by test
“Anna, I … darn, I wish I didn't have to leave you a message. I need to talk with you in person. Could you stop by tonight on your way home? I need to … hmm … well, I'll talk with you about it later.” Click! Then nothing but dial tone sounded in my ears.
I stared at the phone a moment in disbelief. She did it again!
This wasn't the first time Celia had left me a cryptic message. Sometimes I think she got a kick out of it and left these messages just to wind me up.
I played back the message twice more, hoping to hear something I had missed which would shed some light on why she called, but it was the same mysterious message each time. I almost picked up the phone to call her but decided just to stop by after work.
I spared a momentary thought on how best to get to Celia's place tonight. I was slightly southwest of her now. Celia lived in the Pearl District, it was a real bitch to try and find a WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 9
parking spot there. But, if I headed over right after work, I might get lucky and snag a place outside of the new sushi restaurant around the corner from her building.
I wondered what she wanted to talk about, I hoped she wasn't planning on moving again, because I had promised myself, no more moving, I liked Portland.
Celia had uprooted us and moved to what seemed like every mid sized city in the country when I was growing up. We even spent a summer in Halifax when I was nine years old.
As much as I would miss Celia, if she had any plans to move she would have to make them without me this time. Next month would mark my two year anniversary in Portland, I was staying.
A heavy hand on my shoulder made me look up and forget my musings on Celia and her mysterious message.
Guy Small stood behind me with an arrogant smile on his face. Guy was the office lecher, every place had one I thought with resentment. His father was the managing partner of the firm and in a burst of nepotism had given Guy the job title, Management Liaison, a six figure salary and the authority to do nothing important.
He spent most of the day playing minesweeper on the computer in his tiny office, leering at the lesser support staff and berating the bicycle messengers for tracking in mud.
I shrugged his sweaty hand from my shoulder and waited, as patiently as possible, to hear what he had to say.
“I heard you had a wild weekend.”
His smile was wide and I watched as the hands in his pockets pushed out and he jiggled his manly parts at me in an obscene (sensual, in his mind) way.
Guy's cologne was so strong I had to breathe slowly through my mouth to keep from gagging on it. He was a handsome man, if you liked the player type who referred to all women as bitches and liked to 'hang with his posse' on the weekends. I didn't like him at all.
“I don't know what you mean, Mr. Small.” He had asked me to call him Guy on several occasions, but I was on to his game after hearing about the way he had cornered one of the receptionists in the break room on the forty second floor. Mr. Small is what I called him and if the talk around the office was true, he was small in more than just name.
I turned my back on him and neatened a stack of papers on my desk, shuffled a few files around, basically, I tried to look busy, too busy to talk to him. I was hoping he would take the hint that I, unlike him, had a real job to do and needed to get back to it.
“You went on a blind date,” he said with a low laugh and a suggestive wink.
Even his laugh grated on my nerves. Most days I could handle Guy. As long as you knew where you stood with him, never gave him any encouragement and treated him like the nasty pervert he was, he was manageable.
I looked back with a sigh, he was still standing behind me. He wore cowboy boots with ridiculously high heels, a diamond the size of a blueberry on his pinky finger and a smug smile.
“Yes, I did, it was lovely.” Actually, as usual, it had been a total disaster. Unlike all the other dates, this one hadn't been entirely my fault.
Allen was a nice guy. He was handsome, had a steady job, lived in his own apartment and didn't spend the evening talking about his evil ex-girlfriend or his fitness regimen.
We had a lot in common; a love of reading, swimming and French food. There was just one fly in the ointment; he was gay. I had begun to suspect when he told me about the six times he watched Steel Magnolias. Allen was a huge fan of Sally Fields, but the way he perked up at WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 10
the sight of our handsome food server, Mario, really clinched it for me.
I spent the rest of the evening listening to increasingly flirtatious banter between Allen and Mario, an aspiring artist who had just moved to Portland from Chicago with a boyfriend who ditched him for a truck driver. All in all, it was not my most successful evening, but it was nice to see Allen and Mario hookup.
When I had a minute alone with Leah I would give her hell for trying to match me up with her 'super nice' cousin.
“Where did you hear that?” I asked with a narrow eyed look. My morning was starting to look a little less rosy.
In addition to the whoring around and computer games, Guy was a gossip. He loved to hear it and liked to spread it even more.
“A little birdy told me. You look a little tired today, worn out, know what I mean? I guess your date went into overtime.” He made the ridiculous sound of a game buzzer and laughed at his own joke.
I was trying to think of a clever comeback that didn't include the words, asshole and piss off, when Lillian's voice called out from her office, “Anna, could you come here for a minute?”
I gave him a thin smile and skirted around him on my way to Lillian's office. Her wall of accomplishments, every attorney had one, was covered in pictures of herself interspersed with her degrees and Oregon State Bar License. I glanced at the pictures of Lillian with the mayor, Lillian on a yacht with her fiancé, Martin. Lillian posing next to her red Porsche, Lillian on top of Mount St. Helen's. In every picture she had a blinding smile showing off her impossibly white teeth.
