That Magic Mischief (31 page)

Annabelle rose, angry all over again. “You said it yourself, ‘magic isn’t magic’! Time healed my broken heart, not all that hocus-pocus, and all those people called me for work because I am good at what I do, and I have a meeting with an agent because she saw my work and liked it, not because — ” She hesitated, unsure. “Not because you had anything to do with it. Right?”

Callie began to fade from sight. “You are on your path, and I seem to be on mine.” The Pooka’s voice became as faint as her presence. “If I had any power at all, it was only for the good. And I have no idea where it is that I am headed. I wanted only the best for you, Annabelle, my charge, my responsibility … my girl. And now … “ Her voice trailed off almost completely. “If you could find it in your heart to do me a good turn, there are seven days left. One week to save me from a fate over which I have no control. Annabelle!” Callie raised her voice in a plea. “Please! You’re the only one who can — ”

And she disappeared. Annabelle stood, useless, alone in her living room, a lump in her throat, guilt building in her heart.

Dammit. She might have to talk that Irishman again after all.

That ought to cover it. Callie rolled onto her back, a sleek, healthy panther, and licked her paws smugly. Controlling humans of this soft-hearted sort was almost too easy for a Pooka of such infinite talents.

Any day now … any day …

Standing on the sidewalk in front of the building on West Thirtieth, Annabelle was about to shut the flip case for her phone and put it in her pocket; after two gleeful phone calls to Maria Grazia and Lorna, she was fighting the urge to make a third. She compromised, snapping the cover shut, but keeping it in her hand. She looked up at the facade behind her and smiled.
What a difference
, she thought,
a little over sixty days can make.

She turned east down Thirtieth, and slowed a bit as she looked up toward the post office. Less than two months ago, she’d sent off yet another manuscript to yet another disinterested party; today, she turned away, head held high, the newest client of one of the city’s best agencies, officially on the working roster for Image/Art International. And, might she add, in the possession of a contract, which she would, after a considered perusal, sign, and in doing so take on an enormous and enormously exciting blog/book project.

The subject of which, coincidentally, was documenting Dan Minnehan and his farewell tour, which was taking place in Ireland.

She wouldn’t have to come across for a ticket after all — she had to leave on Saturday.

The second to last day of her Pooka’s free existence.

Damn it
, thought Annabelle.
I really am going to have to call Jamie
.

• • •

I am really going to have call Annabelle,
thought Jamie, as he hung up the phone. It hadn’t sunk in, the content of his recently finished call, and he tossed the portable handset onto a pile of newspapers.

Wasn’t it lunchtime? Why not eat some lunch? He opened the refrigerator and was greeted with an unusual sight. Neither hide nor hair of an edible object. He must be tragically distracted, he brooded, and he slammed the door shut. Slightly moldy bread and the dregs of some jam would have to do for now. He had, it appeared, exactly sixteen coffee beans, enough to make half a shot of black espresso. He turned the bean grinder on full throttle, and succeeded in drowning out his thoughts for a moment.

He should call Maeve, except she’d probably figure out that he’d blown it with the girl. Give the mother a ring, let her get down to the business of ringing half the country.

He’d gotten the funding. He’d gotten the funding! No, he was too preoccupied by the other business to really give a healthy whoop and holler.

Maybe all she’d wanted
was
a bit of a snog. But Jamie knew, in his heart of hearts, that it wasn’t going to be possible to stop there.

• • •

Annabelle paused to withdraw a small note pad from her purse. There was a lot to do in the ensuing days, and mental notes were not going to cut.
I,
thought Annabelle,
love making lists.

Especially lists that have to do with travel and preparing to work on an international gig.

My God,
she thought.
I am going to be travelling around the whole of Ireland for a year.
I am going to have to:

1 - Get my laptop serviced, just in case

2 - Sublet my place

3 - Do laundry

4 - Change money

…

Her mind wandered. She’d need a home base, probably in Dublin. Looking around at the humungous buildings surrounding her on all sides, she thought: I’d hate to move to Ireland and live in another city. Her mind wandered, and she had a vision of a tiny little house on the side of a hill, and the sea, and a horse. A horse? She’d never ridden a horse! She’d never so much as touched a horse in her entire life!

