by Crowe, Stan
“Then why do they come here?”
Fey rolled her eyes. “Good grief,” she murmured. “I know you read the sign on the outside. That’s why you’re here.”
It clicked for Lindsay, and she blushed slightly, but realized that Fey wasn’t exactly the least ambiguous person she’d ever met. “Ah, yes. To make a wish.”
“Very good,” the gypsy said condescendingly. Without warning, she whacked the CD player, and the song jumped to a country western tune. “So get on with it.”
“Well,” Lindsay began slowly, “I was actually hoping you could answer a few questions first. You see, I have… an acquaintance who once… enjoyed your hospitality.” An image of Clint and that award-winning smile flashed, unbidden, through her mind, and she fought down the emotions that welled inside her.
“An acquaintance, you say? Who?”
“Ah, well, it was several years ago. I was wondering—”
“What’s his name, sweetheart. I’m pretty sure he has one.”
Lindsay blinked in surprise. “Well, then, um, it’s Clint. Clint Christopherson.”
Lindsay fully expected Fey to close her eyes and meditate until the name suddenly popped into her mind. Instead the hag all but leapt from her stool, straight at Lindsay. Lindsay started, and fell backward off the equally startled goat, which stumbled across her feet and landed on her legs.
“Thank you, Altimus,” Fey mumbled. “I was about to ask you to move.” Fey stooped in front of a small cupboard along the wall, and opened the door. From it she pulled a very modern-looking laptop computer and a power cord. She plugged in the laptop, and it fired up with barely a whisper. Lindsay gasped.
Fey gave her younger companion a look. “It’s called a computer. They can do all sorts of really neat things these days. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen one.”
Lindsay shook her head quickly, helped Altimus off her, and sat on a small bench lining the wall, hoping Fey wouldn’t notice the new seating. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that I… It’s not what I expected.”
“What? Did you expect me to meditate until his name suddenly popped into my mind? I’m pushing seventy-five (and I’m not too bad looking for it, I might add). Don’t expect me to be able to magically remember people from more than three minutes ago, let alone three years.
“By the way, what was your name again?”
“Lindsay. Sullivan.”
“Right. I’ll log your information in a minute. Here’s my card. Now let’s bring up this ‘acquaintance’ first.” Fey hammered the name into the computer, typing with secretary-level speed. She clicked a few things, and then rotated the swiveling screen so Lindsay could see it.
“That him? Hunky blond with eyes to die for? Made a wish about finding love, though I don’t know why he’d need it with a face like that.”
Yes, that was Clint. Fey had photographed him against the same backdrop Lindsay had now. Despite the poor lighting, his face was remarkably easy to see. Lindsay gazed longingly at him for a long time, savoring every last detail from the relaxed waves of hair, past those eyes, all the way down to his firm, square chin.
“Stop drooling, Lena,” Fey said. “You’ll make the linoleum wet. Altimus doesn’t do well on slick surfaces.”
Altimus noised his agreement.
“Yes, that’s him,” Lindsay responded, nodding at the picture. “And my name is Lindsay.”
“That’s nice. So. Is he your wish? You want this stud to come galloping into your apartment and save you from being dateless on weekends?”
Lindsay flinched. “I am not dateless on weekends. Okay, well… yes, actually I am. But that’s by choice. And you’ll excuse me if I say that’s not really any of your concern.”
Fey waved it away. “So are you going to wish this man-candy into your life, or not?”
Lindsay wrinkled her nose. “First, I’m perfectly fine with who I am, and how I live. I don’t need a man to take care of me. Second, even if I did want a man, what makes you think I’d only care about a handsome face?”
“His tush is pretty tight, too. Mmm.”
Lindsay ignored the shock of the statement. “Never mind him. I’d like to know at least a little more about how these wishes work before going ahead with anything. And who even said I wanted a wish in the first place?”
Fey got up, walked to the side door, and looked out at the sky. “Star light, star bright,” she began.
Lindsay sucked in a breath. “You mean… you heard that?”