All the photos were professionally framed and matted in exotic hardwoods. Nothing shabby was ever allowed into her office. I had once seen her reduce one of the cleaning staff to tears because of a streak on her window.
Lillian was at her desk and holding out a paper towards me with an accusatory frown, “I thought I told you to have this recorded on Friday?”
She wasn't really asking a question, I could tell by the insincere sound of confusion in her voice that she was waiting to pounce, but I had to say something. I had a moment to peek at the paper she was holding and recognized the ornate writing at the top.
“The Meyers' revised Quitclaim Deed?” I asked with my best curious, but not alarmed look.
Cool and calm was the best way to handle Lillian. If you showed the slightest hint of fear she would grind you into a quivering mass good only for a year of quiet work in the basement assisting in long term file storage.
She shook it at me with a snarl of frustration, uh oh, she was really coming unglued now,
“Yes, yes, the Meyers' Deed! What else would I have you record? I'm not a fucking Real Estate slob who spends my day holding my clients hands while they close escrow on their shitty little dream homes!” She was really on a roll now, this could turn into a ten minute rant if I wasn't careful.
I saw her drawing breath to further impress on me how much I had disappointed her, was useless and had better not do it again or I would be fired, fired, fired. I had heard it all before, last Wednesday actually, when I wasn't able to get her a dinner reservation at Saskia's.
I interrupted quickly with a smile and said, “Lillian, Friday was a holiday. The Recorder's Office was closed, as were the courts and banks .... ” my voice trailed off at her look WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 11
of boredom. Her shell pink fingernails drummed on the desktop as she slanted me a look that would be more appropriate for someone who has just found out that the small crunchy things on the top of the salad they just ate were deep fried co
ckroaches instead of the sugared pecans they ordered.
This was a woman who had once asked me to call the airline and ask them to 'hold the flight' for her since she was going to be late. The recorder's office couldn't be closed when Lillian Van Leuwen had business there.
“I'll get it couriered over this morning,” I said with a firm nod.
Lillian tossed the papers at me with a growl, I caught them and turned quickly away grinding my teeth impotently.
I was still muttering under my breath when Patty stopped by my desk. Patty worked in Human Resources, she was the first person I met at the firm when I interviewed for the job and she warned me that Lillian had had five assistants in the last fourteen months. Sometimes I wished I'd kept looking, but with just two years of office experience and no college degree, there weren't many jobs that paid as well as this one.
“Can you get away early for lunch today?” She whispered low enough that no one
nearby could hear us.
Delilah, the secretary in the next cubicle, was a stickler for rules and regulations. Just last month she tattled to Mr. Small that I was wearing tennis shoes in the office when I forgot to trade out my sneakers for a pair of pumps after being ambushed by Lillian as I got into work. I ended up with four copies of the office dress code and several well meaning warnings from my co-workers.
“Probably not. Why?” I asked with a smile at the outfit Patty was wearing. She had on a loud purple and green flowered dress and had, bizarrely, decided to wear one purple and one green shoe, dyed to match the tropical print.
Patty had some strange fashion ideas, this was actually one of the more tame outfits I had seen her in. Sometimes she mixed animal prints; a leopard print blouse with a zebra striped vinyl skirt was her favorite 'man bait' outfit. In some alternate universe, her style was tasteful and understated.
The three charm bracelets she wore on her left arm jangled as she pushed her dark hair back and leaned closer to me to whisper, “The foundation is going in at the new Geiger Building.
We could watch the construction guys at work. If we get there early enough we can get to the bench before those trash whores from the bank hog the whole place.” Patty's face was flushed with excitement.
She had a thing for construction guys. I think it was the tool belts and steel-toed boots. I didn't like sitting on the bench ogling the men, but I usually didn't have anything better to do on my lunch hour so I went anyway. Leah went too, but she spent the time arguing with Chip on her cell phone.
“I can't. Lillian's on the warpath already. She has court tomorrow and she'll be a bear until it's over. Is Leah going?”
“No, she sprained her ankle hiking this weekend. Oh, hey, how did the date go with the hunky Allen?” Her eyebrows wiggled suggestively and I stifled a laugh.
“Dreadful. He's everything a girl could want in a man; handsome, intelligent, sensitive, interested in art and French food—”
She interrupted me with a braying laugh, “Oh, he's gay. Ha! Ha! I told Leah he was!”
WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 12
Patty smiled, proud of her infallible gay-dar.
“Thanks a lot. You should have clued me in too.”
I was frowning in aggravation remembering all the time I spent getting ready for my date; shaving my legs, painting my nails, exfoliating everything and deep conditioning my hair. What a waste, I could have worn sweatpants, ugly panties and a makeup free face for all the good it did me.
“Sorry honey. You should come with me to the next Star Trek Fan Club meeting. There are some really terrific guys there, especially if you speak Klingon—”
The sound of a phone crashing to the floor filtered out to us and Lillian screeched for me again. With a low moan of fear, Patty took off like a rocket.
“Sir?”
