For Love or Magic

by Lucy March

  “So … how is it a business, then?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “My wife is independently wealthy. Her family is old Connecticut money, too busy exploiting the worker and raping the environment to reproduce. Both her father and her uncle left her everything, and while we don’t have quite the moral fortitude to reject the cash altogether, we do give generously to the hippie liberals, which I’m sure made the greedy bastards whirl in their graves like rotisserie chickens.” She giggled and sighed. “Twice a year we have a date night where we give a good chunk of their money to Planned Parenthood, drink one of their ridiculous bottles of old wine, and have sex on her uncle’s bear rug, supposedly made from some poor animal Hemingway shot.” She gave a good-natured eye roll. “Honestly, I prefer the wine that comes in the box, but it’s really about the principle of the thing.”

  I smiled, liking her even more, but also pretty sure I didn’t want to hear any more sex stories. Time to change the subject.

  “So, I was wondering if you had leads on any jobs for me? I’m gonna need to buy some food soon.” I dropped that last bit lightly, but it was sadly true. The first thing I’d done that morning was dig the trash bags out of my truck and throw in everything from the Welcome Wagon that hadn’t been factory sealed. Then I drove to the IGA, threw the perfectly good food into the Dumpster in the back, and spent my last few bucks on a box of Cheerios and a half-gallon of milk. I had enough in my checking to pay the utilities, feed Seamus, and put gas in that stupid truck, but after that things were gonna get dire, fast.

  “Oh, yes, of course, we’ll get to that, but first … I need to talk to you about something.” The teakettle started to whistle and she pushed up from the table to tend to it. “Herbal or classic?”

  “Oh. Um. Classic. So, what’s up?”

  She dropped tea bags into a delicate floral teapot, and poured the boiling water, waiting until she was finished before looking at me with purpose. “Desmond Lamb.”

  I almost wanted to laugh at the seriousness on her face, but there was also a hint of genuine worry in her eyes, so I didn’t. She set down a tray with a red polka dot teapot, two stoneware mugs, and a matching white porcelain creamer and sugar dish on the table. She poured a cup for me and a cup for herself, then motioned toward the cream and sugar. “Help yourself.”

  I pulled my mug toward me and said, “Thank you. Now, what is this about Desmond Lamb?”

  She patted me on the arm. “It’s okay, honey. There’s no judgment here. We all make poor choices. I would tell you about some of the women I slept with in the eighties, but it might put hair on your chest.”

  “I’m sorry. Are you under the impression that I slept with Desmond Lamb?”

  She gave me a disappointed look. “We’re all women of the world. Let’s not be coy. Larry told me that you two left his bar together yesterday.”

  “We didn’t leave together, and … wait. Larry? Happy Larry, you mean?” I couldn’t picture Happy Larry even noticing when I left, or with whom, much less caring.

  “Yes,” she said. “Speaking of which, you start working for him tomorrow afternoon, four sharp. But we’ll get to that later.”

  “Wait. What? What do you mean, I start tomorrow? I haven’t even applied yet.”

  “That’s okay. You don’t need to. I talked to Larry last night, and it’s all set. He liked you.”

  Out of all the surprises in my life, that was probably the biggest one. Not necessarily that Larry had liked me, I’m delightful, but that he liked anyone. At all.

  “I got you full minimum wage plus tips,” Addie went on. “That’s a hell of a deal for someone with your weird skill set, no offense.”

  “None taken,” I said, “but—”

  “Oh, and he said you could keep Seamus in a doghouse in the alley if you don’t want to leave him home alone.”

  The surprises just kept on coming. “Wow. Really?”

  She rolled her eyes, a gleeful smile on her lips, and I got the feeling that there was nothing that Addie loved more than managing other people’s lives. “Larry puts on a show, but he’s really just a big marshmallow. But don’t distract me! We need to talk about Desmond Lamb first.”

  I picked up my mug and took a sip of tea. “I’m not sure we do.”

