Wish Upon a Star (25 page)

There. Why was it so easy to talk to Shawn? Why was it so simple to kiss him on the cheek, to close my fingers around his arm? Why was it so comfortable, gossiping with him, when I couldn’t bring myself to say two complete sentences to Timothy?

The Master Plan, that was why. Shawn was never going to figure into my Master Plan. I could grow an entire forest of peace lilies, monitor aquariums full of fish. I could keep dozens of cats in my apartment. But not one of those endeavors was going to lead to the day when I tried to seduce Shawn Goldberg. He was my friend, my good friend, but he was never, ever going to be anything more.

But Timothy? The more I thought about him, the more I was sure that I wanted Timothy to stick around. He was a prime candidate for stage four of the Plan. The primest candidate I’d seen since I’d let Amy talk me into the whole thing.

I’d be lucky, though, if Timothy would even spare me the time of day, after the idiot I’d made of myself that afternoon. He must think that I was as stuck-up as Martina, that I was as superior and snotty and self-centered….

I squinted into the bright sunlight as I pounded my heels into the sidewalk. Heat radiated off the streets, blasting me with a reminder of why I hated the city in summer. A fetid whiff rose from the storm sewer as I crossed Seventh Avenue.

I tried not to think about the iron set of Timothy’s shoulders. I tried not to worry about what a disaster
Menagerie!
was shaping up to be. I tried not to dwell on how I couldn’t even put “understudy” on my résumé if the production tanked on the first night, if I never walked onstage. I tried not to focus on how different the show would be if I’d been cast, if I’d been placed in the starring role. I tried not to tell myself all the things I could have said to Martina, all the advice I could have given her, all the ways I could have stood up to her imperious rudeness, if only I’d had two wits to rub together back there at Timothy’s table.

I was practically frothing at the mouth by the time I got back to the apartment. I slammed my key into the top lock.

I should have told Martina exactly what I thought, exactly how I
knew
she should perform the piece. I should have spoken to her, actress to actress.

I twisted the key, opened the lock, jammed the key into the middle one.

I should have spoken to Timothy, assured him that I valued his career, that I appreciated everything he did for us.

I threw open the middle lock, then shoved my key into the third one.

I should have told them both that I was a free and independent woman, that I had a Master Plan. That I was stronger than either of them imagined I could be. That I could be infinitely better than either imagined.

Beyond angry with myself, I kicked the door open.

A white streak shot past me.

“Dammit!” I cried, lunging for Tabitha, the cat, but I didn’t have a prayer of catching her. She flew toward the stairwell at the end of the hall with a guttural yowl that shook the corridor walls. She shot down the internal steps that led to the ground floor, the lobby and the great outdoors.

“Tabitha!” I cried. But I shouldn’t have bothered saying anything at all. My cat was long gone.

THE WORST PART was, I’d have to tell Dani what happened. I thought about just scribbling out the bad news in a note and taping it to her door. I couldn’t do that, though. I had to confess in person.

Later. I just couldn’t face her right then. I couldn’t face anyone.

Instead, I closed my apartment door, kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto my couch. Even with the Bentley’s ample air-conditioning, I thought that I just might melt into a puddle. It didn’t help that I started to get angry all over again, every single time I replayed my idiotic conversation with Martina. Why hadn’t I stood up to her? Why hadn’t I stood up for
Timothy?

I closed my eyes and forced myself to take a dozen deep breaths.

I was exhausted. I don’t know if it was my anger at Martina, or the walk from the theater in the high summer heat, or the frustration of losing Tabitha, but I could barely keep my eyes open. What did it matter if I took a nap, anyway? It wasn’t like I had anyone actually waiting for me. Counting on me. Planning on enjoying my companionship and witty conversation.

Somewhere between self-recrimination and self-pity, I actually fell asleep. I dreamed that I was stranded in a massive industrial kitchen, facing a stainless-steel conveyor belt that carried mile after mile of chilled puff pastry. My job was to complete an endless supply of turnovers. Each filling, though, was more disgusting than the last. I begged to be released from my obligation, but orders kept coming in, broadcast over a loudspeaker. I could hear endless braying laughter as I fell further and further behind—all the nightmare of an old
I Love Lucy
routine, with none of the humor.

