Authors: Gabriella Pierce
666 Park Avenue (10 page)
O
n
M
onday,
J
ane hopped off the
M
3 bus as soon as the
back doors were fully open, and looked around.
Well that has to be it,
she thought, and headed briskly toward a square concrete building with enormous MoMA banners running down the front. Her breath fogged out in front of her, crystallizing in the crisp January air.
Lynne had seemed absolutely baffled that Jane wanted to take the bus—why wouldn’t she simply use the family’s car and driver? But the prospect of even a few minutes with Yuri made Jane adamant. She’d told a narrow-eyed Lynne that she wanted to have all kinds of authentic New York experiences, and commuting to work was one of them. Fortunately, Lynne had decided it wasn’t worth arguing about, though she did darkly predict that a few days of having coffee spilled on her by sweat-stained nurses in sneakers would change Jane’s mind. Thinking of Yuri’s beady stare and thin-lipped frown, Jane was inclined to disagree.
Jane strode through the glass doors of the MoMA, immediately surrounded by a sea of tourists and twentysomethings in school sweatshirts, trying to prove they were still in college for the extra discount. A harried-looking woman in a neon-blue PS 290 T-shirt was trying to wrangle a group of elementary school kids in identical Ts, and a ticket-taker was yelling at everyone to form a line.
The uniformed man at the information desk directed Jane to the HR floor, and she slipped gratefully out of the chaos. Archie Cartwright was waiting at the elevator doors. Jane was surprised to realize that he was exactly as she’d pictured him: tall, reedy, with a beak of a nose and a fringe of gingery hair around his otherwise bald head.
Maybe I’ve got some magical intuition
thingy I haven’t even noticed,
she thought optimistically. That power would be both un-scary
and
helpful, unlike her talent for derailing an entire traffic grid with one spark of anger.
As Archie told her about the “absolutely amazing” event they’d thrown last month, she absently twisted her silver ring around her finger. She’d noticed herself doing that more and more.
Jane had thought about getting rid of the ring, of hiding the last remaining evidence of her new power, but she’d found herself inexplicably attached to it. It hadn’t done anything supernatural since she had first put it on, but it still felt magical somehow, as though it was one last connection to Gran.
“And we had this terrific Dali exhibit last May . . .” Archie prattled on. In addition to looking distinctly like a red-headed Ichabod Crane (the storybook, not the Johnny Depp version), Archie spoke about a thousand words per minute, and he kept having to wait for Jane to catch up when he had bounded too far ahead on his substantially longer legs. He took her on a whirlwind tour of the museum, and with each step, Jane felt herself feeling more and more at home in her new “office.” The airy rooms, the austere cubes, the collection of works of master artists who shared her sense of spare aesthetics. She had to admit that Malcolm had scored a home run—or rather he would later that night, when she thanked him, profusely, for putting her in touch with the very enthusiastic Archie.
The reason for his enthusiasm was soon abundantly clear: he had found the perfect person for the job. Cheerfully adjusting and readjusting his tweed blazer, he explained that Jane’s first assignment (“a warm-up of sorts”) would be a private cocktail reception all of two weeks away—hosted by the Dorans. Of course, he was “just thrilled” to have an insider opinion, since the Dorans were known for being very particular, and it was just “Such an honor to get to host one of their events, which are always just so fabulous. Oh—” He stopped when they reached a hallway on the fifth floor, and threw open the third door from the elevator. “Ta-da! Your office!”
With that, he dropped a heap of reports from past events in Jane’s arms and left her to settle in. The office was sizable and the furniture was sleek and modern—a Lucite desk sat directly under the large window, and wood shelves lined the walls along with several stainless-steel filing cabinets. A white Mac sat on her desk, next to a phone that had about ten different lines.
Maybe one day I’ll even have a friend to call on one of them,
she thought wistfully. She thought of Elodie and their tandem desks at Atelier Antoine, and resolved to send her an e-mail that evening.
As if she had conjured a friend by magic, an elfin face surrounded by a wild crop of red curls poked around her door. “Oh!” the visitor exclaimed when she saw Jane sitting at the desk, her hazel eyes going wide like pennies. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea anyone was using this office!”
