Malcolm clucked his tongue and shook his head disapprovingly. “You hate peppers, Jane. Relax, you can have anything you want! Even that weird German ham you insist is better than bacon.” He held his palms up, as if the very idea was beyond him.
Jane felt her gray eyes go wide with hope. “Speck? And . . . um, maybe tomatoes?”
“Cherry, grape, plum, beefsteak, or green zebra, miss?” Sofia asked in a neutral tone as she pulled a butcher-paper packet from a pile of similar ones in the refrigerator. Even from where she was standing, Jane could see that it was clearly marked SPECK. She felt suddenly warm and comfortable all the way down to her toes.
“Whatever’s on top,” she smiled, and then jumped as her handbag seemed to come to life, rattling across the floor.
Malcolm looked at her oddly, but she quickly placed the bag’s strange behavior, and reached in to draw out her iPhone, which was apparently in the midst of a seizure. The number wasn’t in her contact list, but it was in Manhattan’s 212 area code. “Hello?”
“You’ve landed!” a vaguely familiar bubbly voice squealed. “Jane, this is Pamela! From Conran and Associates. Antoine’s friend?”
Jane tried to reply, but Pamela, in spite of apparently hoping for a response, did not seem to be inclined to pause long enough for one.
“Things are moving fast down here, so we need you to come in ASAP. Are you free today, two-ish?” Pamela finally paused, but Jane was so caught off-guard that she didn’t manage to speak in time. A horrified gasp came through the phone’s speaker. “Ohmigod, you’re still available, right? We so urgently need to get this international division off the ground. You have to at least come in and hear my offer. Jane! Don’t commit to anyone else yet. Are you free at two?”
“Three,” Jane blurted finally, forcing her voice out into the tiny space allotted. “I can come at three.”
“Thank God. Forty-nine West Fourth, three p.m.”
The line clicked dead before Jane could say another word. She stared at the phone in her hand; the screen went dim. “I seem to have a job interview,” she announced thoughtfully. Then she caught up with the rush of Pamela’s words, and smiled happily. She had hoped to hit the ground running, so to speak, but things were moving even faster than she’d expected. And having something that got her out of the house, something that was just hers, would be a great way to keep from obsessing about reporters, witches, and fitting in with her new family-to-be.
“That’s great, honey!” Malcolm kissed the side of her head and set two sunny omelets onto the rough-hewn breakfast table. Jane noticed that Sofia had disappeared discreetly, passing the credit along to the man who couldn’t break an egg, and she marveled at how incredibly useful it must be to have good help for all the little things. No wonder Malcolm had always struck her as so self-assured, so comfortable in his own skin. He had truly led a charmed life.
And now I’ll have one, too, she thought, cutting into the tender froth. And a family, and a home, and, it sounds like, a job just waiting for me to come and accept it.
Things were most definitely looking up.
Chapter Eleven
“Has Lynne Doran arrived yet?” Jane asked 21 Club’s hostess. The restaurant was old and dark, and very English in feel. A bizarre ceramic jockey, similar to the ones lining the fence outside, stared forebodingly at Jane as if it were warning her away.
That’s silly, Jane told herself—and the jockey—firmly. Lynne’s been niceness itself. But on the short ride down to 52nd Street, her high from Pamela’s unexpected phone call had pretty much evaporated as she had begun to catalog the myriad ways that she could screw up a one-on-one lunch—accidentally answering an unspoken question, knocking the next table over, causing a freak power outage. Nothing like starting off the mother-in-law–daughter-in-law relationship with an actual bang. And that wasn’t even counting all of the nonmagical ways that she could screw things up: mentioning exes, bringing up religion, raving about the wrong restaurants, designers, celebrities, politicians. Asking about Annette.
“Follow me please,” the petite brunette hostess told Jane, tucking a menu under her arm and escorting her to a prime table right by the window. Lynne’s brown hair was loose around her shoulders as it had been the night before, but she had traded her cashmere ensemble for a crisp pink button-down. Her taupe shoes and clutch coordinated in an understated way, and Jane was fairly sure that they were both Ferragamo. Her sapphire earrings were the size of walnuts.
