Midsummer Night's Mischief

by Jennifer D. Hesse

  Her eyes twinkled as she said it, and I smiled in spite of myself. “What about this morning? You haven’t been doing your errands while lugging around that four-hundred-year-old treasure, have you?”

  “Oh, heavens, no!” said Eleanor, laughing. “Well, maybe just one. Anyway, I have to go back to the bookseller after I leave here. He’s going to take pictures of the book and give me some directions to that Shakespeare library in Washington, D.C.”

  “Okay, Eleanor. But after that, you have to promise me you’ll go straight to the bank,” I said. “Also, no more talking to Mr. Satterly. If you really think he’s the one you want to sell the Folio to, then you’ve got to let me handle the negotiations. Although, I still think you should consider using an auction house,” I added.

  “I did think about it,” said Eleanor. “I want to keep the Folio closer to home, at least for now. I know Mr. Satterly will sell it in no time, of course, but still . . . Oh, that reminds me. We have to hold off on the sale until after I have my book club meeting next month. I can’t wait to see the looks on those ladies’ faces.” Eleanor crinkled her eyes, and I could only shake my head. “Anyway,” she continued, “I like Mr. Satterly, and I also like the idea of supporting a small local business. You know, it’s important to me to keep the money right here in our community.”

  I nodded. “I understand perfectly. So, that’s what we’ll do—assuming Mr. Satterly can pay a fair price. And you won’t set the price until after the second appraisal you get in D.C. Now, let’s review your bequests.”

  We went over the details of her will again, and I answered all her questions. Finally, I asked her if she wanted to have a family member look over the will, but she said it wasn’t necessary.

  “I talked to Darlene last night, and she’s just fine with being the executor. She expected it would be her, being the oldest.”

  “All right, then. Let me just go grab a couple witnesses and a notary.” I stood up, strode over to my office door, and pulled it open—only to be knocked sideways by a heavy, flailing weight that had evidently been pressing on the other side of the door.

  “Ohh!” I staggered to my feet and gaped at the intruder. “Crenshaw! What in the world?”

  “Oh! Er . . . I . . . I beg your pardon!” He clumsily grabbed my arm to assist, which was only more of an annoyance, as I was already standing. “I was just, er, stopping in to offer my services as a witness to the last will and testament of this, er, your client. My timing was, ah, most unfortunate. Do accept my apologies. I beg of you.” Even through his stuttered apology, Crenshaw bounced from side to side, trying to get a glimpse of the First Folio.

  Eleanor raised her eyebrows and looked from me to Crenshaw and back. Crenshaw, for his part, finally stood still and hung his head.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, “to quote a phrase, I ‘have seen better days.’”

  “Who said that?” asked Eleanor.

  “That would be Duke Senior in the Shakespearean Comedy As You—” He stopped cold when he saw my expression. “Right. I’ll bid you adieu now and take my leave.” With a halfhearted flourish, he backed out of the room.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Oh, my God, that is too funny,” Farrah said, nearly choking on her rum and Coke. “What a piece of work! He was actually listening at your office door and then fell into the room?”

  “He’s a piece of work, all right. At the time, I was more embarrassed than amused. I was with a client!”

  “This is the guy who wears three-piece suits all the time, right? Satin vests, bow ties?”

  I nodded and winced. “That wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the rest of his personality. He spent, like, one semester in England or something, and he acts like he’s related to the royal family.” I took a sip from my drink and leaned forward. “You know how he insists on always tacking ‘the Third’ onto the end of his name? Well, I found out his father isn’t even named Crenshaw.”

  “What!” Farrah burst into laughter again. “That is too much. This guy is single, right? You know what he needs. . . .”

  I laughed with her and reached over to snatch a stuffed mushroom from Farrah’s plate. We were having snacks and drinks at the Loose Rock, one of our favorite hangs in Edindale. The Loose was a hip and relaxed scene in the early evening, great for predinner dates or catching up with friends. Around nine o’clock it became a popular venue for indie rock bands, and by the end of the night it was a hopping dance party. Farrah and I enjoyed all three aspects of the club—often on the same night.

