by Lucy Finn
Gene’s face glowed red from embarrassment. “No thanks needed,” he mumbled.
“He is a miracle worker. You’re right about that,” I said, looking at him, my heart full of love.
Peggy Sue watched the two of us closely.
Gene said to her, “The trailer’s unhitched. Is it going to be okay parked where it is?”
“It’s real good there. Thanks.”
“Then we’ll be going,” I said. “You go to the bank, right now, you hear?”
“I am. I’m going to grab my car keys. Ravine?”
“Yes?”
“What do I owe you?”
“I filed your divorce papers this morning. I’ll send you a bill, okay? First things first. And now you can quit working at Offset,” I said, smiling.
“Oh, I’ll quit the Pump ’n’ Pantry for sure,” she said happily. “But I’m going to work at Offset tonight, and I doubt I’ll quit there, at least for now. I need the health insurance. When I get the day care going, I might. But don’t you worry about me. Thanks to you and Gene, I’m going to be just fine.” She gave me a last smile as she turned and hurried up her front walk, her hair floating around her shoulders. When she looked back and waved, I could get a glimpse of how pretty she had once been.
Fatigue caught up with me after we collected Brady from my mother’s house and returned her truck. Without elaborating I told her that Peggy Sue got her money back and I’d give her the details later. I wanted to get back home and collapse.
You don’t always get what you want.
A car with FIRE MARSHAL stenciled on the side was sitting in my driveway when we pulled in.
A tall, heavyset man with gray hair and an air of authority stepped out of his vehicle as soon as I un-buckled Brady from his car seat. Gene had grabbed the baby bag and came around the Beemer to stand next to me.
“Ravine Patton?” the man asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“My name’s Joe Barletta. I’m here about the fire you had Friday night. I have a couple of questions for you.”
“This is my friend Gene O’Neill,” I said, and Gene put out his hand. They shook. “Why don’t you come inside,” I said.
Gene offered to get Brady out of his snowsuit, and I led the fire marshal into the living room. I asked if I could take his coat as I removed my own.
“No, thanks. I’ll only stay a minute,” he answered. “I wanted to ask if you knew a man named Alvin Hoyt.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Did he have any reason to wish you harm?”
“I don’t know if he wished me harm or not. He didn’t have positive feelings about me, I can tell you that much. For one thing, he hated anybody who was a Patton. It was an old feud, going back years. And a few days ago, I had reason to believe he harassed some of my clients. I warned him to stay away from them.”
“Did you warn him in person?”
“I did.”
“When was this?”
“Thursday, the day before the fire.”
“And how did he react to your warning?”
“He was agitated, mostly because I was at his place without an invitation, I think. He denied bothering anybody, but he seemed to get the message to stay away from them.” I shrugged. “I thought that was the end of it.”
“Did he threaten you in any way?”
“He didn’t threaten me verbally, but he got his rifle out and stood there on the porch with it as I drove away.”
The fire marshal kept his face impassive but a muscle near his eye twitched. “I guess Mr. Hoyt might have been more upset than you thought he was. We’re pretty sure he’s the one who set your fire. You know he died in that storm?”
“Yes, I heard.”
“We’re assuming you don’t have anything more to worry about. In any event, whoever tried to burn down your house wasn’t a professional arsonist. Putting gasoline on the ground around a house is mostly for intimidation, to scare people to death. Sure, it might burn down the house—a spark from burning garbage can burn down a house—but this kind of thing, a ring of fire, is for effect mostly. So you got lucky, if you want to look at it like that. An arsonist who knew what he was doing? We would be standing in a pile of ashes right now.”
My face turned white and I felt chilled all over. The fire marshal’s voice got softer. “Sorry to have upset you. What I was trying to say is that somebody—whether it was Alvin Hoyt, we don’t know for sure—was trying to frighten you. So be on your guard, that’s all. When we finish our investigation, I’ll get back to you. Actually, with Mr. Hoyt’s bad feelings about your family and the arson attempt following so close after your warning to him, I think it’s an open-and-shut case. Thank you for your time, Ms. Patton.”
I led him back to the front door. I wasn’t so sure it was an open-and-shut case, but I kept my reservations to myself.
I called out to Gene that I had to make a phone call and hurried into the office to call the Katos. I asked them if they were doing all right. They said they were and that they hadn’t had any other incidents. I told them about Scabby Hoyt’s death in the snow. Gentle and compassionate people that they were, they were both upset over his dying.
I added, making my voice as grim as I could to stress my seriousness, that we still didn’t know if Scabby’s death had been an accident; I believed someone else had sent Scabby to scare them. “Please keep taking the precautions I suggested,” I concluded.
