Succubus in the City (24 page)

“Really? You’re not saying that just to be nice?” Her tone was suspicious.

I shook my head, firm in my beliefs. “We’re going shopping for beachwear on Thursday, right? So we’ll be at Barneys anyway. Where better for you to try some outfits from some designers you don’t ordinarily wear? Then you can see.”

Eros announced that my bath was ready. I dropped my clothes on the bedroom floor and sank deep into the hot water. Sybil came in with the chilled cucumber slices for my eyes as Eros applied the vitamin C mask. I leaned back and let all the goodness soak in, my mind firmly fixed on Sybil.

There is nothing more fun than helping a girlfriend realize her full potential.

By the time I was bathed, masked, toes painted, and had finished my third cocktail (something Eros had made up with my selection of rum and fruit juice and liqueurs that tasted lovely and had a serious kick), I was ready to fall asleep. It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized that I hadn’t thought about calling Nathan at all.

We spent Thursday shopping. Fun, but exhausting. Seventeen hours from now we’d be heading to JFK, so a quiet evening and early to bed were in the stars for this gal. At least bikinis, beach cover-ups and sandals don’t take long to throw into a bag. I included a nice dress too, on the theory that we were going out at night.

It was around nine in the evening, prime dinner hour, when the intercom rang. Vincent’s voice came through, clear and professional. “A Mr. Nathan Coleman is downstairs to see you,” he said, with no inflection to give away his opinions. “Shall I send him up?”

“Uh, yes, sure,” I said, flustered. What was I wearing? My jeans were okay, but I pulled off the ancient oversized (but oh so comfortable)
Bat Out of Hell
sweatshirt (Meatloaf really was one of ours) and threw open my drawers. No, no, and no. Clothes flew over the bed and the floor before I located my favorite forest green ribbon-knit tunic. And better bare feet than the fluffy bedroom slippers, so I left them in the middle of the pile on the floor.

Just in time, too, as I heard the bell and ran to the door. Had I washed off all my makeup already? Too late now. I hoped I didn’t look too wretched.

He stood there with a boyish grin, his black hair combed back from his face and his nose red from the cold. His hands were behind his back and I smelled—something mouthwatering. “I know you’re leaving early tomorrow, but I thought you might have already cleaned out the fridge and could use some dinner. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”

I shook my head, completely taken aback.

“You like Chinese?” he asked, grinning.

We’re New Yorkers. Chinese is our native cuisine. Of course I like Chinese food.

He whipped the bag from behind his back. That had been what I was smelling, hot and sour soup, egg rolls, kung pao chicken and orange beef. And shrimp chow fun and white and brown rice. I invited him in and he unpacked the stack of cartons on my dining table, which was almost never used for eating and so was piled with books and papers that I had to throw on the floor.

I was really glad I hadn’t smashed all my nice dishes. I brought out two of the dinner plates Eros was so ready to sacrifice along with bowls and chopsticks.

“It’s so much food!” I gasped as the boxes appeared to multiply on the newly cleared surface.

“So you’ll have some leftovers,” he said.

“But I’m going to Aruba early tomorrow,” I protested.

“Okay, I’ll have leftovers,” he said and smiled. I wondered if he’d planned it that way. “Good, I’m a lousy cook and I’ll have something to eat for the next couple of days.”

Nathan reheated the soup in the microwave and I found I was uneasy with him in my kitchen. I call myself an indifferent housekeeper, which is a nice way to say that I don’t do anything and rely on my cleaning service to make sure that there isn’t mold growing in my sink and that the sheets get changed. Between the service and the laundry that’s picked up and delivered (and Vincent, who gives them my piles of clothes and linens when they call on their weekly rounds, accepts the pickups and hangs everything in my walk-in closet), my home has not yet been condemned by the board of health.

For the first time ever I was actually embarrassed.

I couldn’t let Nathan into the bedroom.

There were many reasons I couldn’t do that, but the pile of clothes and fuzzy slippers in the middle of the floor, the unmade bed and the clothes threatening to explode from the closet were certainly high on the list.

We ate our soup and eggrolls and he asked me about packing and flights and where I was staying. All the nice, normal things people talk about when you’re going on a trip. Finally, after I’d had seconds of the kung po chicken, I couldn’t wait any longer.