  We’d been coming here since our grueling law school days, when we really needed to blow off steam. I had met Farrah on day one of school, at an orientation seminar. The professor had been going on and on, in dour tones, about how rigorous the competition was going to be and how our grades were going to affect “our entire professional careers.” He told us that there was room at the top firms for only 5 percent of our class and that these coveted jobs would be won only by the best, brightest, and most hardworking among us. The auditorium was quiet as a tomb. Then he told us to look around at each other and see not our classmates but our competitors—the ones who would determine if we would be winners or losers. At that moment, there was a loud snort at the back of the room. All heads turned to see this cute, sparkly blonde stand up and head for the door at the front of the room. “Thanks for the warm welcome, Houseman,” she said brightly. “See ya in the lecture hall.”

  I loved her immediately. I found her afterward and told her she was my hero. She laughed and asked if I wanted to get a beer with her. It wasn’t long after this that we decided to be study partners. When we learned we shared an eclectic taste in music, a fondness for old movies, and a love of long-distance running, we became best buds, as well.

  Oh, and in spite of her inauspicious start, Farrah graduated in the top 5 percent of our class. She worked for a huge law firm for one year and then quit to be a sales rep for a legal software company. It gave her more time to “have fun.” Everything was fun with Farrah.

  Now I was about to ask her why she and Jake were on the outs again, but I was momentarily distracted by a vision of tall, dark handsomeness near the entrance to the bar.

  “Whoa,” I said. “Who is that?”

  She swiveled in her chair. “Who? Rock Star over there? He looks like he just rolled out of bed, doesn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. I always was a sucker for the bedroom look. This guy had dark, tousled hair and a five o’clock—no, make that a six o’clock—shadow. He wore faded jeans and a navy blue music festival T-shirt that stretched perfectly over well-toned muscles—not too big, not too small. A bold tribal-style armband was tattooed around his left bicep.

  I tried not to stare, but this guy pulled my gaze like a steel magnet. Farrah laughed and waved her fingers in front of my face.

  “It has been a while since you’ve dated anyone. You’ve been working too much, Kel.” She turned to check out the new dude again. “Hey, he’s talking to Jimi now,” Farrah said. Jimi Coral, an energetic guy with a goatee, was the owner of the Loose. We knew him pretty well, with us being regular customers and all.

  “Um, you know,” I said, rising from my seat, “I think there’s something I need to ask Jimi, like, right now. Isn’t there?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do believe there is. And I think I see Katie and Dawn, so I’ll just catch up with you later.”

  I smiled sweetly at Farrah, and she wrinkled her nose at me and got up to join some friends at another table. She and I used to do this to each other all the time. We both understood that some opportunities were meant to be jumped on. So to speak.

  Casually, I strolled over to the other side of the bar. “Hey, Jimi,” I said.

  The two men stopped talking and turned to face me.

  “When are you gonna start singer-songwriter night again? Farrah and I were just talking about how much we miss that.”

  “Hi ya, Keli. Soon, I promise. I’ve got some interesting acts coming up next month.”r />
  I looked at Rock Star, who was even hotter up close. His dark brown eyes met mine, and I felt my heart quicken in my chest. Jimi, bless his soul, didn’t miss a beat. He quickly introduced us.

  “Keli, meet my friend Wes. He’s my old college buddy. He just got back from New York.” Jimi clapped Wes on the shoulder briefly, then made like he had to run. “Keli, maybe you could chat with Wes for a minute. I’ve got to check on something in the kitchen.” Jimi took off before the word “Sure” was out of my mouth.

  Wes smiled at me, then indicated a nearby booth. “Have a drink with me?”

  We slid into the booth, and a waitress appeared to take our orders. For a few seconds, Wes studied me like he was trying to place my face.

