Husband Rehab (8 page)

Josie catches her breath at the venom leaking from the woman’s lips. She knows that tone. Stella Spivey is a crafty witch, a lone-wolf who never speaks about her abilities. However, she must have some skills with craft, maybe even some true talent, to talk like that.

“I’m new to this. I wasn’t even aware he was coming. He didn’t tell me any specifics.”

“No?” Stella says, appearing relieved. “Then you haven’t prescribed any …
therapy
?”

Ah, here it is, Josie thinks, one witch challenging another over her craft. She wants to know what I’ve done, or plan to do. But I don’t even know the real problem yet. Besides, something about all this suggests their problems aren’t normal, everyday, husband-and-wife problems. This is probably way out of my reach. Christine might be able settle it with the help of the coven.

Stella moves closer, one confidant to another. “He won’t listen to me anymore.”

“Listen?”

“You know: do what I say.”

“What do you mean, exactly? Like clean up after himself or help with the dishes?”

Stella composes herself, a woman aware she’s in the lime light. “You have no idea, do you?”

“Not really …”

Stella smiles, laughs a little, even cocks her head. “I was worried for nothing.” She walks past Josie. “This was a mistake. He’ll see that. I’ll be taking him home with me today.”
 

“Uhm, yeah, I don’t think that’ll work. He can’t leave the house.”

“Can’t leave the house?”

“Roxy’s doing. It’s to make sure the guys hang around, at least for the weekend. So they can understand what needs to happen.”

“Don’t get between me and my husband, Josie Bran. Trust me, you little brewing vixen.”

Again, witch talk. Josie is convinced that Stella Spivey is more than she seems, that this situation is complex. What has she done to Lennox to make him come running for help? Josie wants to rehabilitate wayward men, not save them from their witchy wives. Something about all this smacks of the political infighting between the covens and their control of male witches. She doesn’t want to get involved in any of that. All she wants to do is help some wives and rejuvenate Birchall Mansion in the process.

“He came here. I didn’t go looking for him.”

“You remember what I said. I’ll handle Roxy and her … restraining spell. Where’s Christine?”

“I have no idea—”

Stella Spivey exits as swiftly as she came.

Christine’s rooms are in the north wing, and Stella will probably have a hard time finding them. That gives Josie time before more drama. She needs to confront Mr. Boris Reiner; she wants to get it over with. Mr. Creeley was her first real worry, Mr. Reiner her second. He’s a major player in Georgia state politics, having spent time in the General Assembly for ten years, and is now a consultant for the Democratic Party. He’s a charmer and a power player.
 

Yeah, could be a very hard case.

* * *

Josie hurries to the first floor drawing room, where Lady Birchall sits in her favorite chair.
 

Josie grimaces as she enters the room. The rococo stylings touch every surface, from the frolicking pastel angels on the ceiling, to the gilt furniture that looks as uncomfortable as sitting on stone. The indigos, pinks, turquoises that line every object give her a headache. There’s a reason the Baroque period is considered the Renaissance on crack—and why Modernism went crazy in response.

“Hello, Lady Birchall,” Josie says. “Are you enjoying the sunshine?”

She sits before an oriel window with at least twenty individual panes of glass, each mullion painted a bright blue with silver tracery. If ever a room needed to be renovated …, but she knows that such a thing would never be done. Restored, yes, but the parts of Birchall Mansion that were designed with the beaux arts would have to be endured. Sad, but true.

Lady Birchall reaches out. “Yes, yes, Josie, such a fine day.”

Josie takes her hand. “Have you seen Lady Cruz?”

“She’s making arrangements with the others. They’ll be here tonight to see your progress.”

“I just started …”

“You’re doing fine. I’m so happy to see us taking this step.”

Step
?

“You mean being more public?”

“Of course, Josie. When I was a girl the craft was still dangerous. Papists and Protestants would come for you, or warlocks . Now that most churches have plenty of us and the warlocks are taken care, why not? You’re a smart girl, like your grandmother.”

Lady Birchall moves her jaw around, as if her bridge is bothering her. She’s so wrinkled and dried up, she looks mummified. Josie can’t imagine she has much more time among the living. If only she can last until the first funds come in so that she can see Birchall shine again.

“I want to help get your home back on its feet.”