  She put her hand on my arm. “Now, I know he’s all mysterious and British and good-looking in a beady-eyed kind of way,” she said charitably, “but you have to trust me. Desmond Lamb is not a good man.”

  She said those words carefully, as though there was much more to the story, and it practically killed her not to tell me. But whatever had happened here with Desmond, it was obviously more than just a story. It was personal, and she was genuinely worried about me.

  “Yeah, there seems to be a misunderstanding here,” I said. “I met Desmond Lamb yesterday, but there’s nothing going on between us. Seriously. I’m freshly widowed, and dealing with that is enough for me right now.”

  “Good,” Addie said, seeming to finally believe me. “You don’t want a man like Desmond Lamb, especially not for your first after your husband died.” Her eyebrows rose. “I’m sorry. I’m assuming he would be the first. How long ago did your husband pass away?”

  “Eight months, and yes, Desmond would be my first.”

  Addie’s eyebrows ticked up, and I realized what I’d just said.

  “No, I didn’t mean … he won’t be. I’m not interested in Desmond Lamb. I mean, I find him … interesting. A little. Town like this, you meet a guy who’s just sitting in a bar, reading Sartre…”

  “Sip your tea, darling, you’re getting a little red in the face,” Addie said, a glint in her eye as she nudged the mug toward me.

  “Stop that,” I said, laughing. “Look, I’m interested, but I’m not interested. Curious, I guess, but not in a sexual way or anything. He’s interesting. Just in the normal way that people interest other people.” I took a breath to reset myself and met Addie’s amused eye as I spoke the honest truth. “I’m not in a place where I’m ready to get into anything romantic.”

  Addie smiled and patted my hand. “That’s fine, honey. If you say there’s nothing between you and Desmond Lamb…”

  “There isn’t.”

  “… then okay. I only wanted to warn you, just in case. Now, let’s talk about the job.”

  “Okay,” I said, and at that moment realized that I’d been so flustered at the idea of sleeping with Desmond that I almost passed up the opportunity to get more information about him from the town gossip. “What did he do?”

  “Who? Larry? Well, before he inherited the bar he was going to college for—”

  “No, Desmond. Why are you warning me about Desmond? He seemed perfectly nice to me yesterday. Is there…?” I trailed off, trying to figure out the right word to hint at magic without actually saying it, just in case Addie was one of the vast majority who knew nothing and was better off for it. “Is there anything … different about him?”

  I could see the struggle on her face, the struggle every gossip has when faced with the opportunity to share particular information she either doesn’t want to, or can’t, divulge. “He’s just a bad man, that’s all. Keep your distance.”

  I took that in, and my shoulder muscles tensed up. A possible-magical who was dangerous enough to frighten the town gossip … that wasn’t a good sign. But I didn’t have time to try and parse it all out now, so I shifted the conversation back to my gainful employment.

  “So … this job at Happy Larry’s. What will I be doing?”

  “Bartending, some waitressing. You know, the usual.”

  “Waitressing I can handle,” I said, “but I’ve never bartended in my life.”

  Addie shrugged it off. “Can you pour liquid into a glass?”

  I nodded.

  “That’s about all anyone else has done in that job. You’re a sharp girl. You’ll pick it up.”

  I sighed. The good news was, I’d be making adequate money, and tips would give me cash before I starved. Plus, I
wouldn’t have to leave Seamus at home alone to chew up my shoes. But still … working for Happy Larry …

  “There’s really nothing else in town?” I asked.

  Addie sighed. “Not really. There’s a fair-to-middling chance that Amber Dorsey will get herself fired from her receptionist’s job, but when I spoke to Emerson about it, he seemed like he was willing to give her another chance…”

  My body processed what she’d said before my conscious mind could, and it was the cold prickle down my spine that made me realize what I’d heard.

  “Did you say … Emerson? Like a … Mr. Emerson?” It wasn’t an uncommon last name.

  That’s probably all it is … just someone with that last name.

  But even as I was thinking that, I knew what was coming.

