The Sorceress (15 page)

C
armen tended to stretch the truth. The visiting dignitaries turned out to be the senator's old college pal, Paul Gooding, and two blondes—one was a strawberry blonde who did something important on Capitol Hill, and had gotten her positions in Washington, thanks to her connection with Senator Provost.

The other was a dirty blonde with a noticeable boob job.

Carmen had pointed out that the boob job blonde was the former nanny, who was now his personal assistant.

Carmen went home after serving them, and Jen could tell there was a change in the atmosphere downstairs. The guests, becoming more animated by the minute, were no doubt, enjoying cocktails.

Hearing the constant tinkling of stemware, along with her many jumbled thoughts and conflicting emotions, was stretching every one of her nerves. Had she actually imagined seeing the naked woman on Ethan's computer? Was she hallucinating when she saw what looked like a flesh and blood woman running on Piper's Bridge? How could something that weird happen twice?

Their voices grew louder. Just what were they celebrating? Jen wondered, closing the novel she couldn't concentrate on. She flung Ethan an irritated glance. He was parked in front of his computer as usual.

Bored with Ethan's company, Jen decided to entertain herself by snooping on the senator and his friends. She rose from her appointed chair—a rocker—something the future Ms. Vice President thought was an appropriate seat for a nanny. She then slipped out of Ethan's bedroom and tiptoed downstairs.

Jen crept along a wall toward the dining room and then halted, standing stock still when she was close enough to hear each voice clearly.

“How's it feel to be this close to the White House, Danny Boy?” she heard one of the blondes say in a voice that reeked with flirtation.

“Danny Boy!”
Jen mimicked, her expression sour. The woman sounded self-assured, and too damn familiar with the senator, to be a casual friend. She wondered if the dirty blonde would call him
Danny Boy
if Catherine Provost was within earshot. She doubted it.

That dirty blonde and her strawberry counterpart would be appropriately respectful if the woman of the house were around. Jen didn't know what was worse—having Catherine at home barking orders or having to endure the knowledge that two hussies were having a wonderful time while Jen was being treated like an outcast.

She couldn't help envying the blondes, and wishing she were an invited guest instead of lowly, hired help. Being a nanny sucked.

“I'll tell you how Danny Boy feels. He feels outmaneuvered and de-balled!” Paul Gooding bellowed. Drunk as a skunk, Paul's voice was loud and cocksure. Paul and the senator were as different as night and day, but were as close as brothers.

“Not true,” Senator Provost laughingly protested. “I'm proud of Catherine and looking forward to supporting her all the way through her own run for president in eight years.” The senator's
voice was crisp and eloquent; his was the only voice that hadn't started to slur.

“What about your political career?” Strawberry blonde asked, her tone petulant.

“I'm trying to talk him into switching parties and running against his wife,” Paul retorted. “That would sure spice up politics. Maybe in the bedroom, too. Hey, Danny?”

“You're a sick-o,” Senator Provost responded, sounding a little embarrassed that his drunken bud had had let the cat out of the bag; revealing the true nature of his relationship with his wife.

Now the two blondes were privy to the fact that the senator and his wife's love life was a disaster. The political couple had separate bedrooms. It wasn't unusual for a wealthy couple to maintain separate bedrooms.

For all Jen knew, the pair may have been slipping in and out of each other's rooms for comfort or sex. But Jen suspected that her employers did not have a sex life. At least, not together. And apparently, the senator had been complaining to Paul. Now the blondes knew.
Drats!
One of them was going to try to snatch up Jen's dream man.

Jen was sick of listening to all their drunken banter and witticisms. Feeling ostracized and angry now, she quietly moved away from the dining room and hurried up the stairs.

Back in Ethan's bedroom, she marched toward the child and clicked off the computer. “It's bedtime,” she said sternly and then exhaled a long-suffering sigh that warned the boy to not give her a hard time.

But, on second thought, maybe an episode from Ethan would bring the dinner festivities to a speedy conclusion. After taking a gander at Ethan in a full-swing episode, those blonde harlots would never set foot in the Provost household again. And after
all the guests had fled, the distraught senator would drag himself upstairs to his lonely bed.

Jen closed her eyes dreamily.
I'll comfort you, Dan.
Yes, she called him Dan in her fantasy world. Dan was more fitting and much more dignified than Danny Boy.

Ethan's breathing suddenly changed to rattling and wheezing. Jen let out a small mewl of disgust.

“Do not start!” she warned. “I'm not taking any more crap off of you, Ethan!”

There, she'd called him by his given name right to his miserable little face. Expecting Ethan to throw a fit, Jen calmly waited for the beginning of an episode.

But he didn't tense up or start screaming. What he did was far, far worse.

Ethan looked at her through soulless eyes and displayed a smile that was so chilling, Jen's blood ran cold, and her teeth began to chatter.

“My name is Xavier!” the boy said. His voice sounded like a grumpy old man's.

“Wh-what did you say?” Jen's heart hammered.

“Call me Xavier.” His voice emerged in a horrible wheezing, angry whisper.

Jen gasped in shock.

And fear.

Satisfied that his words had a powerful impact, the child's lips stretched into another cold and deadly smile, letting his nanny know that he was fully present—totally alert and not speaking nonsense while in the throes of an alleged episode.

Unwilling to hear the child speak another word, Jen turned and high-tailed it out of his bedroom. Her pulse pounded in her ears as she made fast tracks down the hallway, and then trotted down the stairs.

She barged into the dining room without a second thought to how awkward and unattractive she felt in the presence of the elegant senator and his ultra-sophisticated friends.

“Senator Provost,” she said in shaky voice. “Can I speak to you?”