Lardy Birchall smiles and pats Josie on her hand. “That’s so sweet.”

Christine strides into the drawing room. She’s wearing summer clothes fit for gardening. By the stickers in her socks, it looks like she’s been walking the grounds. “They’re coming. We’ll have visitors tonight.”

“Members of the coven?” Josie says and tries not to gulp.

“That’s right. To see what you’re up to.”

“What we’re up to.”

Christine smiles. “Of course.”

“I was wondering,” Josie asks, ”if you two might have a suggestion on how to … stop a cheater.”

Lady Birchall perks up, even shimmying in her chair a little. “You mean that Boris, don’t you?” She raises a scrawny finger into the air. “I know just the thing. We once had a young man who was gifted, so gifted, and we trained him to be a good-and-proper witch, but he strayed, as most men do. We put down his warlock ways and made him pliable. But he turned to copulation. Yes, he did. He was such a charmer and worked his way into a number of respectable ladies’ beds. We found a witch who cast a spell so that anytime he cheated—and this young man was, indeed, a philanderer—that his clothes would,
poof
, disappear sometime afterward. I saw it once. He was standing in this very drawing room. One minute fully clothed. The next … well, he was holding a mint julep when he realized he was naked. He had the poise to exit the room without spilling it.”

Lady Birchall chuckles to herself.

“That’ll do fine,” Christine says. “Can you work something similar?”

“Sounds perfect,” Josie says. She sees Stella descending the grand staircase, heels clickety-clacking. “I’ve got work to do.”

* * *

Josie corners Boris Reiner in the salon. The house keeper must have just opened the room. She’s yanked the covers from the furniture and pulled back the tall blinds. The room’s a nod to a much less pretentious sensibility. The beaux arts insistence on extreme ornamentation has been replaced with dark woods and paneling, almost as if a Victorian designer was given free reign.
 

The wide oil paintings of Lord and Lady Birchall dominate the far wall, near a fireplace. This room was once used regularly, she remembers, although it has been left behind. She feels saddened by the dust and the muted sense of lost time. The world moves on its course, while places like Birchall Mansion fall into ruin.
Modernity’s a mean bitch
. She chides herself for being so crude and wonders if she should have stayed in school. If she is anything it’s analytical. She can find the details in things and pull them to the surface, often to a fault.

School?
 
Maybe, but not now, she tells herself. Right now I have Boris Reiner to sort out. Boris and his little problem …

She finds Mr. Reiner sitting on a sofa, reading a magazine. He has kicked his feet up on a settee and appears to be enjoying himself. He’s even whistling.

Boris, as he likes to be called, is wearing tennis shorts and a smart Lacoste shirt. He probably heard the courts were open.
 

“Mr. Reiner,” Josie says. She walks into his line of sight. He sets his magazine down. He’s wearing reading glasses, which age him by a decade. Still, she sees what must be considered charming for some women. That, and the fact, he’s loaded, and connected. “Can we chat?”

“Ah, here it is,” he says, smiling graciously. “My wife said I have no choice. It’s either come here and listen, or I’ll be hearing from a divorce attorney. She threatens me with that at least once a year. This time, she’s really got me by the …” Another grin. “Well, you know what I mean.”

Josie has changed out of her tight jeans and tee. After preparing her last spell, she put on some baggy shorts that hang past her knee, and a ratty, abused, long-sleeved Miami Dolphins sweat shirt. It’s something she found in her drawer upstairs. She wants him to be focused on the matter at hand, instead of her shapely figure. The brewing of this potion required a delicate touch, and she doesn’t want to mess up.

“What I know is that your wife caught you with another woman—”

“I had no idea she’d be home.”

“You brought a mistress to your house?”

“It’s not like that.” He sat up and looks over his nose at her. Is he indignant, she wonders, about getting caught porking another woman? Or just annoyed he has to explain himself. “I care about Julia. She’s … someone I can relate to.”

“Listen, Mr. Reiner, I’m not here to make you feel bad about it. You’re married, and your wife doesn’t seem to like your cheating. I guess that means it’s a problem, right?”

“It is.”

“Here’s the solution.”