Suffice to say, I did not have a restful night.

As the early summer dawn leaked through my living room windows, I stumbled into the kitchen to get a glass of water. It was Independence Day, the Friday of what would be a long weekend for almost everyone else in Manhattan. We
Menagerie!
actors, though, had a rehearsal scheduled. We were slipping further and further behind; the constant blocking and reblocking was taking its toll. The entire cast had grumbled when Ken announced the change, but we were committed to spending the day in the theater.

I was feeling sorry for myself, still running the tap to get something approaching a cool stream when the faucet disappeared in front of me. The faucet, the sink, the granite counter—all were gone.

“Teel!” I exclaimed through gritted teeth. The last thing I needed now was to be dragged off to the Garden.

“Special delivery!” said a crisp alto voice. Teel stood to my right, dressed as a mail carrier—summer uniform of shorts and a light blue shirt, snappy eagle logo over her breast pocket. Her mouse-brown hair was pulled back in a braid, and years of walking from door to door in all weather had left deep lines beside her muddy hazel eyes. Her skin was dark with a natural tan, and freckles accented her forearms. Her tattoo stood out against her wrist, the golden flames complementing her bronzed flesh. A large leather satchel slumped at her feet, letters cascading over the side.

“I’m not expecting any special delivery,” I said, biting off my words. I had absolutely no desire to stand in front of the invisible Garden with my genie. I wanted to get back to my apartment, to my glass of water, to my day-long rehearsal.

“But I am,” Teel said, apparently unconcerned about anything I might desire.

Ranting wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Raving, either. I dug my toe into the ground that I couldn’t see and asked with false patience, “What delivery are you expecting?”

“I’m so glad you asked! I’m expecting to be delivered into the Garden. Today. To see Jaze.”

“I’m not ready to make my fourth wish yet,” I said automatically.

“You should wish today. Rates might be going up tomorrow.”

“Rates? What are you talking about?”

She shrugged and admitted, “I don’t know. Isn’t that just something the postal service says? Aren’t rates always going up?”

I wasn’t in the mood for witty banter, for genie fun and games. “Teel, if you don’t mind, I was in the middle of something back home.”

“Really?” She kicked the bag at her feet, sending envelopes flying. I realized that they were all blank. Empty. Meaningless. “What could possibly be more important than helping your genie achieve her life’s goal?”

“Life’s goal? You go into the Garden and that’s it? That’s the end of the magical road for you?”

She looked uncomfortable. “Well,
love’s
goal, then. I go to the Garden and then I come out refreshed. Better able to help motivated wishers. Like you used to be.”

I sighed at the criticism. “I promise, Teel. When I figure out what I want for my fourth wish, you’ll be the very first to know.”

“Some people are dedicated to their tasks,” she chided. “‘Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.’“

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve seen that on the post office across from Penn Station.”

“It’s true, you know. We genies strive to complete our appointed rounds quickly.
When you humans help out
.”

I refused to rise to the bait. “It’s not like you’re just sitting here all the time, waiting for me. I understand that you took care of Justin yesterday.”

“So?” She sounded defensive.

“So, I’m not sure I like you hanging out with my nephew. You’re not exactly a good influence, you know.”

“What better influence could there be than a public servant, delivering mail, bringing messages of good cheer to all and sundry?”

“You aren’t taking care of him in the form of a mailman,” I pointed out. “Teel, you
know
that Justin can be wild. What would happen if something went wrong? What if he fell off the roof again? If he really hurt himself?”

She pinned me with those hazel eyes. “Then I’d pull you in. You could make your fourth wish and everyone would be happy.”

It wasn’t a threat. Not exactly. I was the one who’d brought up the topic, who’d even initiated the thought of Justin being injured. Nevertheless, goose bumps rose on my arms. I rubbed hard and said, “Don’t even think about it, Teel. You can’t put a little boy’s safety at risk, just so you can get inside your stupid Garden.”

She snorted. “We mail carriers are experts at the fine print, even if you aren’t.”

“The fine print?”