“Oh good, you’re here, Jane,” Mrs. Doran said brightly, folding her hands lightly on her lap. Beside her was a stack of magazines—Martha Stewart Weddings, Brides, New York magazine’s wedding issue, and even the Monique Lhuillier lookbook.
Alarm bells went off in Jane’s head and she felt a sudden impulse to beg the hostess to rescue her, but the girl had already retreated back to her post. With no escape plan in sight, Jane sank into the wooden chair opposite Lynne, trying not to notice that it looked as though a wedding planner had exploded on the tablecloth.
Lynne’s perfectly manicured nails beckoned to a white-clad waiter. “We’ll both take Caesar salads and the sole”—she glanced thoughtfully at Jane’s hips for the briefest moment—“grilled, I think. Dressing on the side. Everything on the side. Thank you!”
The waiter disappeared almost before Jane could open her mouth, but it stayed open in shock all the same.
“You do like sole, don’t you, dear?” Lynne’s eyes were dark, like Malcolm’s, but the color was somehow less warm, less liquid. “It’s something of a specialty here.”
“Sole is fine, thank you,” Jane replied dutifully. Eyeing the magazines, she guessed that there would be plenty of battles ahead to choose from—grilled fish wouldn’t even make the top twenty.
“How did you sleep, dear?” Lynne went on, barely acknowledging the response. “Are you settling in all right?”
“I think so,” Jane offered timidly. “Thanks again for welcoming me into your home.”
“Malcolm told me about your grandmother.” Lynne patted Jane’s hand sympathetically, giving her a conversation whiplash. “Such a shame. How are you holding up?”
“Oh, fine thanks.” Mrs. Doran’s hand lingered on Jane’s fingers for the briefest of moments. Jane stiffened, bracing herself for a flash of Lynne’s thoughts at the contact, but none came. Thank God. A teeny part of her dared to dream that she’d left her magic behind when she’d left France. It could be an Old World European thing. Why not?
“Have you made any plans for the day?” Lynne asked solicitously, releasing her hand. A woman in hot-pink wedged boots walked past their window, wrangling four poufy Pomeranians. “That’s Topsy Donovan.” Lynne leaned forward conspiratorially. “She claims her daughter married an Italian count, but I have it on good authority that he’s actually a dry cleaner out in Queens.”
“Oh.” Jane blinked. “I do have plans this afternoon, actually,” she replied after a moment, deciding to stay with the safer topic. She doubted a granddaughter of a reclusive witch ranked much higher on the social scale than a dry cleaner. “I was really hoping to hit the ground running and build my life here as quickly as possible.” And not look like such a gold-digger, in case this is where the conversation is going. “So I have an interview this afternoon with Conran and Associates down on West Fourth Street. It’s a small firm, but they’re doing some really innovative things in the . . .” She trailed off, uncomfortable. Lynne’s dark eyes were wide as saucers and she was staring at Jane in apparent horror. “I—I’m sorry,” Jane stammered. “Is something wrong?”
“You mean a job interview?” The peach-lipsticked mouth gaped. “Why on earth would you want a job?”
Jane floundered. She’d assumed Malcolm’s family would be thrilled that she wanted to continue working. She had half-expected them to insist on it, along with an eighty-page prenup that Lynne probably had stuffed in her little taupe clutch.
“I like architecture,” Jane heard herself say softly, and cleared her t
hroat. “I love being an architect,” she announced more firmly. There. That’s better.
Lynne continued to stare at her until the waiter reappeared with two dainty porcelain plates of Caesar salad. Without sparing a glance in his direction, Lynne reached out one French-manicured hand, and the waiter deftly slid a plate of lemon quarters under it just in time. As Lynne began to squeeze the juices onto her salad, a subtle whiff of anchovies mixed with her confusion, making Jane feel faintly nauseated.
“Jane, dear, I don’t think you fully understand the amount of time, work, and commitment that being a part of this family requires.” Lynne’s voice was soft, almost hypnotic. “Just think of the wedding alone—you simply won’t have time for anything else until that’s done with. And even then, you’ll be busy with charity work, social events, networking . . . Malcolm has his art hobby on the side, but his real job—his first obligation and top priority—is the business of being a Doran. And I fully expect that, devoted as you are to my son, it will be yours, too.”