“Of course I didn’t hear that. Our dispatch group did. They called in the report, and sent me out to deal with it. I was the closest agent, so they had me make a little detour from my planned trip to Vegas. Three weeks in Sin City! Woo! ‘Did I hear that?’ What? Do you think I’m some kind of creepy spy? By the way,” Fey stage-whispered, “you really shouldn’t eat on your balcony. Or in public, for that matter. You chew like a cow.”
Lindsay stood abruptly. “I don’t have to take this.” She strode to the door but a bony hand caught her elbow before she could quite reach the stairs.
“You know you’re running from him.”
Lindsay jerked her elbow free, and glared at her senior. “No, actually I’m walking away from egregious and uncalled-for insults. Not to mention this… smell.”
“And you used to be such a nice, sweet girl, too.”
“Leave me alone,” Lindsay retorted. “It’s well past midnight, and I’m not about to lose sleep so that someone can harass me and make me ride their pet goat. I’m done here.” She stepped out the door.
“Even if I could get you Clint?”
Lindsay froze, and sighed. “I already told you, I’m not interested. Mister Christopherson was a failed client in a failed venture in a failed past.”
“Which is why your heart is still locked away in his cupboard?”
“He doesn’t have my heart,” Lindsay whispered. She knew the lie wouldn’t pass. “I really think I’d better go. Magic isn’t my thing.” Lindsay stepped down the stairs.
“You’d never admit that in court, at least,” Fey said. Lindsay was surprised to find that her hostess had exited with her, and was matching her stride for stride. “And you know that you’re clueless and searching. That’s why you made that star wish tonight.”
Lindsay whirled on Fey. “You’re not going to let this drop, are you?”
“Hey, it’s your fault I’m here, missy. Otherwise, I’d already be at the craps tables at Caesar’s. But you’re right. You don’t need him. He hurt you bad, especially when he sucked face with that Fed. He forfeited his chance for happiness. He deserves her. Though, I wonder if I could find him a second time…”
Could it be true? Was there a chance that Clint might actually be unhappy with the more attractive federal agent? But who cared? Why should she? And yet…
Lindsay glared at the gypsy for good measure. “Fine. Let’s get this done and you’re welcome to be on your way to Vegas. They’d probably even give you your own show.”
A short while later, Lindsay was standing in the middle of the RV dressed like a clown princess. Fey had insisted that Lindsay wear a cheap plastic necklace and a rainbow wig, and had then been photographed for Fey’s records. (Lindsay thought the picture was disgusting, and she had argued with Fey for at least five minutes trying to get it removed; Fey compromised by taking the shot from a different angle instead, and without using a flash.)
“Is this really necessary?” Lindsay muttered, impatiently adjusting the wig.
“Absolutely. Channeling wishes is easier when I’m in a good mood, and that’s more likely to happen when the wisher amuses me. Now be quiet while I explain how this works.”
Lindsay frowned, but complied.
“Rule one: wishes can’t directly cause bodily harm, death or force someone against their will.”
“Excuse me,” Lindsay said, “but that’s exactly what Clint’s wish was about.”
“Sometimes wishes go wrong.”
“That’s your excuse?”
Lindsay asked in exasperation. “‘Something went wrong,’ and suddenly I’m completely out of my mind just because I tapped him once? You ruin not only my, but who knows how many other women’s lives and then say, ‘Something went wrong’? You’re going to have to do better than that, Fey.”
Fey half shrugged. “He didn’t properly qualify his wish. His fault. What he wanted was to be loved, but he went the old King Midas route to get it.”
“Midas turned everything he touched to gold,” Lindsay replied. “How was that not forcing people?”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t. Midas was a fable. Your friend isn’t. His wish couldn’t force anyone to do anything they didn’t want to. It wouldn’t have worked if it had.”
