’t want him here in the library, didn’t want him to see me surrounded by screaming kids and temperamental coffee grinders. He was supposed to think of me as smooth and witty, urbane and experienced.

Yeah, right.

I yielded to the inevitable. “Can I make you a coffee?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come by. But I wanted to see you here. Where you work. It makes it easier for me to imagine you.” He lowered his voice to a whisper so soft I couldn’t hear his British accent. “To think about you when we’re apart.”

Could a girl make a coffee drink when her knees had melted? “It’s fine,” I managed to say. “I’m glad you came by. Even though there really isn’t much to see.”

He looked at my embroidered silk dress, and I imagined his fingers on my whalebone stays. “Oh, I think there’s more here at the Peabridge than meets the eye.”

Desperate to defeat the blush that was spreading up my neck, I said, “Please! What do you want to drink? I have to look like I’m working!”

He grinned wolfishly. “I’ll have a mocha, then.”

“A fine drink,” another voice said. “My favorite, in fact.”

“Mr. Potter,” I said, recognizing the speaker before I could even turn around. “How was Pittsburgh?”

“Exhausting. But a mocha would be just the thing to pick me up. Little did I expect to find someone else ordering my drink.” He laughed at his little joke.

“Oh!” I said. Graeme was standing patiently, as if he were accustomed to waiting for flighty women to remember to introduce their elders. “Mr. Potter! This is Graeme Henderson. Graeme, Mr. Potter gave me the tickets for
Romeo and Juliet.
”

Mr. Potter’s smile was wide. “And I take it, you are the young man who escorted Jane to the performance?”

“Yes, sir,” Graeme said, managing to connote a tiny half bow behind the two words. Something about the answer made him seem like a nobleman, a knight, a regal protector in shining armor.

I took a deep breath and moved behind the coffee counter. I contemplated harnessing some sort of spell to make the machinery function properly, but I couldn’t figure out a way to mutter the words without being too obvious. And the way my day was going, I didn’t have any confidence that my magic would work. I settled for crossing my fingers with all the passion of a third-grader hoping for a passing grade on a math test.

“And how was the production?” Mr. Potter asked.

I missed Graeme’s reply as I poured milk into a stainless steel pitcher. Whatever he said, it clearly pleased Mr. Potter. Both men laughed, and Graeme started to describe the costumes for the ball scene in the first act.