  Addie shook her head. “No, she works for Emerson Streat, over at Community Cares. He has a little office just a few doors down…”

  The shock of hearing his name rippled through me, and it took a moment for my brain to understand what was going on, so it helped that Addie just kept rattling on, making it unnecessary for me to respond.

  “… does such amazing work. He’s been here less than a year, and already he’s set up a farmer’s market and a community garden…”

  Emerson Streat, I thought. He’s here. But it didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe there were two Emerson Streats in the world …

  “Sweet man, and he has the loveliest accent. I think he’s from down south somewhere. Georgia maybe?”

  South Carolina, I thought absently.

  She sipped casually at her tea and kept on going. “I think he only puts up with Amber because he’s just too much of a gentleman to fire her, but that girl is trouble. Last week, she went after her boyfriend, Frankie Biggs, with pinking shears and almost cut off his—”

  I pushed up from the chair, almost knocking over my tea mug. “I have to go.” I grabbed Seamus’s leash and started for the doorway, and then turned around. “I’m sorry. Thank you. I mean—”

  Addie stood up, concern on her face. “Eliot? Are you all right?”

  “Fine. I’m fine.” My voice was squeaky and unconvincing, even to my own ears. “I just … I remembered … there’s a thing.” I turned around and led Seamus through the kitchen toward the door. I just had to get through that door, to the air. I had to breathe.

  “Eliot.” Addie’s voice came from behind me, following me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thanks so much! I’ll stop in again soon.”

  I hurried out, momentarily blinded by the sunlight. It felt like the world was spinning around me as I heard Addie’s words repeating in my head.

  … Emerson Streat. He has a little office just a few doors down. Sweet man …

  I arbitrarily turned to the left, walking with Seamus tight on my heels, looking at the signs on the businesses that lined the village street. One was for lease, another was a real estate agent’s office, then there was the waffle place, Crazy Cousin Betty’s, on the corner. Across from that was the pharmacy …

  I turned around and headed back the other way, quickly passing by Addie’s shop and not looking in, hoping she wouldn’t come out after me. She didn’t. I passed by a pizza place, an independent bookstore, and then, on a freshly painted shingle hanging outside a modest storefront, there it was.

  NODAWAY FALLS COMMUNITY CARES ORGANIZATION

  And underneath that, a smaller rectangle hanging from delicate chains hooked into the bigger sign:

  EMERSON STREAT, COORDINATOR

  Chapter 4

  I glanced through the storefront, keeping a tight hold on Seamus’s leash so that I could feel him physically next to me, which gave me the strength I needed to not run away. The office looked much like every other nondescript office space my father had rented throughout the years. Beige carpeting, simple and forgettable décor, and a receptionist who drew attention and kept it off my father. In this case, it was a skinny redhead with wild, frizzy hair and eyes with so much crazy I could see it from the street. That must be the girl Addie had been talking about. Amber.

  I took a deep breath. I could go in and see my father for the first time in sixteen years, or I could run.

  I did neither. I froze, right where I was. I stepped back a bit, just out of sight so I could take a moment to think and make a decision about what I wanted to do, but right as I was about to step back, the office door behind the redhead’s desk opened, and suddenly, with no laser light show or evil musical motif, there he was.

  My father.

  Emerson Streat.

  He was a bit more rotund than I remembered. His red hair had lightened and thinned some at the top, but even with those changes, he was shockingly the same. He wore a modest brown suit and tie and his classic horn-rimmed glasses, smiling like Santa Claus and looking like everyone’s favorite uncle. Even knowing what I did, even having the history with him that I did, my heart lurched with love at the very sight of him.

  I put my hand over my chest and tried to breathe. Now wasn’t the time to get emotional, but I couldn’t help it. My father was a powerful, ruthless son of a bitch, but he was also the guy who’d drawn my baths for me and read Goodnight, Moon to me in silly voices when I was a little kid. He’d insisted on teaching me how to drive a stick shift because he wanted me to be prepared for every possible situation. He held my hand and made goofy faces at me as the doctor stitched up the gash on my elbow after I fell off my bike when I was seven, and when my power came in at thirteen, he taught me how to use it, how to bend metal to my will, how to hide it and control it so no one would see it if I didn’t want them to.

