Switch and Bait

by Ricki Schultz

  Fog machine blast.

  “Fog machine?” I bark.

  “Oh, calm down, nerd. Every bachelor auction has to have a fog machine.”

  I turn my attention back toward the dude. He’s got this whole sequence prepared with a giant sword. I kind of think he might have practiced his moves with a light saber toy in his garage.

  “Where did you get these guys?” I ask.

  Gordon just stares, transfixed, as whoever this poor sap is swings his weapon in time to the music. Up, down. Swish. Slicing it through the air. Too dorky to be suggestive, but it’s got everyone in stitches—everyone’s up and dancing—so I think that may be the point.

  Gordon frowns, still gazing at the knight. “Oh, I wish we would have done this dirty instead.”

  For the rest of the hour, the two of us, along with every other patron in the room, whoop it up, cheer, and giggle our way through a squatty Heathcliff, a juiced-up Romeo, a very sparkly Edward Cullen, and a dashing Rhett Butler—all of whom are auctioned off for well over two thousand dollars each.

  When Rhett comes out, I can’t stop myself from actually clapping a palm to my chest and saying, “Oh my stars.”

  Gordon elbows me. “Mm-hmm? I bet you wish you had a couple grand lying around right now.”

  And, holy hell, he’s not wrong.

  Mr. Darcy also plays the part rather well. His vest has oh-so-many buttons we’d all like to tear into, and his mutton chops are so convincing I think they might actually be real. I don’t know how to feel about that. But I don’t have too long to contemplate it because up next is Jay Gatsby, who breaks hearts with the bluest of eyes. The deepest of dimples. He saunters around the apron of the stage toasting The Ladies with a glass of champagne—he’s got the Leo Gatsby pose down—and he goes for almost four G’s, so it really works.

  When it comes down to the last two bachelors on the list, I don’t know what to expect.

  “Aslan?” I yell into Gordon’s ear just as “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” comes on.

  But, lo and behold, out walks a guy in a lion costume, and it stops me cold.

  The a-weem-a-wehs are doing their best to hypnotize me. Lull me into a trancelike state where I’m half nervous, half ecstatic, and I can’t look away. I’m sizing up this dude, tall and built, for a long while, trying to determine if it’s humanly possible for him to be who I think he could be.

  “Did you let them choose the characters?” I yell again, but Gordon just points to his headset. He’s not listening.

  But—come on—it’s got to be a coincidence. It’s just because it’s a Narnia reference and I’ve got Henry on the brain that I’m even entertaining the notion that—

  I put a hand on Gordon’s arm but can’t peel my gaze from the guy.

  “Is it—”

  But then the bidding’s over in an instant and he lifts off the mask to reveal a very hot guy indeed—just not the one I’d been imagining was filling out that suit.

  Whew.

  “Last, but not least,” the auctioneer drawls. “Are you ready, ladies?”

  He throws it to the opposite side of the stage and the music builds. The opening notes to The Police’s “Roxanne” start bumping. Then, all at once, the last guy clomps out. Giant brown boots that cover his legs all the way to the knee clunk clunk clunk clunk to the rhythm. A long crimson coat stretches tight across his chest. He whips a cape—velvet—on Sting’s first line, and pulls down the hat that engulfs most of his head.

  He doesn’t look unlike a musketeer.

  Complete with a fluffy white plume that wisps up, billows this way and that as he moves. He, too, has a sword, but he keeps doing Zorro with it.

  Which is confusing.

  But also kind of hilarious.

  More distracting, however, is the piece of his costume that becomes visible as he hits the audience with his first pose. A large prosthetic nose protrudes from beneath the hat, and suddenly, wonderfully, that makes him unmistakable.

  “Give it up for Cyrano de Bergerac!” the auctioneer shouts.

  Gordon is beside himself. He taps his fingers to his mouth and can’t seem to close it. “Think of the things he could do with that appendage.”

  And I die of laughter.

  “Roxanne” blares on over the sound system, and everyone’s jamming out, including Cyrano himself. Boy’s got some moves I wouldn’t have anticipated, but then again, nothing about tonight has been anything I could have foreseen, so I just take it all in.