She opens her palm and blows into it. A tiny cloud of sparkling dust puffs into the air. The sunlight from the windows catches the micro particles, creating a resplendent display, as if a thousand tiny creatures are suddenly born all at once. The cloud expands to the point it dissipates. She sees a few specks land on Mr. Reiner.
 

“What is this … stuff?”

“Here’s what happens now,” she says, wiping her hands as if she is a teacher and they’re covered with chalk dust. “You can think all the nasty thoughts you’d like, but if you so much as flirt with another woman or, worse, lift a finger, and I mean that pinky finger, and touch another woman … you’ll get a surprise. No flirting, no touching. Simple.”

“Surprise
?”

He stands, incensed, although he doesn’t act threatening. Mr. Boris Reiner obviously knows the history of Birchall and the coven associated with it. He obviously knows what’s happening here. He’s a man of means and connection. He understands when he’s in no position to negotiate.
 

“My wife has me, doesn’t she?”

“She does.”

He nods. “Is that it?”

“Don’t you want to know what the surprise is?”

He looks like a man who needs to swallow some foul medicine. “No.”

Josie wants to tell him so that he doesn’t end up on TV or in front of a committee without his clothes. “Ever had a dream where you’re naked in a public place?” He nods. She smiles, lifts an eyebrow, and waits. She sees the recognition in his eyes. She adds: “Magic’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

Mr. Boris Reiner hurries out of the salon, magazine rolled up into a baton as if he might take a swipe at someone. Josie’s relief at finishing the last of them doesn’t last long. It’s replaced by the annoying feeling she’s done something nasty to him. She can’t shake the feeling that this could all go wrong. No, she tells herself, it’s necessary—like working out or practicing an instrument. Sometimes you have to work a little to see results. And if these men want wives who care about them and tolerate them, this is the requirement. She’s just helping them see that.
 

* * *

Lunch that day is served by dutiful Alice in the servants’ kitchen. All the men have paid for her to cook (a service Josie hopes will earn needed cash). They charge a premium, and Alice is happy to be cooking again for a group.
 

Most of the men chat away while eating. Only Mr. Creeley remains silent. Josie keeps her distance, but she listens down the hall to verify all is well.

Lennox is the only one absent.

Stella must have found him. The thought of the two of them, working out their problems gnaws at her. The men in the kitchen will be fine. She’s spoken to each one, provided them with their prescribed therapies. It’s up to them now, whether they can transform or not. Lennox, though, is still a mystery.
 

Josie grabs a clean glass and pours some sweet iced tea. She drops a lemon in it. This will be her excuse for visiting Lennox, if she’s caught. She tells herself he might like some tea, since he’s skipping lunch.

She hurries up the grand stair to the second floor. She hears voices coming from Lennox’s room. Josie fears she might catch them making up, or worse, catch them really making up. The hope that he hates his wife encourages her reckless behavior. If he’s in there, she thinks, he’s telling Stella he has to stay. She’s probably angry. He’s going to be here an entire month, he’ll demand. That’s it Please let that be it!

Josie creeps as close to the open door as she can.

“I can’t concentrate,” she hears Lennox say. “My head is pounding.” Josie remembers the plan they came up with: his pretend therapy. He continues. “I need to lie down in peace. Give me some space. It’s my fault for being resistant, I know, and not doing what you say. It’s just … I don’t want to go back to acting. My agent’s a jerk.” She hears him groan. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I know you want me to go. This is horrible. What’s happening to me?”

What an actor, indeed, Josie thinks.

“Maybe you should listen to me. It’ll be easier for you, once you give in to that little witchlet. Then your headaches will go away.”

Witchlet!

Stella’s voice is so sadistic that Josie has to bite her bottom lip from shouting. The woman’s forcing him to remain in the public eye for her own twisted reasons. She’s the one torturing him! She’s the … bitch-witch!

“I just need to rest,” he says.

Josie rushes into one of the open rooms. She hears Stella’s heels clicking on the wood floor of the corridor. Josie waits for the fading sound of Stella descending the stairs. She hurries into Lennox’s room, closing the door behind her. He’s lying on the simple, single bed. The room is compact, quaint, decorated in turn-of-the-century Americana—all reds, whites, and blues. An oil painting of Old Glory hangs above his bed. This is a room made for George Washington, or someone like that. Not Lennox Cruz, world-weary Mr. Fabulous.