  He loved me, and he’d been a good father to me. But he’d also been single-minded to the point where I’d watched my mother die because of his choices. My best friend, her parents, and too many others. All dead, because of him. And those were just the ones I’d known about; in sixteen years, who knew how many more there might have been?

  He’s a killer, I thought, and then I touched my fingers gently to the glass and thought, Daddy.

  “Ms. Parker?”

  I swiped quickly at my face and turned on my heel to see … who else?… Desmond Lamb.

  “You lying son of a bitch.” My voice was low and dangerous as I moved toward him, angling us away from the storefront so my father wouldn’t see us.

  Desmond had the nerve to quirk his head at me in question, and that little move lit a fire of fury in my gut. I had enough presence of mind to know that Desmond Lamb wasn’t the cause of all my anger, but not enough to stop myself from venting it all on him anyway.

  “I asked you last night, directly, if you knew his name and you said no.”

  Desmond glanced up at the sign with my father’s name on it, and his confused expression cleared a bit. “I didn’t say no. I asked you why you asked.”

  “You did not—” I began, but replaying the conversation over in my head, I realized he was right, that was exactly what had happened, and the realization made me even angrier. “Of course. Of course that’s what you did. That’s what every man does to me. It’s all charm and smiles and stupid sexy accents, but it’s still lying, you asshole. What are you, anyway?”

  Desmond stared at me, a blank expression on his face. “I’m sorry. What … am I?”

  “You’re not a full magical, I can tell that much. So what are you? A conjurer? Conduit? Are you one of those fetishists who only sleeps with magic women hoping some of the power will rub off?” A look of shock crossed his face and I stuck my index finger at him in accusation. “That’s probably it. Pervert.”

  Desmond looked around, then back at me, his piercing eyes cutting into me as much as his dangerous tone. “I request that you lower your voice.”

  “Why?” I said. “Emerson Streat is here. The place is probably littered with you guys. Did he send you to spy on me? Did you already know who I was when we met yesterday?” I gasped with sudden realization. “Of course you
did! The Sartre! Nobody reads Sartre in public unless they’re trying to strike up conversation with an unemployed philosophy major. God, I’m so dumb!”

  “Perhaps we should have this conversation somewhere more private.” He touched my elbow, but I whipped it out of his grip.

  “Don’t touch me. I’m not having a conversation with you.” I started down the street, away from Emerson’s office and toward home, pulling Seamus along with me. But before I got far, another burst of rage ran through me and I turned back to Desmond to vent it at him. He obviously hadn’t been expecting me to slow down, let alone stop, and he had to pull himself up short to stop from knocking me over.

  “You probably work for him, don’t you? You’re not agency, I can tell that much, but neither is he anymore, and you’re exactly the kind of slick-talking, Sartre-reading asshole he’d throw in my path to distract me. Son of a bitch.”

  “I’m not—” he began, but I said, “Shut up. Don’t talk to me,” and started down the road again. Desmond’s long strides kept him easily at my side, even as I hurried to walk faster and get rid of him.

  “Go away,” I said. “I have to go home and fucking pack the fucking stuff I just fucking unpacked. Fuck.”

  We passed by Addie’s antiques shop, and I couldn’t believe that just a half hour before, I’d been happily sipping tea, planning my bartending career. It seemed like a lifetime ago now.

  “I understand that you’re upset,” Desmond said, his voice quiet but firm, “but you’re on the verge of making a public scene over something that the people in this town have worked very hard to keep secret, and I won’t risk the danger you’d present in doing so. I’m walking you home.”

  I turned on him. “You’re walking me nowhere, you limey bastard, and if I want to make a scene, I’ll make a scene and you can’t stop me!”

  He grabbed both my elbows in his hands and pulled me closer to him, but nothing about the gesture was gentle. He glanced around to see if there was anyone close enough to hear us, and after deciding it was safe, he looked down at me, his eyes blazing.