  What else can I fricking do? I can’t think of a thing.

  As the song continues, the bidding gets more and more animated. One older lady in the front wearing a hand-to-God tiara keeps waving her paddle around like the auctioneer needs to save her from drowning—and her main rival seems to be a woman in the back I can’t quite see at first.

  I peel back the curtain a tad more, a sliver of the stage light touching my face, just as the auctioneer’s making some crappy nose pun. Before I can roll my eyes at that, however, the recognition zaps me.

  Ansley.

  She’s nearly doubled over in laughter, tossing up her paddle whenever Queen Elizabeth in the front here does. It’s like the two of them are engaged in a messed-up game of Ping-Pong—whenever one lobs up a number, the other one knocks it right back at it until, suddenly, unimaginably, the total’s approaching five thousand big ones.

  “Are we going to go all night?” the auctioneer trills, and Cyrano grabs the mic from him.

  “That’s what she said!”

  Everyone’s lost their collective minds—like it’s the first time they’ve ever heard that joke.

  And somewhere in the back of my mind, I do give him props for it.

  However, I’m a little preoccupied by the fact that, as soon as I hear him say it, the breath is stolen from my very lungs because I know that voice.

  I’d know it anywhere.

  It wasn’t him in the lion suit, but—

  As soon as it registers, I do a slow pivot toward my very well-meaning, very busted friend.

  Gordon’s all big eyes and smiles. “You said to find the guys…” He kicks up a heel behind him.

  “So you found Henry?”

  “And now that succulent little honey’s won him, yes.” He points to Ans in the crowd.

  “How’d you even get him to agree to do this?” I’m squinting toward the stage again, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that that’s him. Henry.

  That Ansley’s won him.

  That somehow, I’m right back in this situation—and I was the one who encouraged it. Again.

  How is that possible?

  And Gordon simply replies: “He said…he owed you one. Something about a tomato?”

  * * *

  Seeing him there, knowing he did this for me, the fact that he dressed as Cyrano de Bergerac, the underlying meaning is not lost on me. All I want to do as the event wraps up is seek Henry out and thank him. Apologize.

  But I lose him in the crowd. At first, I can see the white feather like a beacon, but then he must have taken off the cavalier hat because it’s no longer visible. He’s gone.

  Or maybe he and Ansley decided to get out of here and start their five-thousand-dollar date early. I don’t know.

  Regardless, Van de Kamp and Cavanaugh pretty much corner me as soon as the auction’s over and the guests are still reeling from the festivities.

  “Very impressive! Very impressive indeed! We’re so glad you’re coming to New York.” Cavanaugh pats me on the back a little too hard, but I don’t think it’s intentional. The redness of his face and the heartiness of his laugh remind me of Santa Claus.

  You know. If Santa Claus were a sweaty drunk.

  “What are the totals?” Roger wants to know.

  I flick through screens of spreadsheets on my tablet. “According to this, and it’s just been updated a few minutes ago by Gordon…” I point to him and try not to giggle because he’s schmoozing it up with Rhett Butler. Of course he is. “Tonight we raise
d one hundred twenty-nine thousand dollars for the Children’s Lit Foundation of D.C. Holy hell!”

  And they both chortle.

  “We’re going to be donating a large number of books to them as well,” Cavanaugh adds. “Splendid event. Just great. Great work.” His eyes are so crinkled in merriment, they’ve practically disappeared from his face.

  “Are you all set for Monday?” Roger asks.

  But before I can answer, Ansley and Henry de Bergerac have bustled their way through the crowd and into the conversation.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Ansley says with a sheepish glance at Van de Kamp and Cavanaugh, who can’t take their eyes off her.

  “Not at all.” The big man reaches for her tiny hand. “Thank you for your donation. And you, for participating!” He pulls Henry into a handshake as well.

  “What are you supposed to be, a three musketeer or something?” Roger scratches his head.