“Do you have any idea how much I wanted to just… to just own him?” Lindsay huffed. “To do… stuff… that would make my parents blush, any time I thought of him after that first touch? Do you have any idea how much harder it got every time we made contact after that? I had to flee across two state lines to stop myself from doing something I’m certain I would have regretted. How can you say that wasn’t forced?”
“Did you do it?”
Lindsay screwed up her face. “Do what?”
“Any of it. And was it good?”
“Absolutely not! I mean, no, I didn’t do it. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to more than words can say.”
Fey grinned wickedly. “See? You weren’t forced.”
“I don’t see how—”
“Think about it, dear. I can tell you’re a sharp one. Rule two: there’s a price for everything. You want your wish to work? You need to part with something of value to you. The greater the personal value, the stronger the wish.”
“So this is a scam?”
Fey wagged a finger. “Clint. Was that fake?”
“I take your point,” Lindsay said sourly. “What did he pay?”
Fey shook her head. “Can’t tell you. It’d violate the privacy policy. But it wasn’t money. Rule three: no time travel stuff. That gets messy.”
“What do you mean?”
“Better to leave it alone altogether. Let’s say people change when they try it. Not good for the sanity.” Fey rapped a fist on her own head. “Trust me on that one.”
“That would explain a few things, wouldn’t it?”
“Rule four! One wish only per customer! That means no wishing for more wishes, or two or three-part wishes or any of that bull. Keep it simple, keep it clear. Otherwise, you end up like stud muffin.
“By the way,” Fey said in a conspiratorial tone, “is he still available?”
Lindsay rolled her eyes. “Any more rules?”
“Only if you want me to add some.”
“Any guarantees?”
“You won’t die. I think.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“Take it or leave it. Now, that wish. Are you ready to make it?”
“I’m not sure,” Lindsay said.
“I know you had one in mind earlier. Out with it.”
Lindsay frowned, and focused on the task. Of all the things she could ask for, what did she really want—assuming this wish business worked in the first place? Her first thought was rejected—would she really waste such a treasure on a life plan when she could hire a life coach for a few hundred, or get a self-help book for the price of a good meal? She should know—she had several such books. What about success? No, she was already well on her way to that. Material goods seemed so shallow. Money? No. Men? Maybe? No. But then, what did she want, and what was she willing to pay for it? That brought her right back to the same realization she’d had earlier—that she really didn’t know where she was going.
That thought was more than a little disquieting. So she settled on her wish.
But what to give in exchange? Even the act of making such a request was an admission of defeat, a ringing acknowledgment that everything she’d worked for, everything she’d become was a sham. She’d spent so much trying to break the yoke of being under someone else’s rules that to go back to that—even for a husband—was failure. And yet, was all that worth the emptiness she felt? What could she really part with to pay for the kind of purpose and clarity she sought?
The answer hit her in a wave of epiphany.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
“Do what?” Fey asked.
“Pay for my wish.”
Fey smiled wryly. “I knew you’d figure it out sooner or later. Alright, now go have a seat, and concentrate on your wish. I’ll take care of all the mumbo-jumbo business over here.”
Lindsay did as she was asked, and squeezed her eyes shut. Images of dreams long forgotten flashed through her mind, and her six-year-old self cavorted through her thoughts. Lindsay watched the girl laugh and play and dream of marrying the most wonderful prince in all the land, and becoming queen. The idea was so juvenile, and yet Lindsay couldn’t help admire the simple clarity of her girlhood plan. What did all of this mean? Lindsay shut her eyes tighter, and waited for whatever was supposed to happen.
Nothing.
Lindsay heard Fey muttering something, and making tapping noises that sounded too much like… typing?
She cracked one eye open to see Fey banging away on her laptop. “Um, what are you doing?”
Fey didn’t even glance up. “Blogging. And once I’m done with this, I’m going to beat my old record at Sudoku.”
Lindsay opened both her eyes. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be doing all the ‘mumbo-jumbo’ stuff for my wish?”
Fey’s eyes flicked up to meet the attorney’s. “I already did. I sent the e-mail to Dispatch while you were taking your nap.”