“I’m new,” Jane explained, standing hastily and smoothing the skirt of her color-block dress. She realized belatedly that the empty white walls and total lack of knickknacks probably gave that fact away all on their own. “Did you need the room for something? I have to check in with security at some point, and now’s a perfectly good time.” She wanted to get her photo ID taken before her stubborn corn-silk hair began to work its way free of its bobby pins.
“Oh, no,” the redhead assured her, biting her lip. She wore a cream sweater and mesh gold earrings. “Actually, I’ve been eating lunch in here,” she admitted. “But I totally knew I was eating on borrowed time.” As if she were being pulled from behind, she started to vanish around the doorframe.
“Wait!” Jane exclaimed. The fiery halo reappeared, the eyes inquisitive. “You could still eat here, if you want. I don’t know anyone yet, so if you wanted to, you could have lunch with me?”
Wow. I could swear I used to know how to do “friendly” without sounding like a total loser.
The girl’s coppery eyes sparkled, and the corners of her mouth turned up. “That’s so nice of—” she began, but seemed to change her mind mid-sentence. “Wait, are you the new special-events person?”
Something in the girl’s voice put Jane on guard. She hesitated before nodding.
“Oh. Archie mentioned that you’d be starting.” Her tone was flat and her smile remained in place as if it had been stapled there.
“Thanks,” Jane replied slowly, unsure of what was wrong. Did she know how Jane had gotten the job? Had Jane replaced someone else? Someone incredibly popular with three kids to feed and whose puppy had just died?
I knew better than to take special favors,
she grumbled to herself.
Forcing a smile on her face, she walked to the door and stuck out her hand. “I’m Jane Boyle.” She pretended not to notice how long it hung in the air before the girl shook it. Her hand was clammy, but luckily her thoughts did not flood Jane’s mind. Jane had a feeling they wouldn’t be too pleasant.
“Maeve Montague. Um, it was really nice to meet you, but I’ve gotta run before my soup gets cold.” Maeve waved a heavy-looking white paper bag in her left hand and then abruptly disappeared around the doorframe again. Jane could hear her footsteps thudding down the hallway. It sounded as though she was almost running.
Jane sat heavily on her Aeron desk chair and fought down a wave of disappointment—surely it was unreasonable to assume that Maeve would be dying to become best friends simply because they were coworkers.
She spread over the desk the reports Archie had given her and picked up the floor plan from the previous year’s Speak Out for Autism mixer. According to the write-up, it had promoted mingling beautifully, but had failed to provide a discreet way to get fresh ice to the third bar, forcing it to shut down before eleven p.m. Determined to avoid a similar tragedy at her future-in-laws’ soirée, Jane began penciling notes onto her map of the Modern restaurant and the adjoining sculpture garden, thoughtfully drawing potential traffic jams.
Time passed quickly, and she was pleasantly surprised to discover that she enjoyed the work. Of course, it probably helped that Lynne wasn’t involved in the planning process quite yet, but until then, it was nice to feel competent. After she’d brainstormed possible themes—Surrealism, black-and-white, primary colors—and drawn up a preliminary guest list based half on donors and half on celebrities, she called it a good morning’s work.
Setting her notes aside, she ventured off to find the security office. Within minutes, she’d gotten hopelessly turned around and found herself stuck on the fourth floor with no idea how to get any farther. Wandering around the maze of offices in the hope of just randomly coming across an elevator, she rounded a corner and felt the impact before she even saw the person on the other side.
“God, I’m so sorry,” Jane blurted, eyeing Maeve, who was now sitting awkwardly under a heap of papers, covered in coffee that Jane could only hope was lukewarm. “I’m so clumsy and I wasn’t even looking,” Jane said, trying to collect the scattered papers from around the dazed redhead. “Are you okay?”
The girl nodded, looking a little dazed, and brushed futilely at a coffee stain on her cream-colored silk wrap sweater. “It’s really fine. I was blocking the whole hall. I’m sorry.”
Jane stared at her, mouth hanging open in shock. “You’re sorry? Are you crazy? Right now I owe you a coffee, dry-cleaning, and what looks like about an hour’s worth of photocopying. Just tell me which you need first.”
Maeve shook her head stubbornly, and struggled to her feet, pretending not to see the hand that Jane held out helpfully. “Don’t worry about it. You should really just focus on your own work. You have some
very
important clients—and family members—to keep happy.” Her words sounded angry, but her eyes were frightened. Jane stood there, completely bewildered, as Maeve backed away and darted off down the hall. Her second rapid exit of the day left Jane stunned, but with a slightly clearer idea of why this stranger might already have a problem with her.