“Section thirty-seven of your contract?” I wasn’t about to admit that I hadn’t read that section in detail. Or any other, for that matter. She scoffed, “Come on—it’s nowhere near as complicated as calculating international postage. As your genie, I’m contractually bound not to injure you or anyone in your immediate family. And yes, Justin counts as immediate,” she clarified before I could ask. “I promise—he’s perfectly safe with me. Besides, he does everything I tell him to do. I taught him how to ride his bike yesterday afternoon.”

“He’s been doing that for two years.”

“Not without training wheels.”

Wow. That
was
something. Amy had tried to teach Justin so that they could surprise Derek with a video, but my nephew just couldn’t get the hang of it. He got nervous when he went too fast, and he scuffed the toes of his shoes along the ground. Amy had given up after replacing two pairs of hole-worn Keds.

“I’m impressed,” I said grudgingly.

“Impressed enough to make a wish?” Teel glanced back at the bag of mail, as if to remind me of the meaning of responsibility. Of obligation. When that action didn’t draw an immediate response, she looked back at the Garden. “Can you believe it?” she asked wistfully. “The freesia never blooms this close to the fence.” She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.

“Nice try,” I said. For all I knew, there weren’t freesias anywhere near us. In any case, I wasn’t going to make my fourth wish, just because my genie thought the air smelled nice.

Now, Teel-the-doctor had a much more intriguing pitch. He was easy on the eyes. Easy on the lips.

I thought about telling Mail Carrier Teel that I wouldn’t talk to her if she didn’t switch over to her doctor form. A tug on her earlobe, and she could do it. I could even make her kiss me, if I wanted to do that. Dr. Teel had been eager enough, in the hospital. In Garden Variety. Eager enough, and totally disconnected from the emotional turmoil of my Master Plan.

I shook my head. What was I thinking? What sort of person would I be, if I made my genie do my bidding, solely for my physical gratification? Especially when I had absolutely no intention of giving up my fourth wish. Not yet.

Especially when I was giving so much thought to bringing Timothy into the Master Plan—at least, when I got to the “man” stage. In a year or so, that was, if I considered myself to have completed plant, fish and acquisition of cat, despite my rather obvious failures on all three fronts.

I made my voice as hard as I knew how, applying every acting trick in my arsenal. “Teel, send me home now.” When she hesitated, I pushed. “
Now
. Or I will never make that fourth wish.”

With an alacrity I’d never seen her exercise before, Teel raised her fingers to her earlobe. Two sharp tugs, and I was back in my living room, facing the sunrise alone.

Shaking my head, I dragged myself into the bathroom. Waiting for the water to heat up for my shower, I looked at Tabitha’s litter box. I really felt bad about letting the cat escape. I couldn’t imagine what I was going to say to Dani. And there was absolutely no way that I could tell Amy what had happened. It was one thing for me to lose a plant and a goldfish—that could happen to anyone, Master Plan or not. But to lose a cat, as well?

I shampooed my hair twice, as if lathering, rinsing and repeating would be enough to turn my entire life around. I knew myself well enough to recognize that I was working hard to delay something, to avoid an obligation. I towel-dried my hair, pinning it off my neck in an attempt to survive the summer heat. I slipped on a cotton sundress, hoping that its cool mint plaid would be comforting in the fifth, or sixth, or seventh hour of rehearsal. I decided to skip makeup. It was far too hot for makeup.

And then, I’d run out of excuses. It was time to deal with the mess I’d created yesterday. It was time to deal with Timothy.

I collected my tote, double-checking to make sure that I had my keys before I flung open the front door. And I almost tripped over the cat lying in the hallway.

“Tabitha?” I asked, as the calico leaped to her feet. She chirped a friendly greeting and began to weave herself between my ankles. “What are you doing here?”

Of course she didn’t answer. I looked up and down the hallway, but I couldn’t see any sign of human intervention. Tabitha must have finished her walkabout, only to realize that life was a whole lot better with reliable food, fresh water and a nice, soft bed.

I glanced at Dani’s door. Now I was grateful that I hadn’t followed through on my first impulse the night before, that I hadn’t left a note explaining how irresponsible I had been. Dani never needed to know that I’d let Tabitha out, that our cat had been wandering the busy streets of Greenwich Village on her own.