Gage looked up from his computer and stared blankly at Michael. His mind was on other things and he didn't like being interrupted.
He was going to have to get someone new in at the mine in Australia, the workers were clamoring for higher wages and production had practically ground to a halt, maybe sending Jack ….
“Sir?”
“Yes, what is it Michael?” He said with a sigh. He knew if Michael was interrupting him, it must be important, but right now he had a lot of fires on his plate that he had to see to.
There was a very real possibility that he would have to cancel dinner with Monica tonight. He winced at the thought of her disappointment. Monica was a very forceful woman, actually, he intended to break things off with her. It wasn't fair to let her get her hopes up that things could get serious between them. She had started to hint about shared vacations and meeting her family. He knew better than to let it get that far.
“We found her.”
Gage stood up, his gold mine problems forgotten. He ran a distracted hand through his light blond hair and leaned forward over his paper strewn desk with an intent expression. He didn't need to ask who. There was only one, 'her,' as far as he was concerned and he had been looking for her for most of his adult life.
“Where?”
“Portland, Oregon,” Michael said with a satisfied smile.
WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 13
Chapter Three
The Pearl district was a beautiful little neighborhood in Portland. Most of the people living here were from the highest echelons of the upwardly mobile; doctors, attorneys, ambitious real estate agents and pampered trust fund babies.
All the buildings were clean, new and beautiful and the restaurants had real artwork on the walls and fabric napkins on the tables.
The fashionably dressed people in the restaurants discussed foreign films and secular humanism while sipping free trade coffee from demitasse cups. It was crass, self consciously commercial and pricey as hell, but I liked it anyway. Sometimes I spent an afternoon here on the weekend browsing the shops, looking for nonexistent bargains.
I drove by several upscale little boutiques, about a dozen coffee houses, this was Portland after all, before finding a parking spot in front of a dog and cat bakery next door to Celia's building. Not a place that bakes dogs and cats, but a bakery that caters to dogs and cats by making pretzel shaped organic peanut butter dog biscuits and fish crackers made with real fish.
Celia's place was on the ground floor of a brick building overlooking a fountain in a small, private garden. Celia always had a ground floor apartment and chose places that were close to a freeway.
She used to joke with me that it was so that she could make a clean get away, but I had always thought it more likely that she was afraid of heights.
I hadn't been to Celia's place very often. She usually visited me at my little apartment in North Portland.
Her place was sparse and architecturally chic, barren I called it, minimalist, she asserted.
She didn't buy pictures for the walls and never spent time decorating any place she lived in. She said she liked it that way.
She had basic furniture; a table with two chairs, a bed, a dresser, a couple of chairs for the living room and that's it. No extras to give a place that lived in look. No books, photos, side tables or knick knacks to clutter the place up.
Considering the number of times we moved when I was growing up it seemed a
reasonable decision at the time to keep our belongings to a minimum. But we had been in Portland for almost two years now. I would have liked to have seen her spend a little more time getting settled into her place. Maybe put up a picture or two or buy a few more cups and saucers for the kitchen.
I pushed the doorbell listening for the sound of quick footsteps as she moved to open the door. While waiting for Celia, I took a look around, it was quiet here today. The Pearl District was a walking neighborhood. Usually there were half a dozen people wandering around the shops and restaurants, not to mention the bikers in their colorful spandex gear and whip thin joggers zipping around the tinted concrete walkways.
But the entire block was empty, not one
person was walking around and even the
apartments around Celia's were quiet and dark. The lights were off in the bakery next door and in the stationary store next to it. Even the Sushi and Suds Laundromat looked deserted. What WARLOCK’S BRIDE JENNIFER RINEHART 14
the hell was going on here? Where was everyone? A chill raced up my spine, something was off. On the surface all was fine, but underneath it seemed unnaturally quiet.
A black SUV with windows tinted so dark I couldn't see if anyone was inside was parked at the curb; in a no parking zone! I shook my head in exasperation, I hoped the meter maid didn't come by.
Whoever parked there was running a risk their car would end up towed and fined before they came back from wherever they were off to. Portland was infamous for it's zealous cops.
A couple more presses of the doorbell yielded no answer, so I tried the door, expecting it to be locked. But it was unlocked and I heard the quiet snick as it glided smoothly inward. I stood in the doorway a moment debating what to do next. Should I call the police? Yell for her from the doorway? A mangy dog walked by and gave me a curious look before hurrying around the corner.
With a feeling of trepidation, I pushed the door open the rest of the way and stepped slowly into the entryway. Unopened mail sat on the window ledge. A fly buzzed quietly in the late afternoon sunbeams.
The place was quiet. No smell of scones baking or tea brewing. Celia made scones for me every time I came over. I had been looking forward to them as lunch was over five hours ago and my stomach was growling in protest.
I was about an hour later than I’d expected, Lillian had just-one-more-thing-before-you-go'd me about a dozen times starting at five. But, I didn't think Celia would forget that I was coming over tonight, or that she would leave her door unlocked. She never left her door unlocked, she hired a locksmith to put in a second deadbolt right after she moved in.