  “Snickers,” Henry says and we all laugh, although the slight pinch to Vandy’s brow tells me he didn’t get the joke.

  “These are my friends,” I say, kicking off the introductions. “Pretty expensive date,” I say to Ansley, “but I have a feeling he’s worth it.” I give him a wink.

  She chuckles. “Actually, that’s what I came over here to tell you. I bought him for you.”

  My gaze flicks to Henry’s, and he smiles.

  “I feel so used.”

  My mouth is hanging open, so Ans continues. “I thought this might be the only way—”

  “What a nice friend you have, Miss Carter.” Cavanaugh’s all but checking out her ass. “But you’d better get that date in quick, young man, because this girl’s moving to New York on Monday!”

  He flinches. Snags my gaze. “She is?”

  I give a small shrug and pull my lips into a tight grin. “Probably not the best timing.”

  An awkward beat passes where no one says a thing, and Henry and I just stare at each other.

  I’m about to make a joke, but then Cavanaugh steals the moment from me.

  “It was lovely meeting you two,” he says to Ansley and Henry, “but we’ve got to introduce Blanche to some folks, so if you don’t mind—”

  He’s still talking, but his voice, the sounds of the rest of the patrons, muffles. Everything around me blurs but Henry, as Cavanaugh and Van de Kamp whisk me away.

  I watch him as I’m ushered off.

  He stands, transfixed, his features wilted. The twinkle in his stare extinguished as the crowd swallows him whole.

  Chapter 22

  The next day whooshes by in a whirlwind of packing. I’m just getting the last of my books into boxes, giving loving little rubs to the tattered spines of Canterbury Tales and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, when Gordon appears and snatches the packing tape.

  “You sure you want to do this?”

  I chuckle. “No. But who’s ever sure of anything? It’s happening.” I indicate the half-filled suitcases, the boxes strewn about the living room. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll even start online dating.” I laugh again but Gordon doesn’t.

  “I just hope you know what you’re doing, babydoll.”

  “I do.” I wrap my arms around him and give him a squeeze. “And I can’t wait to hear all about you in your new role, too, tomorrow!”

  * * *

  The timing probably isn’t great and she’s not exactly supposed to be throwing dinner parties, but Isla insists on me coming over for a send-off meal. She assures me it won’t be too stressful for her to do—that she’s more stressed about my leaving than anything else—and that she’s feeling Just Fine since her stint in the hospital. They’ve gotten her a little Fallen-and-I-Can’t-Get-Up necklace to wear, they’ve hired a caregiver to help her with the kids during the day, and although she thinks both precautions are “silly,” as she puts it, she knows it’s better to be safe than sorry.

  When I arrive at the brownstone, I kind of expect Henry to be there because I’m aware of the kind of BS that Isla and Graham like to pull, but he isn’t. It really is just the five of us like Isla said—and the fact that I wore my sexiest dress is sort of lost on this company.

  “Va va va voom.” Isla puts a finger under one of the spaghetti straps and snaps it as she greets me at the door.

  “How dare you.” I laugh and rub at the sting. “I figured I might as well look nice, since this is the last time we’ll be seeing each other.”

  She smacks me, and although I’m enduring a lot of physical abuse already, I can tell it’s going to be a good visit.

  “It’s two hours away! I’ll be over here a lot more than I ever was because I’ll be missing you so much. You’ll be sick of me. Really.”

  We both know it’s probably not going to be that simple, but this is what you say when you’re leaving someone you love and this is what we need to believe. I do hope it will be true, though.

  The dinner is delicious as always and the conversation is hilarious, but I can’t help feeling kind of bummed that Mr. Capitol Hill isn’t here. The more I look at Graham as he sips his beer, the more I listen to him prattle on about whatever it is he’s talking about because, at this point in the wine bottle, I’m not even listening, the ache to see Henry intensifies.

  And when baby brother’s name slips out in conversation—I don’t even know the context—it’s either my sauvignon blanc or it’s I who decides enough is enough.

  All at once, I jump up from the table.

  “Where is he?” Like they’re hiding him in the closet under the stairs or something.