  I spoke first. “Have we met before?” I asked. I was pretty sure I would never have forgotten a man who looked like this. All the same, I did feel an odd sense of having known him.

  “I was just trying to figure that out,” he said. “Where’d you go to school?”

  We chatted for a few minutes about college, but I had gone to undergrad back in my home state. And by the time I’d come to Edindale for law school, Wes was already in New York.

  As we continued making small talk, I found myself liking this guy more and more. I especially appreciated how he gave me his full attention. He didn’t look around the room, like some guys I’d dated.

  When the waitress brought our drinks, Wes said, “You know what? I’m starving. Think I’ll order some chicken wings, too. You want something to eat, Keli?”

  “Oh, no thanks. I already ate.”

  “You can share my wings,” he said. “If I remember right, Jimi’s kitchen is generous with their appetizers.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “But, actually, I don’t eat meat.”

  “Oh, you’re a vegetarian?” He seemed genuinely interested, which was a good sign. I’d had this conversation a million times before. Most meat eaters fell into one of two camps: those who found my diet a fascinating curiosity and those who found it not only weird but also somehow threatening. That second group liked to challenge my food choices as a personal affront to their own way of life.

  I nodded. “Vegan, really. Just plant-based foods for me.”

  “I knew some vegans in New York,” he said. “They seemed real healthy, and I admired their sense of conviction. I just think I’d starve, though, you know? I can’t see me getting enough protein from nuts and beans or whatever.”

  “You might be surprised,” I said good-naturedly.

  He smiled and cocked his head at me. “How long have you been vegan?”

  “About fourteen years,” I said. “I was a teenager, still living at home. I saw an anti–animal cruelty video at school, and that was it for me. I was really impressionable, I guess. My parents about flipped. They thought I had an eating disorder or something.”

  Wes laughed with me, and I suddenly wanted to know everything there was to know about him.

  “So, what were you doing in New York?” I asked. “Besides hanging out with very cool vegetarians.”

  “Well, for the past year and a half I worked at the Met. That was pretty awesome, being around all that art on a daily basis. But what I really—” He frowned and pulled out his cell phone. “Sorry. I gotta take this.”

  I watched as Wes put his phone to his ear and said, “Hey, what’s up?” The conversation was brief, and then Wes stood up and reached into his pocket for some money. There was no trace of his earlier joviality as he put a few dollars on the table. “I’m really sorry. I have to go.”

  And then he was gone.

  I sat there feeling bewildered, staring at the door through which he’d exited stage left. As the seconds ticked by, I realized he wasn’t coming back. And he hadn’t even asked for my number.

  Then the waitress brought a basketful of chicken wings. I scrunched my nose at them and looked at the dollar bills on the table. Not even enough to cover two drinks plus the food.

  Great.

  I was about to go find Farrah, so we could ponder together all the dire scenarios that might possibly have pulled away such a promising guy, when I was startled by a familiar—and unnecessarily loud—voice.

  “Hey, sexy! What are you doing, sitting here all alone? Buy ya a drink?”

  Good God, it was Jeremy. He stood in front of me with his spiky hair, shining eyes, and a boyishly goofy grin. He held two brimming shot glasses, one in each hand.

  “Jeremy! Hi. . . . Uh, what are you—”

  He sat down in the seat vacated by Wes and slid a glass toward me, the original intended recipient of the drink apparently forgotten. “Come on, Ms. Milanni. A toast!”

  I sniffed the caramel-colored liquid and smelled hot sweetness. Butterscotch schnapps maybe? I looked at Jeremy and pursed my lips into a reluctant smile. What the heck.

  He winked at me as we raised our glasses. “To Thursday nights,” he said.

  Indeed. I downed the shot and felt the hot bite dissolve into a warmth that slid from my throat to my toes. I had licked my lips and opened my mouth to make some conversation when a crazy-hopping, drum-heavy dance tune filled the club and Jeremy reached for my hands.

  “Come on, boss! Let’s dance!”