The words “being a Doran” bounced hollowly around in Jane’s head as she pushed a piece of romaine around her plate with her fork. She hadn’t thought yet about changing her name. She had actually never known what her father’s last name was. Her birth certificate and passport said Boyle, and her grandmother had always pointedly ignored the question.
Jane bit absently into a lemon wedge. The tartness puckered her lips, and her heart turned at the thought that Gran would never get to meet her new family. She would probably have loved Lynne’s womyn-power family tree. Or, given their extreme social differences, perhaps the two matriarchs would have fought to the death. That possibility seemed a little more likely: the world couldn’t be big enough for two such formidable women.
“Well I am committed to that, obviously,” Jane began, “but—”
“Lovely,” said Lynne, looking pleased, as if Jane had signed some kind of contract. “And that starts with the wedding, which, given our position, will be the event of the season. Now, I know that a lot of girls buy into the whole ‘June bride’ thing, but God knows you won’t want to be showing on your wedding day. So I think a March—”
“Mrs. Doran!” Jane gasped, too shocked to care about interrupting. “You think I’m pregnant?”
Lynne shrugged. “It’s ‘Lynne,’ dear. And I do know my son, Jane, and if you’re not now, it certainly won’t be long.” The peach lips curled up in such a knowing way that Jane’s jaw fell open. Jane tried briefly to form a response, but she couldn’t think of a single civil answer to such a horrifyingly inappropriate remark.
“So,” Lynne snapped, apparently satisfied that Jane wasn’t going to put up a fight. “Early March, then, because anything delivered less than eight months later is just plain tacky. Now.” She shuffled through one of the stacks of magazines. “Let’s talk flowers.”
“Calla—”
But before she could get the “lilies” out, Lynne was off on a tear about Chrisobel Santos’s orchids versus the “carpet of roses” that Twig & Vine had managed to create on the ceiling at Blake and Laura’s wedding.
“. . . which may sound like overkill but it was really just the loveliest effect because it positively rained petals all evening . . .”
Jane closed her eyes against the resurgence of nausea. Maybe she was pregnant. Or perhaps she was just allergic to her soon-to-be mother-in-law. What had happened to the warm, understated Lynne of the previous night?
Jane tried not to think about the fact that she’d spent the last six years of her life trying to get away from someone who controlled her every move. But then the conversation turned to dresses.
“Now I know Vera Wang is the first thought for most people, but really, I’ve never thought anyone over a size two should even bother.” Lynne pushed the stack of magazines at Jane. “Do take a look. I’ve folded down some pages and we can get an appointment to try on anything you like.”
January’s Manhattan Bride fell open to reveal a hoop-skirted, lace-covered confection, and Jane felt air hiss out from between her teeth. She took a shuddering breath, trying to stay diplomatic. “That’s really beautiful, but I actually was picturing a more . . . modern gown.”
She began flipping through the pages, looking for an example of what she meant, but there didn’t seem to be anything that couldn’t have moonlighted as a costume in Marie Antoinette. Everything had at least seven layers of netting, some sort of boning up top, and yards upon yards of bows and ribbons. “Something with cleaner lines,” she added, flipping faster. “Maybe an empire waist, or even a sheath style.”
Lynne waved her hand dismissively. “Honestly, dear, you really won’t want anything too contemporary—your pictures would look dated two hours after the reception’s done.” Her mouth softened a bit. “It must be so sad not to have your own mother to share all of this with, but you know, I always dreamed of having a daughter who would grow up and be . . .”
She trailed off. A few tables over, a pair of red-faced men laughed riotously at some joke. Two blond girls who looked like sisters leaned over a different table, gossiping and comparing manicures. For a horrible moment, Jane thought that Lynne might start crying.
Jane closed her eyes, silently chastising herself for resenting a woman who had lost her only daughter. She didn’t care that much about the wedding itself—she cared about whom she was marrying. And as for the few things she did care about—like her dress and having a job—she would just have to get sneaky.