5 - Forward all her mail to Maria Grazia.

6 - Open an account in Ireland??

7 - Ring Ja —

She looked down at the phone that she was still clutching in her hand. He’d
die
if he knew about this! Dan
Minne
han, she could almost hear him shout! Under different circumstances, she’d maybe have seen if it was okay to look up his sisters. Under different circumstances, she’d have called already. Under different circumstances, maybe they’d be celebrating tonight …

8 - New carry case for her Mac, and bigger bag with wheels for clothes.

• • •

He’d have to get someone in to the place. No way was he giving up this lease — and he thought he remembered hearing that a couple of cousins were moving over in August. Jamie went into the studio, and went right back out again. How in the name of God was he going to get all that sorted? Luckily, he had only to go over for a few weeks, sign some papers, bring Sinann … He went back in to the studio and stayed, his empty little espresso cup dangling from a finger, and he walked around and around his prize-winning work. When he came face-to-face with it — her — he knew that he had to give the girl a bell.

A long gloomy weekend had passed, and he had eventually managed to rationalize his churlish behavior, and then rationalize himself right back into more self-chastisement. If he hadn’t been so spooked, he
could
have had a pretty feckin’ fabulous night, if that dress had been any indication,
and
could have been able to talk to Annabelle like a human being, not some kind of Neanderthal tosser.

Sure she gave as good as she got, and he had a little laugh, a very little one, at his own expense. Disorganized, was he? He’d show her! He strode out toward his wardrobe, and pulled out a heavy-duty metal-framed backpack, and started throwing clothes into it.
I’ll be packed and ready to go in no time!

• • •

Annabelle traveled a few more blocks, and paused again, on the edge of a planter near Sixth Avenue.

21- Call Jamie?

Nerves about the now-successful meeting, and guilt over Callie, from whom she had not seen nor heard all weekend, had pushed the Friday night debacle out of her mind. She had, at some earlier stage, agreed with everything he had said — in fact, had said it herself. However, it had royally sucked to have it aimed directly at her, especially when she was showing so much skin and practically crippling herself in those flippin’ shoes. Plus, it also sucked right now because she didn’t feel like calling him, even though she needed him, because he had acted like she was some kind of marriage-mad freak bent on dragging him down the aisle whether he wanted to or not.

21 - Call Jamie? She crossed that out, and scribbled over it a few times for good measure.

21 - Save Callie.

• • •

Just ring her!
Jamie lay on his bed, staring as best he could out of the grimy skylight. The backpack lay abandoned on the floor. What was happening with that Pooka? He rolled over a stack of laundry he’d yet to put away, and then grabbed the lot and shoved it into his bag. There! Done! He ought to buzz the girl and let her know that
he
had seen to his packing already, ha, ha, ha!

I’m losing what little sense I have left
, he thought, getting up off the bed and searching for the phone. He’d just had the thing ten minutes ago …

• • •

Annabelle ran across the avenue against the light, and was treated to a symphony of outraged honking. She panted a bit, and stopped,
again
, this time at the top of the stairway leading down to the F train. She flipped open the case of her phone
again
, and stared at the tiny screen, thumbing through the electronic phone book …

• • •

Ah, right, pile of newspapers. But where was her card? He patted the pockets of his jeans, and shoved around a few piles of papers on his kitchen countertop, and then saw it propped up on the stove … for some reason. I should probably ring her on the mobile …

• • •

No way,
Annabelle decided, and erased the ten digit number that began with 718 —

• • •

Way to go,
thought Jamie as he pressed the last number in the string that began with 917 —

• • •

Forget it.
Annabelle shut her phone once and for all, and made her way down into the subway.

• • •

Feck’s sake.
Out of coverage. Jamie threw down the phone, this time onto a nearby chair, and went back into his studio.

• • •

Arrrrrrrrgggggggggh!
wailed a highly-cheesed-off Pooka, watching from a vantage point high in the ether. Never leave a human to do the job of a spirit!