“About the other night at Butter—” I began, but Nathan shook his head and held his finger to his lips as I took a bite of orange beef.

“That isn’t why I came and it doesn’t matter,” he continued, taking advantage of the fact I couldn’t answer until I swallowed. “I came for two things. First, I wanted to see you before you went off. But I also wanted to celebrate, though it’s not really a big celebration. I found my missing guy today, and I wanted to share that with someone.”

I managed to get the beef down before I started to speak. “Oh, that’s wonderful, Nathan. Where was he? How did you find him?”

“I found him on a ship’s manifest, on a cruise to Mexico. It was just research, like I said. No one had thought of cruise ships because most of them leave from Miami and we would have thought he’d be on a passenger list from the airlines. My boss didn’t think of checking for ships out of New York, but there are a number of them, and his name was on one of the lists. The funny thing, though, is that they docked this morning and he didn’t get off.”

“You’ve got the itinerary,” I said needlessly. “So he jumped ship? Are you going to follow him?”

He shrugged. “That depends on what his wife wants and if she’s willing to pay us to track him down. I think she’s got enough information now to start procedures for desertion, and since he’s left she probably can simply take control of the assets that are left. Though he did cash out a few bank accounts, so we assume that he’s got a load of cash on him. And it was a significant amount, but I don’t know if it’s enough to pay us to go after it.”

“Well, congratulations, that’s fantastic!” I enthused sincerely. “Let me check and see if I have some champagne in the fridge. Though I don’t think so. Will Ben and Jerry’s do?”

Nathan laughed so hard he had to grab the side of the table. “Yes, Ben and Jerry’s would be fine. Do you have Cherry Garcia?”

chapter
TWENTY

“And can you believe it, his favorite flavors are Phish Food and Cherry Garcia?” I was far too animated for seven in the morning at the airport. It also appeared to be Official Stupid Day at JFK as well. Check-in at American was a complete zoo, and even the first-class line snaked through the terminal. There was a backup in security and at least three people were upset about taking off their shoes and two others hadn’t taken their laptops out of their carry-ons.

Airports belong to Satan. Once upon a time flying was elegant and daring and people dressed up for flights. Now all airport operations are under the aegis of Hell, under the direction of Moloch—a perfect assignment for the Prince of the Land of Tears. He was one of the Old Ones, like Meph and Beliel, but he is great with technology and new ideas. While his record with lost luggage is breathtaking and eliminating food on U.S. carriers was inspired, his greatest achievement was the hub system.

Satan had praised him and elevated him to Prince of Hell for that innovation, guaranteeing millions more stranded travelers unable to make their connecting flights. For which, naturally, the airlines don’t pay and won’t put them up in hotels. Sometimes passengers booked in first or business class have to accept coach to get to where they want to go. The miseries of the hub system are so great that there was even talk of making airports a Circle of Hell for the damned, which would be the first new Circle of Hell in over a hundred years.

Moloch’s minions were clearly on the job that morning. There was a crowd at the gate already, and rumors of overbooking looked accurate. “Maybe they’ll start asking for volunteers,” someone near me said. “This always happens. I’ve taken so many bumps that I’ve gone to the Caribbean free every year since ninety-seven.”

Sure enough, the flight was overbooked and they began asking for volunteers to bump at three hundred dollars. “I’ll wait for six hundred, bottom,” the voice said, cutting through the crying children and the irritated Long Islanders whose ideas of carry-on was about the size of a steamer trunk.

I refuse to travel steerage with no place for carry-on and only cheap alcohol available. Though it was so early that honestly, even with the actually good wine available in first class I couldn’t face a drink. Well, maybe a mimosa once they served the breakfast.

We got settled and somehow our seats got changed around and I was sitting next to Desi, not Eros. I suspected that Eros had engineered this because, without adequate caffeine, she couldn’t stand to hear anything about my evening before. Or maybe she didn’t want to talk about the investigation.

Desi smiled brightly as if she enjoyed being up this early. Or maybe she hadn’t slept last night either. “I think it’s great you like the same flavors,” she said. “And it’s very nice that he came over with dinner unannounced. Very romantic. Especially since you didn’t have anyone else there at the time. It could have been embarrassing.”

