Hex and the Single Girl (31 page)

“Cranky?” said William. “Try a raving, frothing, hateful bitch.”

“She’s always so sweet on the phone to me,” mused Victor.

“Maybe if you married her, she’d feel better about your trips,” suggested Emma, not for the first time.

“Marcie and Alfie got married,” countered Victor. “And look how that turned out.”

“Happily ever after doesn’t draw the ratings like infidelity and divorce,” said William.

“Hoff and Susan are happy,” said Emma. “And Sherman and Natasha.”

“Who are Sherman and Natasha?” asked Victor.

“Don’t change the subject,” said Emma.

Victor said, “I’ll propose to Ann exactly three minutes after you and William get engaged.”

Emma said, “Chicken.”

“Look who’s talking,” said Victor. “You’re both chicken.”

William said, “We’re not chicken. We’re busy. ArtSpeak 2.0 launches next month. The book comes out at Christmas.

Emma is still embroiled in the Lankey/Bragg criminal investigation.”

Victor asked, “Any update on the reward?”

Emma shook her head. “Susan says a three-year delay is typical, so it’s another two years at least before I see a penny.

And, even then, legal fees will eat thirty percent of it. The government will take thirty percent. I’ll be left with a mere forty percent.”

“Forty percent of two million is still eight hundred thousand,” said Victor.

“Like I haven’t done the math,” said Emma.

Vic’s cell phone rang. “Hi, Ann,” he said into it. To Emma and William, he said, “Cover my coffee?”

They nodded and Victor got up from his chair and left the restaurant.

Emma and William ate a leisurely breakfast and then left Oeuf hand in hand, just as they had nearly every morning for the last eleven months. Some nights, when William had meetings the next day, they slept at his midtown office residence. When he was entertaining friends or business partners, they stayed at “their” suite at the Tribeca Grand. On the many nights Emma posed for William, they slept on the bed in his Greene Street studio. But usually they stayed at Emma’s white apartment, their one-bedroom slice of heaven.

They strolled along Waverly, toward Washington Square, taking their time, enjoying the autumn air. William said,

“You know, I have a mysterious power of my own.”

“Really?” she asked.

“I can make people walk into lampposts,” he said. “Watch.”

A young woman came toward them from the other direction. William rumpled his trademark bangs. When the woman

got close enough, he stared at her. When she got right alongside, William winked. Her mouth dropped and her eyes bugged. She gawked openly at William and then—smack—she walked right into a lamppost.

Emma nodded. “Very impressive.”

He said, “Better than anything you can do.”

“I can match that,” she said.

“Prove it,” he countered.

They’d entered the park and were nearing the rings of the fountain at the center. Emma found her pigeon and led William toward her. She said, “Okay. See that woman with the cornrows and the blue sweatshirt?”

“What about her?”

“With my incredible powers, I’m going to make her scream and then collapse on the ground.”

“I can hardly wait,” he said.

As they rounded the fountain ring and got closer, the woman looked up and said, “Palm reading, twenty dollars.”

Emma smiled broadly at her and cocked her head discreetly at William.

The palmist took a few minutes to register what she was seeing. Then she screamed dramatically and fell on the pavement, her arms splayed out in front of her. Stenciled on her sleeve were the words “Above Average.”

William said, “Quite a show! I’d say well above average.”

Recovering almost instantly from her shock, the palmist sprang to her feet and started yelling, “I’ve got the sight!”

Ring.
Cell phone. William’s. He took a quick call. “We have to go. There’s a surprise waiting for you in your apartment,” he told Emma. “Just dropped off by my head of security.”

“You have Armand making deliveries?” tisked Emma.

“Trust me. This was a fragile package. Handle with care.”

William hurried Emma along. When they left the park, Above Average was still ranting at the fountain.

Back at Emma’s building, they practically ran down the seventh floor hallway. Grinning with anticipation, Emma pushed open her apartment door and scanned the living room. Nothing.

William said, “In the bedroom.”

Emma went in back. On the bed was a large box with a red ribbon. She untied it and removed the lid.

A furry little face popped out.

William said, “I can’t count how many times you’ve put images of a certain cat into my head. Black, with gold eyes.”

“This kitty is white,” said Emma, scooping it into her arms. “With green eyes.”