  They both throw me confused looks. Then share the Wha? face with each other.

  “Who?” Isla says.

  “You know who I wore this dress for.”

  She giggles.

  “Who?” Graham really wants to know, his eyes as big as the dinner rolls.

  “Henry!” We both yell at him—guys are so dumb—and he’s rubbing at the inside of his ear when he answers.

  “Working tonight, I think?”

  “Well, can I have his number? I need to talk to him. This is so stupid. Before I go.”

  Graham gives me an eyebrow.

  “I just need him to hear a few things. Because I know I’ll see him again. I always see him again. And I don’t want this whole ordeal hanging over my head three years from now at one of your fancy dinners when he’s there with his new wife or whatever.”

  They both laugh.

  “It’s not funny!”

  But then I laugh a little too.

  Graham’s shoulders are still shaking as he scrolls through his contacts and gives up the goods, and suddenly I’m sucking down a cigarette on their patio and sending Henry a message. My fingers flutter over the keys.

  What to even say?

  But then I settle on simple because complicated has never really served me well.

  Me: Hi Henry. It’s me. Four-eyes. The White Witch. Whatever. Look, I know you’re working and I don’t have much time, but I’d like to apologize in person before I go. To just—put this behind us, if you’ll let me.

  The cigarette quivers between my fingers as I await his response. An ethereal glow shining down on me from the streetlight, casting shadows that expand in long strands across the pavement below.

  I wait. Contemplate another smoke, but I’m already too ramped up from this little leap. From the possibility of what he’s thinking on the other side of his phone. If he’s even gotten the message yet or if my impatience is working overtime.

  Then, suddenly, mercifully, the toggle dots do their thing, and he puts me out of my misery.

  Him: Meet me on the steps of the Capitol Building in an hour.

  * * *

  The air is brisk as I click my way to the spot. Stilettos weren’t probably the best choice in footwear for the occasion, but then again, when I got dressed tonight, I didn’t anticipate walking all that much.

  The Capitol police have approached me three times as I make my jaunt through the Mall, and I’ve assured them, every t
ime, I’m meeting someone here.

  Which, okay, probably sounds kind of sketch, but soon enough, it will be true.

  When I get to the marble staircase, I’m out of breath. I really need to cut back on All the Smoking, but waiting for Henry—trying to piece together what I’m going to say to him—isn’t making a great case for quitting, so I light one up in anticipation and gaze out over the deep purple sky. Take in the lights from the city, which dot the blank canvas like manmade constellations.

  “At it again, eh?” comes his voice from behind me, and I gasp, which gives way to a nervous titter.

  Seeing Henry doesn’t make this any less scary.

  I stand and dust myself off. As I do so, I catch him watching me brush the remnants of the pavement off my curves, and it gives me a little bit of confidence as I straighten my dress. Gain my bearings.

  “Thank you for meeting me,” I say, twisting my clutch in my hands.

  “I’m intrigued.” He pops a hip, leans his long body against the metal railing.

  As I meet his gaze shining in the moonlight, my mouth goes dry. I realize I have no idea what the hell to say. I fumble with my purse, my cigarette pack.

  “Want one?” I offer, but he puts up a hand.

  “I don’t actually smoke.” His tone is steady. Unreadable.

  I scrunch my face because, huh?

  “What?”

  He scratches at the back of his head and allows a small grin to curl on his lips. “Yeah, well, the only reason I ever smoked with you was because…”

  But he lets the end of that sentence evaporate with a snicker.

  We stand there a second in silence and I light up.

  Whatever, dude. I need it.

  “So I wasn’t lying when I told Ansley I didn’t smoke,” he continues. “I don’t. I only bummed cigarettes from you so I could talk to you. I thought that was fairly obvious. I mean, how dense are you?”

  We both laugh and I contemplate the answer to that question, blowing a smooth cloud of smoke out toward the stars.

  “Pretty dense, I guess.” I nod.

  And I think about what he’s just said. Dammit if he’s not telling the truth. He always bummed them. Never had his own lighter.