And the Dorans strike again.
T
he
S
o
H
o
B
aking
C
ompany was a long and narrow shop,
with tempting displays of decorated cookies and cakes in the shapes of keys, little jewel boxes, and even a house. It smelled like vanilla and heat, and Jane felt tension draining from her shoulders that she hadn’t even known was there.
It didn’t stay gone for long.
“Mrs. Doran!” the apple-cheeked baker cheered sycophantically, nearly knocking Jane down in her rush to shake Lynne’s hand. She seemed to reconsider at the last moment, perhaps because Lynne didn’t look inclined in the slightest to lift either fur-lined gloved hand from her couture-clad sides. The baker slid to an uncertain halt, and for an awkward moment Jane half-expected her to bow.
“I’m Hattie,” the baker settled for instead, shoving her frizzy brown bangs off of her flushed forehead. “We are just so excited to have you consider us for your wedding. Please come in.”
Whose wedding was that, now?
Jane wondered grouchily, unwinding her scarf a little more roughly than necessary. Hattie hadn’t so much as glanced her way since they walked in. Also it wasn’t even noon on Wednesday, but it was already the third wedding errand of the day. Jane’s feet hurt, and she was irritated at having been ignored by the florist, the printers, and now Hattie.
And being ignored only reminded her of exactly how friendless she was. Jane was fairly sure that Maeve Montague was actively avoiding her. She kept seeing flashes of wild red hair disappearing around corners, and one time she could have sworn she heard footsteps approaching, and then rapidly receding when she began to open her office door, a lingering whiff of a Nina Ricci perfume in the air. It was getting ridiculous.
“We have less than two months,” Lynne announced authoritatively, dropping her gloves on top of her crocodile Hermès purse. “You’re hired. Let’s talk decor.”
Jane frowned.
I thought you got to taste cake at cake-tastings—and that’s tastings, plural.
She had actually been looking forward to that. But it was useless to resist. She hadn’t been in Manhattan long enough to care about the actual wedding site, and if Lynne wanted Hattie’s cake or fountains spewing roses, then Jane would live with that. It was the image of the horrid, Little Bo Peep wedding dress that had been haunting her dreams, and she was saving all her energy for that particular fight.
And if I get some goodwill by letting her hire Hattie because of the “fabulous” tiramisu petit-fours at the Ross girl’s baby shower, so much the better.
While Lynne and Hattie entered a heated discussion over the merits of rolled fondant versus piped icing, Jane wandered over to the pile of glossy sample books in an alcove near the window.
“I can help you with those,” a husky but feminine voice whispered from behind her shoulder. Jane jumped a little, and turned to see a wide pair of amber eyes looking at her with concern. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” the owner of the eyes rushed on, pushing a thick tangle of black hair over her shoulder. She seemed to be about Jane’s age, with skin nearly the same tawny color as her eyes. “I’m Dee,” she added, although her nametag read
DIANA
. “Can I help you with the books?”
“Sure,” Jane replied. “Thanks.”
Not that it’ll matter much what I find.
As if Jane had said the last part out loud, Dee glanced toward Hattie and Lynne, her eyebrows knitting together. She looked as if she were weighing the pros and cons of reminding her boss that the bride herself was out of the loop, but Jane shook her head meaningfully.
“It’s not her fault,” Jane whispered. “It’s the other ‘her.’ ” She nodded toward Lynne, hoping that the gesture was appropriately subtle. Raising her voice a bit, she picked up a book from the table. “Are these just for weddings, or other events, too?” she asked, loudly enough to be heard. “I’m putting together a cocktail party, and I’ve seen some gorgeous special-event cakes, but I’m not sure I want anything too traditional.” Out of the corner of her eye, Jane saw Lynne shudder, and she smirked. The more Lynne thought Jane cared about the silly details, the more Lynne would think she was winning important concessions. Besides, it was a little fun.
“You’ll want to take a look at this one,” Dee told her confidently, handing Jane a book labeled
Evening Elegance
. “It has a mix, but they’re all for very sophisticated events.”