“White furniture, white cat,” said fastidious William. “You don’t want black hair everywhere.”

Emma hugged the tiny animal to her cheek. “It’s been decades since I had a pet. I honestly never thought I’d have another.”

“So you don’t want the cat?” asked William.

“No!” she said. “I do. I want this cat. I need this cat. I can’t live without it.”

He seemed relieved and sat on the edge of the bed. “What shall we name her?”

“How about Martin?” she said.

“It’s a girl,” he said. “I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Mrs. Emma Dearborn’s Cat.’”

“Cat? Not very original,” said Emma.

“You prefer Martin?” he asked. “Fine. What about the Mrs. Emma Dearborn part?”

“Mrs. Emma Dearborn’s Martin?” she asked, perplexed.

“No, I meant…you know what I meant,” he said.

Emma laughed. “You want to make me the Betrothed Witch. A hitched Hutch.”

“Eggsactly,” said William.

She kissed him gently. “Most men give a ring to propose.”

“Do they?” he asked.

“I’ve had visions of our wedding,” she said. “I know just what to wear.”

“Glad that’s settled,” he said, easing back on the bed. “Now put that pussy in the box and take off your pants.”

A sweaty, sex-drenched hour later, the two lay naked, glistening, and breathing hard.

Emma said, “We should call Victor. Tell him who’s chicken.”

“Speaking of chickens, and eggs,” said William, “I think we’ve just now solved the age-old dilemma.”

“We have?” asked Emma, snuggling against him.

“Unless I’m mistaken,” he said, grinning, “witch came first.”

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Avon's Little Black Book—

the dish, the scoop and the

cherry on top from

VALERIE FRANKEL

Three Very Short Stories

MR. FEBRUARY

The 1st:
When the bell rang, Sally gasped prettily and ran to the door like a ballerina in her slippers. The full skirt of her dress flounced as she ran, swishing to and fro, making her feel small and precious in the folds of pink taffeta. Her legs and bottom were bare underneath the dress. It had cost a fortune. If he didn’t like it, she’d just die.

One hand on the knob (and one pressed against her beating heart), Sally drew an anticipatory breath and flung the door open.

There, on the threshold, stood a man, and not the one she’d been expecting. This specimen was way too young, for one thing. And grubby, too, in custard-colored carpenter pants, a stained barn jacket, and a baseball cap atop raggy blond hair. Sally clutched her slender throat in surprise. She reeled back a step, remembering her uncovered ass, the cheeks of which were suddenly cold with distaste.

The man said, “Ms. Sally Antwerp?”

“And you are?” she asked, businesslike, her ballerina persona having evaporated like mist.

“I’m Mr. February,” he said. In response to her silence, he said, “From the Man-of-the-Month Club.”

“You’re not the man I ordered,” she said tersely.

“I’m supposed to give you this,” he said, removing a crumbled paper from his pocket.

Sally read the note.

My dear Ms. Antwerp,

I regret to inform you that the man you ordered for February, Mr. Juan Conchito, has had a terrible

accident. While entertaining another of our esteemed clients, a woman of prodigious girth, Mr. Conchito

was damaged. His current condition, we all pray, is not permanent. As of the writing of this letter,

however, he has not yet straightened out. He may remain, sadly, regretfully (as many of his regular clients
can attest,
tragically)
bent for quite a while. Meanwhile, I have sent Sean O’Toole to you, at no charge.

(You will be reimbursed for your pre-payment of $2,000 for February.) Mr. O’Toole is our Handy Man.

And he is extraordinarily gifted in carpentry, mechanics, and plumbing. Especially plumbing.

Sincerest apologies and warmest regards,

Ms. Simone Struthers, president,

Man-of-the-Month Club

Frowning, Sally folded the note. She gave Mr. O’Toole a cursory glance and said, “This is a disappointment.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Antwerp,” he said, “If it’s any consolation, I’d be happy to take care of anything that needs doing in your, might I say, lovely home.”

“Yes, yes, all right,” said Sally. She sighed shallowly, her lungs flat as sails on a windless day. “Please come in.

Follow me to the kitchen and I’ll make a list.”

The 5th:
Mr. O’Toole was on his back, glistening and grunting with exertion.