  And so that was how I found myself—three or more dance songs and at least one slow song later—in a shadowy corner of the club with the Untouchable . . . our arms entwined, our mouths inches apart. We were so close, I could practically taste the cigarettes on his breath, which was actually pretty repulsive. Yet, at the same time, I couldn’t help being drawn to the animal heat radiating from his whole body.

  The shots we kept downing between dances might have had something to do with this predicament.

  I was certainly feeling warm and fuzzy. Even so, I was also aware that he seemed even farther along than me toward complete, sloppy drunkenness. Yet another reason I should extricate myself from this situation at once, I told myself sternly.

  “Wanna go for a walk?” he whispered.

  “Sure.”

  He put his arm around my waist and led me toward the door. I let myself be led, doing my best to ignore the devil and the angel duking it out on my shoulders.

  What are you doing?

  Shut up. It’s just a walk!

  The pavement was wet and shimmery under the streetlamps. It must have just stopped raining, and I’d had no idea it even started. For some reason, this bothered me, the fact that it had rained without me knowing about it. We had gone a few steps in the direction of Fieldstone Park when the phone in my purse rang.

  “Hold on,” I said to Jeremy. The rain-scented air and the absence of noise were clearing my head a bit, and I was glad for the excuse to pause.

  I didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Ms. Milanni?” It was a woman’s voice, sounding strained.

  Jeremy looked impatient and started to shift from foot to foot.

  “Yes,” I said. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Darlene Callahan, Eleanor Mostriak’s daughter.”

  “I gotta piss,” mouthed Jeremy, turning to head back to the bar.

  I furrowed my eyebrows, wondering why Eleanor’s daughter was calling me at this hour of the night.

  “I’m sorry to call you so late, but I felt it was important to let you know.” Darlene paused, and I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. “M-mother passed away this evening. She had a heart attack.”

  CHAPTER 4

  I awoke with morning-after remorse like I hadn’t felt in a very long time. Not only was I hungover (stupid shots), but I also felt sad about Eleanor, disappointed about Wes, and horrified about Jeremy. What had I been thinking? After I heard the news about Eleanor, my desire for Jeremy had evaporated like the steam rising from the black street.

  After some slow yoga stretches, I threw some colorful veggies in my juicer to concoct the most powerful detox blend I could think of. I drank it slowly and purposefully, intoning an improvised healing spell for good me
asure. Then I showered quickly, coaxed my hair into a semi-messy French twist, dressed in my most comfortable cotton pantsuit—gray and black, to match my mood—and headed out the door. As I walked to work, I made sure to breathe slowly and deliberately, doing my best to feel normal. All the while, I told myself I was getting too old to party like a college coed.

  In fact, I must be really old to use a term like coed.

  When I entered the office suite, I said a quick hello to Julie Barnes, our young receptionist, and tried to scuttle straight to my office.

  “Oh, Keli, hang on a minute,” Julie said. She peered at me over her rectangular glasses with an appraising look. “You’re in a hurry this morning,” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Um, I had a client die last night. Eleanor Mostriak. I wanted to look over her file.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! That sweet old lady? She was just here, like, yesterday!”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Thank goodness we finalized her will. It would be a shame to have the court distribute her estate when she’d already settled on all her last wishes.”

  The door opened behind me, and I almost did a double take when I looked around. Crenshaw came in, swinging his briefcase and sporting a clean-shaven face. Gone was the beard he had cultivated the whole time I had known him—and now revealed was a surprisingly strong jawline. I couldn’t help staring.

  “Rough night?” he questioned. When I didn’t answer, he directed his eyes to the ceiling and stalked to his office.

  Julie didn’t seem to notice Crenshaw. Still fixated on Eleanor’s death, she shook her head from side to side. “Wow, oh, wow. Here one day, and gone the next. Sure makes you think, huh?”

  I smiled weakly at her. Julie had been with the firm for four years, but she was only twenty-two years old. She’d applied for the job right out of high school, and Beverly had been so impressed with her drive, she decided to give her a chance.