“Oh, just one more. One measly little bottle more.”

“Lorna! I’ve got so much stuff to do tomorrow!”

“Maria Grazia, you agree with me, don’t you? One more, one eensy weensy bottle more … ” Lorna, pretending to die from dehydration, fell over out of sight.

“How did she end up
behind
the scenes?” Maria Grazia gave in and did one of the things that she did best, and signaled for waitstaff.

“I could have been an actress. I decided that I had too many brains.” Lorna was a bit tipsy; desperate to make up for that Dom P that Annabelle’s Pooka had provided, she’d left her Amex behind the bar of Nobu and let it rip. While she wasn’t feeling reckless enough to break the bank, the wine had flowed freely as they celebrated Annabelle’s big signing and her imminent departure.

Annabelle held her head in her hands. “I have so much to do tomorrow!” She looked at her friends, and wearily toasted, yet again. “To me, yeah, yeah. There are at least four key things, five, maybe, that I haven’t accomplished yet, through no fault of my own, I might add. Where’s my — “ She opened her little notebook. “Tecserve won’t have my Mac back until tomorrow, I have to drop the keys to my place off with one of Kelli’s mimes, I have to go see Kelli before I go, and I have to pack.”

That
got Maria Grazia and Lorna’s attention. “You’re joking,” said Lorna.

“You haven’t packed?” Maria Grazia was so surprised she dropped her fork.

“I’ve been packing every day, but every morning when I wake up, my stuff, mysteriously, is all over the place!” Annabelle shoved her notebook back in her bag.

“Is it, uh, your friend?” Maria Grazia inquired delicately.

“Some friend,” Annabelle huffed. “More like a huge pain in the — ”

“Be nice to your Pooka!” Lorna roared. Heads turned. “She has been working terribly hard for you, and looking out for you, and doing lovely things like leaving incredibly nice bottles of champagne in your fridge and, and confetti and then there’s what’shisname, Goya — ”

Maria Grazia shoved some of the lobster seviche in Lorna’s mouth. Annabelle sank down a bit in her seat. “Okay, okay,” she soothed. “She’s a great friend and I’m sure she’s not deliberately trying to drive me crazy.”

Lorna nodded, satisfied, and Maria Grazia signaled again, pointing at the coffee pot.

“So what about Jamie?” Maria Grazia leaned toward Annabelle while propping up an increasingly wobbly Lorna, who wouldn’t be so drunk if she had actually eaten the dinner she’d ordered.

Annabelle shrugged. “He hasn’t called me, which would be his responsibility for acting as though I was some scheming … witch.” She looked out the window, out at the night, her last night in New York.
For a while
, she thought to herself quickly.
Last night for a while, not forever …
“Maybe I did come on a bit strong.”

“Well, he had it coming to him. But you do have some unfinished business.” Lorna glared at the cup of coffee that had materialized before her.

Annabelle turned her head from the window, and covered the street side of her face with her hand. “Speaking of unfinished business … ” and she ducked down a fraction again as Wilson entered the restaurant.

“Oh,
shit
,” Lorna howled, and Maria Grazia forced her to take a swallow of coffee. Annabelle stared straight ahead, the feeling of Wilson’s presence burning into the back of her head. “Where is he?” she asked Maria Grazia, whose eyes were imperceptibly scanning the joint.

“He’s over at the back. Alone,” MG added, anticipating the next question.

Annabelle turned her head to the left, and saw him reflected in a mirror hanging on the wall next to their table. There he was. Big as life. And, she realized, at the same table he’d chosen when they had dined here on their first real date. It had been two days after they’d met at the gallery opening, and she remembered that she’d been running late, but not on purpose, hadn’t intended to make an entrance, and she remembered the way he’d risen to his feet when she’d entered the place, and how —

Nah. Who cared what had happened? She smoothed out non-existent wrinkles in her sexy off-the-shoulder top, fluffed out her bob, and rose. Maria Grazia gaped, and Lorna sat back and stole a sip from her champagne flute, which she had hidden beneath the table. “Go on,” she growled. “Go get ’im!”