“Thanks.” Jane began leafing idly through the book, although she barely registered the richly colored close-up confections on its pages. She smiled wryly at Dee as the words “absolutely
nothing
involving ribbons” drifted over to their alcove. “Oh, your necklace is tangled,” Jane said, pointing to the silver pendant that appeared caught on the neckline of Dee’s black top.
“Crap,” Dee whispered, stuffing it inside her shirt. Jane froze, hand in midair, feeling awkward. “Oh, sorry,” Dee grimaced. “It’s just that I’m supposed to keep it hidden at work. It’s a pentacle—you know, a Wiccan thing.” She slipped it out again and waved it just long enough for Jane to make out a circle containing a five-pointed star. “Apparently it might scare off the target clientele.”
“Wiccan—like, witches?” Jane’s voice sounded unnaturally high. Somehow her least favorite things—wedding planning with Lynne
and
magic—were converging in one quaint little cake shop. Throw in a chainsaw murderer and it could be a real party.
“That’s the basic idea.”
Jane studied Dee’s wild black waves and wide amber eyes. In her letter, Gran had made the world of magic seem dangerous and secretive, and she’d stressed that Jane’s own safety depended on staying hidden. Then again, Gran was something of a paranoid survivalist. Was it possible that some witches—say, of the more daring, SoHo variety—just walked around wearing dark eyeliner and pentacles in plain sight? And how was Jane supposed to tell the difference between the wannabe witches and real ones? Was there such a thing as a witch-dar?
“So, um, do you do spells?”
Nice, Jane. Subtle.
Dee let out a throaty chuckle. “Not me. My coven is into the religion aspect of Wicca, not the other stuff.”
Jane nodded, not sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. She certainly didn’t want to throw down with another witch in front of her mother-in-law-to-be, but she instinctively liked Dee.
“I’d say edible gold is unequivocally tacky,” Lynne pronounced from across the room, and Hattie nodded compulsively.
Dee rolled her eyes at Jane, then fingered the outline of the pentacle beneath her shirt. “There are people who think that anyone can do magic, if they do the exact rituals and concentrate just right.”
“Oh really?” Jane asked lightly, feigning detached interest. Outside, a young girl in a bright-red coat pulled her mother to the SoHo Baking Company’s window, pointing to a doll-shaped lollipop. “But you don’t think it’s possible, then?”
“No. Well. Not for me.” Dee tossed a look over her shoulder at Hattie and Lynne, as if to make sure they weren’t listening. They were the only other people in the shop. She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I do feel that there’s magic out there, and I think that some people are born being able to use it somehow. But it’s not like everyone can do magic and I’m some freak exception. I think that there are some people who can, and
they’re
the exception.”
Jane hung on Dee’s every word, which eerily echoed the ones in Gran’s letter. She felt herself warming to Dee. What were the odds that the first non-crazy person Jane met in New York would be a black-clad Wiccan baker’s assistant?
“And it even makes sense from a spiritual standpoint,” Dee continued, “because Wiccans believe that magic is natural. My theory is that maybe there’s some kind of genetic—wait, what’s that?” she interrupted herself suddenly, snapping Jane back to the moment. “Where on earth did you get that amazing ring?”
“Thanks,” Jane said, wiggling her fingers automatically; women cooing over her engagement ring was old news already. “It’s actually a little scary walking around with it in New—” She broke off. Dee wasn’t looking at the massive emerald-cut diamond on her ring finger; she was looking right past that to the smooth silver band Celine Boyle had hidden behind the mirror in Saint-Croix-sur-Amaury.
“Where did you get that?” Dee repeated, her husky voice low and urgent.
Jane opened her mouth to reply, but the voice that cut through the room was Lynne’s. “I think that about covers it,” she snapped, staring rather intently at Dee. She followed the girl’s gaze to Jane’s hand and scowled so fiercely that Jane felt a stab of actual fear.
They know,
her mind screamed irrationally.
Both of them know.
Then Lynne’s dark eyes caught Jane’s, and she smiled brightly. “Time to go, dear. I’ll fill you in on what we’ve decided, in the car.” She swept out of the door, her ivory cashmere overcoat swirling majestically around her as she shouted for Yuri.
Jane’s pulse returned to normal. She shot a quick, apologetic shrug at Dee and followed Lynne out into the fading daylight. When she looked back through the picture window, Dee was still standing there, staring intently at the silver ring on Jane’s finger.