“Do you
mind?
” asked Sally. “I’m trying to read.”

From underneath the kitchen sink, Mr. O’Toole apologized. “I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Antwerp. You’ve got a lot of rust down here. These are sadly neglected pipes. Your plumbing hasn’t been attended to in a very long time. At least, not by anyone who knew what he was doing.”

Sally said, “Yes, I know.” She was flipping through the Man-of-the Month catalogue, mourning over the photo and description of poor, injured Mr. Conchito. He looked like Antonio Banderas—but sexier. Her first month with the club, and she’d already been let down. Maybe it was a mistake, she thought, to join. All her friends raved. But they would: they’d all had Mr. Conchito. She closed the book with a slap. Her eyes drifted across the prone form of Mr. O’Toole on the floor. Wrestling with his wrench, he twisted at the waist, his hips rising off the terra cotta tiles before resting.

Rising, and resting. She found herself hypnotized by his movements, noticing that his legs, inside the bulky carpenter pants, were really quite long.

She said, “When you’re done with that, you can start salting the driveway.”

“Gladly, Ms. Antwerp.”

The 10th:
“Higher!” she cried. “For the love of God, higher!”

“Here?” he asked, breathlessly.

“Yes! Yes, that’s the spot.”

Sally was instructing Mr. O’Toole on placement of the shelves he was building in her hallway closet. He was wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt today, and Sally noticed that his bare arms, holding the wood high, rippled. “And when you’re done with those,” she said, “you can snake my bathtub drain.”

The 14th:
Another Valentine’s Day, sans date,
lamented Sally. She’d placed numerous phone calls to Ms. Struthers in a desperate attempt to secure herself a suitable man for tonight, the saddest and loneliest of the year. But all of Ms.

Struthers’ best men were out, escorting her friends to dinner in fine restaurants, or bending them over the backseat of a limousine.

Oh, Mr. Conchito!
she pined.
If only you were here with me, exploring my body with your feet while we shared a
lavender and almond-scented bubble bath.
Absentmindedly, Sally opened the refrigerator and saw the bottle of Extra Brut Champagne that had been chilling in her fridge since late January.

“I’ve finished cleaning the garage,” said Mr. O’Toole. He was standing in the doorway that connected the garage to the kitchen, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. His pants were hanging low on his hips today, and Sally noticed that his belly was taut.

“Look at your shirt!” she said. “It’s covered with sticky grime.”

He said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Antwerp.” Mr. O’Toole took off his hat and his shirt. His chest was glistening and covered with blond hairs. “Shall I lube your engine now, Ms. Antwerp?”

“Please,” she said. “And I’d better watch, just to make sure you do it right.”

The 20th:
“Harder,” said Sally. “And faster!”

“I can’t do it much harder than
this,
” said Mr. O’Toole, red faced, as he drove nails into the loose boards of Sally’s deck with a hammer. A storm had been gathering, and the clouds were already overhead. Sally so wanted the deck finished before the rain came, or else Mr. O’Toole would get soaked. She didn’t want him dripping dirty water on her carpets.

“Oh, dear!” she exclaimed as the first fat drops of rain splashed onto the deck, immediately beading, thanks to Mr.

O’Toole’s masterful waterproofing. Despite the cold and wet, he continued to pound nails into the pliant planks. Sally had already run into her living room and was watching him from the other side of the glass door. She said, “I fear for your health.”

He stopped momentarily, turning to look at her. Rain was soaking into his cloth baseball cap, clumping his long blond hair, and rolling down his neck. She noticed that his neck was sinewy and muscular, with veins bulging. “Nearly there,” he said. “Just a few more strokes.”

“You must stop,” she insisted.

He stood up and walked toward the glass door. She opened it and waved him in. Mr. O’Toole paused on the deck, glancing at the pristine carpeting inside. He shook his head, droplets falling from his hair. He said, “I’ll leave marks.”

“Perhaps if you took off your boots and carried them in,” she said, biting her lip slightly, eyes glowing.

He said, “Right you are,” and removed his boots and socks. “I’ll take off my pants, too, just to be sure.”

“Hurry,” she said. “Come inside.”

The 27th:
Mr. O’Toole arrived on time, as usual. Their morning ritual of coffee and toast concluded, Sally asked Mr.