“I wasn’t napping. I was concentrating.”
“Orange juice makers don’t close their eyes to make concentrate.”
Lindsay cocked a brow. “I think that’s the single most random response I’ve ever heard. And if you’re not going to take any of this seriously, then I think I was right to walk out the first time.” Lindsay got to her feet, and maneuvered around Fey’s animal. “I can’t believe I let you humiliate me for this long.”
“You could be a little nicer yourself,” Fey retorted.
Lindsay’s jaw and fists clenched. “You are a piece of work, Fey. Do you know that?”
Fey shrugged. “You’ve got your wish. Don’t forget to leave the necklace, and especially the wig—it’s the only one of its kind I have. Oh, and don’t let Altimus out when you leave. I’ve already chased him once tonight.”
Lindsay harrumphed, and stormed out of the bus, ensuring (with a resounding slam) that the door was perfectly secure enough to contain the rogue farm animal.
“Thank you for visiting Aunt Fey’s Roadside Wishouse.” Fey’s voice sounded from a window. “Sleep well, and remember to tell all of your friends about us. Goodnight.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Despite the interruption, Lindsay slept peacefully that night. The new day started on an excellent note, and everything fell into order just as it should. She prepared her briefs, read through her notes from ongoing cases, and examined her daily calendar.
Then she got the e-mail.
Ms. Fuller’s missive was simple: “Please see me in my office at once.”
Lindsay’s heart was hammering as she knocked on the senior partner’s door. She told herself it was from the fact that she’d all but sprinted to the woman’s office. Deftly straightening her clothes and hair, she set her face in “professional but friendly” mode, and waited for a response.
“Come,” a woman’s voice said through the door.
Lindsay stepped in, leaving the door open should she need an easy escape route. Ms. Fuller’s office had more books than the local library, each arranged alphabetically, by subject, and then by color. The deep purple Berber and drawn, crimson curtains did little to lighten Lindsay’s mood; the stained-glass table lamps were no help either.
Despite the fact that attorney Caroline Fuller barely topped five-three, the woman domin
ated an oak desk the size of Lindsay’s nicer car. Tidy stacks of documents spread across the mirror-finished surface were, along with a computer and a red vase with irises, the only real touch of femininity in the room. Lindsay searched for visual cues about Fuller’s mood, but realized at once why her superior had earned the nickname “Poker Face.”
“Have a seat, Miss Sullivan,” she said in her Londoner accent. “And please close the door.”
Lindsay’s heart fell into her stomach, and dipped a bit further when Ms. Fuller produced a thick folder from one of her desk drawers. Lindsay shut the door, and settled in one of the comfortable, leather armchairs that seemed to bow in obedience before the desk.
The senior partner placed the folder in front of her, opened it, and leafed deliberately through several pages, staring down her nose at the documents. Lindsay’s heart hammered the entire time, and she searched her mind for any possible misstep she might have made during her years with the firm.
“I’ll come straight to the point, Miss Sullivan,” Fuller said, closing the folder and turning her prosecutor’s gaze on Lindsay. “I’ve been reviewing your performance.”
Lindsay opened her mouth to engage in defense, but stopped herself at once. Fuller quirked an eyebrow.
“Do calm down, Counselor. Your performance is excellent. If I’d wanted to terminate you, you’d have found the severance check on your desk this morning. Unless there’s something I’m not aware of?”
Lindsay shook her head. “No, ma’am. I was simply surprised by your summons.”
“And why shouldn’t I summon one of my better staff members to my office? This isn’t the first time I’ve had you in here. But enough of this. As I was saying, your performance has caught my attention. I’d like you to shadow me at the trial of an important case we expect to prosecute next month. I’m confident we’ll have a ruling within the first few days, but I’m certain the defense will push for an appeal. This is a chance for the both of us to evaluate your fitness to pursue the appellate process of that case when it resumes. The potential client is a Mister Zachary Simmons, and this file contains the specifics on his case.” Fuller slid the file across the desk to Lindsay.