Looking both amused and lecherous, the senator's best friend sized Jen up, undressing her with glittering eyes. The two blondes stared at Jen with disapproval. The senator rose. After excusing himself, he ushered Jen out of the dining room. Once they were able to speak privately, he asked, “What's the problem?”

“Ethan spoke.”

He squinted at her. “What?”

“Your son just spoke. Clearly.”

A bewildered smile and a head shake. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. He freaked me out. I…I don't know if I can continue—”

“What did he say?”

“He gave himself a new name.”

Senator Provost eyed her in disbelief and then let out a small, amused laugh.

“Seriously. Clear as a bell, he told me not to call him Ethan.”

He didn't believe her, but Jen didn't care. “He wants to be called Xavier,” she said, her voice low and confidential.

“Jen, this isn't funny. Ethan can't talk.”

“Come with me. I'll prove it.”

Upstairs, they entered Ethan's room together. He'd rebooted the computer and, as usual, the child was in front of the monitor, his back to them as he stared at bridges.

“Xavier,” Jen said, feeling powerful like she was responsible for Ethan's ability to speak. Ethan didn't turn around. He remained mute.

“Don't call him that,” the senator chastised, quickly approaching his son. “Hey, buddy.” He bent down to the child's
level. “How's it going? Enjoying looking at those bridges, huh?”

Ethan, his body rocking, his eyes intense and focused on the screen, didn't respond to his father's presence.

“Xavier!” Jen's voice cracked. She placed her hands on the child's shoulder, trying to still his annoying movement, but he thrust forward, forcing her hands to slide off of his small shoulders.

“He doesn't talk. You can't bully him into accepting a name change.”

“He told me to call him Xavier. I wouldn't make up something like that. I swear to God…” Jen raised her hand in earnest.

The senator regarded her with a look of weary patience. “You're overwrought…working around the clock is getting to you and I apologize. I'm going to call the agency in the morning and get another nanny.”

“Are you firing me?” Jen asked, panicked. “I don't want to lose my job.”

“No, no. I'm not firing you. Ethan requires two nannies. It was thoughtless of Catherine and me to put you in this situation with no backup…no support.” He smiled at Jen; his eyes were warm and compassionate.

A few minutes ago, she'd been ready to pack it up and go back to Centerville with her tail between her legs. Now, she was prepared to hang in there a little longer—for the sake of the internship. Maybe her imagination
was
getting the best of her, she decided.

Senator Provost patted his son on his shoulders. He looked at Jen for a few moments. There was sympathy in his eyes. “Hang in there, Jen,” he said with a sigh, and then left the room to rejoin his guests.

Getting Ethan to bed had been awful. He demonstrated his refusal by stiffening his body and stretching his lips into a tight line. Jen was used to that behavior, but it was the fear that those lips might part and emit sound—words—spoken in an otherworldly rasp.

Sure, she could chalk it up to an overactive imagination later, but while she was in the moment, she was terrified. Jen laid him on his bed with his clothes on. She'd change him into his pajamas after he fell asleep.

In her own bedroom now, Jen massaged her forehead, stressed. Dealing with Ethan had been bad enough, and as if her nerves weren't frazzled enough, the unexpected buzz that caused her cell phone to wobble on the nightstand gave her a terrible jolt.

She picked it up, expecting to see Catherine's name. Jen squinted. She didn't recognize the number of the caller. So many strange things had occurred, it seemed entirely possible that the ghost lady could be calling.

Jen shuddered as she envisioned the female apparition sprinting across the bridge, this time with a cell phone pressed against her ear. Jen gulped down a knot of fear.

“Hello?” she whispered. She was going to freak out and smash the phone against the wall if she heard the slightest bit of distortion or any spooky crackling sounds that were indicative of a phone call from hell.

“
J
en?” It was a male voice. No distortion, no crackling sounds. His voice was friendly and very familiar. A wave of relief washed over her.

“Yes, this is Jen.”

“Hi, this is Rome. Hope I didn't wake you.” His voice was silk. Conflicting emotions raced through Jen…relief that ghost lady didn't have her number and agitation at the audacity of this pushy policeman.

Why was he harassing her? Chestnut Hill was pretty peaceful, with a low crime rate, and obviously his job was not fast-paced and stressful or he wouldn't have had time to shoot the breeze when she'd fallen in the mud. But was he that desperate to make an arrest that he telephoned a suspected victim, trying to persuade her to press charges against an imaginary assailant?

“I'm awake,” she admitted in a sullen tone. Hot cop or not… she wasn't going to allow him to sweet talk her into telling him what really happened. “I see dead people” might be a powerful line in the movies but if those words came out of her mouth, Hot Cop would think she was a basket case.

“Just checking on you. I waited for you to call, but I got the hint. You're the type of female who likes the man to make the first move. Am I right?”

Jen was annoyed by his self-assurance. “I'm confused. Is this a social call or part of your investigation?” She could have used stronger wording, but Rome was cute enough to get away with it with a mere pat on the wrist.

“Social? Is that a polite way of asking if this is a booty call?” He laughed. Jen didn't. “It's social,” he said when he realized she wasn't amused. “But it's also business.”

“Oh, really.”

“Yeah. See, I like female mud wrestling. I thought you might want to get into the circuit.”

“What?”

“The mud wrestling circuit. Need a manager?”

She laughed. A sincere, from-the-tummy guffaw. She hadn't laughed heartily since…since before she had gotten kicked out of school. Feeling perked up, she said, “You're funny. I didn't have you pegged as the comedic type.”

“I have my moments. So why did you decide to go out for a run today?”