I shrugged and winced. The flight attendant looked at me carefully, concerned that I was expressing displeasure with the plane or some aspect of first-class service. I waved my hand wearily and she smiled brightly and moved on.

“Maybe, but it wasn’t,” I agreed. “He was so sweet. And he didn’t even want to talk about seeing me and Meph.”

“So you see, Eros is right,” Desi said. “And you wasted all that perfectly good terror and misery and heartbreak on nothing. I’ll bet that seeing you with another man inspired him to bring over the Chinese food.”

“You really think he likes me?” I asked for what must have been the ten millionth time that morning.

“Yes, he likes you. He likes you very much,” Desi said kindly, repeating what she’d said at least a dozen times since we’d arrived at the airport. “So did you ever find out about his missing man, and why the guy had your address?”

“Oh, he found the missing man on a cruise ship,” I said. And then I hesitated, because Desi had remembered and I’d forgotten. How had Nathan gotten my address? Did Mr. Mexico really have it, or had Nathan tracked me down for some other reason?

Why would some pharmacist from Long Island have my contact info? Last night with the Chinese food and ice cream, I had only enjoyed Nathan’s warmth and enthusiasm and company. I thought his presumption in just showing up with dinner was endearing and it made me feel loved.

I was startled out of my reverie when the pilot announced that we were flying over Tennessee. Then we were in Miami, incongruously hot and humid after the cold I’d left in New York that morning.

The Miami airport was worse than a zoo. I always thought that Kennedy was the worst. Miami has it beat by a mile and we had to go through security again before our flight to Aruba. Which was also overbooked and where they also had to call for volunteers. We didn’t arrive on One Happy Island until well into the middle of the afternoon. Moloch must have been very proud.

But it was a gloriously sunny and perfectly warm afternoon when we finally disembarked at Queen Wilhelmina airport in Oranjestad. I was a mess. No one can stand up to two miserable airports and delays without a frayed temper and splotchy makeup.

Had Craig Branford of Huntington, Long Island, actually had my name and address? If he had, then why? If not, then what was up with Nathan? I barely took in the brilliant sunlight when we emerged toward the taxi line, and I paid little attention as the cab drove us out of town and toward the beach.

Desi’s travel agent was a genius, no question. The hotel was gorgeous, with palm trees in the open atrium lobby and a pretty fountain in the center. My room was quite elegant in shades of pale blue with a Jacuzzi in the oversized bath. Huge patio doors led out to a balcony that overlooked the beach, which came right up to the hotel and stopped only for the complex set of pools, one with a swim-up bar, and a miniature golf course.

On the beach itself, lounge chairs and umbrellas were set with military precision. Two thatched structures defined the limits of the hotel’s private sand, one a sit-down bar where waiters in Hawaiian shirts carried trays of colored drinks out to the lounge chairs by the ocean. The other was much smaller, with a signpost that gave times for scuba and sailing lessons. Women in starched, pale blue uniforms with aprons and frilly caps handed out freshly folded towels to hotel guests. No need to bother taking a towel from the room.

Who needs Heaven when you can go to Aruba?

My solitude was interrupted by some very uncivilized pounding on the door. “Come on, Lily, we’re all ready to go to the beach.”

“Go on, I’ll join you in a minute,” I replied, embarrassed. I hadn’t even opened my suitcase.

It took no more than ten minutes to throw on the new turquoise bikini and cover-up, grab a pair of oversized sunglasses and tie the laces on my new sandals. The girls had saved me a lounge chair and it already had a towel folded precisely in the center.

“I ordered a drink for you,” Eros said. “I don’t even know what it is, but it’s blue and has pineapple.”

“Sounds great!” I enthused, just as the very cute waiter showed up with his tray and made a ceremony of serving us all.

And there, on the beach, enveloped in the warmth of the February day, I leaned back and sipped my blue and pineapple drink, and began to relax.

Burning Men do not go to Aruba. They don’t believe in pleasure or fun, they believe in punishment and cold and economy. They don’t drink, and even if they did they wouldn’t touch girly drinks with stupid names with umbrellas in them. They believe that February in New York is an expiation of sins and they keep the thermostat at 63.