She snapped her eyes open and smiled innocently. “Lynne, I feel so lucky that you’re so willing to help, especially since you have such exceptional taste,” she said. “I’m just so grateful because I could definitely use some guidance.”
Lynne beamed, and Jane chose her next words even more carefully. “In fact, it makes me feel so at ease with the planning that I’m confident that a job—one with reasonable hours, of course—won’t get in the way at all. If I had to work out every single detail of the wedding from scratch it would be one thing. But I clearly have such wonderful help.” She resisted the temptation to bat her eyelashes; that would probably be overdoing it.
Lynne speared a stalk of asparagus rather viciously, but her forehead remained smooth and unconcerned. Pick your battle, Jane silently urged her, suddenly wishing that mind control were one of her powers. Which one do you want more?
Lynne deftly maneuvered the fork into her mouth without ever looking away from Jane. Their eye contact felt so intense that Jane half-expected beads of sweat to break out on her forehead. It seemed as though Lynne’s irises were growing, filling with blackness like stormy waters into which a squid had emitted ink. Lynne blinked, and the black disappeared—if it had never been there at all. Jane rubbed her temples. Damned jet lag.
“Well, if you think you can handle it,” Lynne said, looking the picture of a concerned mother. “I just want you to be happy.”
“Perfect,” Jane said, trying not to sound giddy. “I should actually get going, but maybe later this afternoon we could talk about the location of the ceremony?”
Lynne nodded. “That sounds lovely. And I have a list of caterers at home. We should review it as soon as possible.”
“Tonight,” Jane promised. See? We can get along just fine. “And thank you. For the help, and for lunch, and for just being so . . . welcoming.” She smiled. “I really couldn’t have wished for a kinder family to marry into.”
Lynne’s peach smile was wide and sincere-looking. “We’re so happy to have you. Now run along—you wouldn’t want to be late.”
You don’t need to tell me twice, Jane thought. She air-kissed Lynne good-bye, then pushed her way out onto the bustling street.
Chapter Twelve
An hour later, Jane was perched on a sleek black pod chair in the offices of Conran and Associates, trying to ignore the painful blister forming on her right pinky toe. She’d walked up and down the street three times, her suede boots getting less and less comfortable with each pass, before noticing the
understated brass C&A plaque on what she was sure was an apartment building.
“So.” Pamela Bronsky, the managing codirector of the firm, looked from Jane to her résumé and back again, her almond eyes hard behind thick brown frames. Her glossy brown hair was piled on top of her head in an odd-looking update of a beehive, and Jane guessed that she considered it an artistic style. She began to second-guess her decision to leave on her blouse, pencil skirt, and pearls ensemble from that morning. She had deemed it businesslike enough for a job interview (especially with someone who sounded desperate to hire her), but maybe it was too businesslike? Clearly, she had done something to put Pamela off because in person, the architect was nowhere near as breathless and bubbly as she had been on the phone. It was as if Jane had walked into someone else’s interview, and that someone was apparently annoying and underqualified.
Pamela clicked the top of her maroon metal pen a few times. “I see that all of your experience is foreign.”
“Well yes,” Jane said, leaning forward, aiming for a tone and demeanor that screamed Hire me! “I interned for Atelier Antoine in Paris; I joined them right out of school. From there I became an assistant, and had just been promoted to designer when I moved. I would love to have the same kind of ground level–up experience here—”
“Of course. But you see, we don’t really have any international projects at the moment.”
An automatic room freshener emitted a puff of vanilla-scented air into the office with a hiss. Jane leaned back, puzzled. I know. That’s why you wanted me. “Well, that’s an area where I think that I could be an asset to you,” she said instead. Just like you said—in that new international division that just has to get up and running? She heard herself prattling on about the cultural differences between America and Europe, giving Pamela a miniature sociology lecture that she couldn’t seem to switch off. By the time she had gotten to the issue of table manners, Pamela looked openly bored, and Jane forced herself to wrap it up. “As someone with a foot in both worlds, so to speak—”
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