They assured me that they would, although they still hadn’t gotten a watchdog. They were afraid he would bother the cats, they said. I assured them that some dogs would not harm their cats, but they didn’t seem convinced.
Their remark about the dog set me thinking. I dialed my mother. “Ma,” I said, “what happened to Scabby’s dog? Did anybody take him in?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“I think the Katos will take him. They need a good watchdog who’s also a gentle sort.”
“Cal might know. Let me call him and I’ll get back to you.”
Calvin Metz again. My mother mentioned him almost every time we spoke. The charter school might be something they were tackling together, but I felt certain a love relationship had developed. I hoped so, and smiled as I thanked my mother and hung up.
When I walked back into the kitchen, Gene had Brady in his high chair and was amusing him with some Cheerios on the tray.
“You look worn out,” he said. “Come here.”
I did and he wrapped me in his arms. We stood there and kissed. I forgot I was tired, I felt so happy. It didn’t last long.
“I went out and got the mail,” Gene murmured in my ear. “It’s there on the table. Why don’t you look through it while I make you a cup of tea? It’s almost teatime.”
I sat down, and spotted a lilac-colored envelope peeking out from behind the electric bill. The return address told me it was from Tawnya Jones. I opened it, and along with the information I had told her to write down, she had enclosed a retainer check for a hundred dollars. I stuffed the check back in the envelope and shoved it under the bills. I felt uneasy at the prospect of telling Gene about another job I had to do, and that there was an outside chance I could end up at a strip club.
The teakettle whistled and without magic, or with only a little, Gene soon had the Sadler teapot on the table along with a plate of small sandwiches made with minced ham and watercress and another of lemon curd tarts. I took a hesitant bite of a tart, and discovered that the crust was light and buttery and the lemon curd itself—sweet and sour at the same time, very lemony with a hint of a golden egginess—was almost the best thing I had ever tasted. The sandwiches and tarts were washed down with cup after cup of tea from the pot which mysteriously never got empty.
I told Gene about Scabby’s dog and my idea to get him to the Katos.
He looked at me for a long minute. “You’re always trying to help somebody. Okay, you’re also meddling or rushing in where you shouldn’t go, but you have a very good heart.”
I didn’t know what to say except thanks.
“You remind me of my mother,” he said, looking away, his mouth turning up in a funny little smile. “She’d do exactly the same thing.”
I forgot about Queen Nefertitty with her stolen urn of ashes. The three of us all went into the living room for a cuddle on the sofa, and we dozed off one by one for a brief nap as the afternoon slid gracefully into evening. My hunger satisfied and Gene’s arms around me and Brady, I couldn’t have found a better way to finish the day.
The night didn’t hold the same delights. Dinner was nice enough. If the way to a woman’s heart was through her stomach, Gene had captured mine. Along with a basket filled with crusty garlic bread, he had included a glass of red wine, another highly rated Australian Shiraz. Once again I swirled the ruby liquid around in the glass and inhaled the aroma, but this time I didn’t comment on it. I didn’t want to chance hearing Gene spin out plans to buy a vineyard. Maybe that’s what he had been researching on the Internet: the right land to create the O’Neill Vineyards near Melbourne. For all I knew he was even more serious than ever about getting in on the ground floor of this industry of the future.
After a dinner during which neither he nor I said much, I took Brady up for his bath and tucked him into bed. I told Gene I needed to do a few hours’ work in my office. Actually I wanted to think. I had to figure out what my next steps should be on the Kato case as well as how to wrap up Tawyna Jones and her ashes problem as quickly as possible. But I no sooner sat down at my desk than my mind wandered to the situation between Gene and me.
First I wondered if my strategy to make Gene feel indispensable was working. If it was, was it the right thing to do? I had been an independent woman for so long that I didn’t do “needy” very well. The day had been, by and large, a great success. But thinking now about my independence raised a host of issues I had been avoiding. In Gene’s era, the man ruled the household. In his position as a genie under a spell of enchantment, Gene was obliged to obey orders. He fetched and carried, did housework and cooked. If I made my third wish and he became an ordinary man again, what would he be willing to do? I trailed a pen down a legal pad, doodling circles, then wrote “Gene the genie vs. Gene the man.”
Gene the genie was compliant, obedient, and a gentleman. Gene the man was brave, sexy, aggressive, chauvinistic, and possessed of a temper. Did I really know what I was getting myself into?
All my girlfriends talked about the honeymoon phase in a relationship when the guy was a prince: He was attentive and accommodating, picked up his clothes and the tab, maintained an affable disposition and was nice to your mother. But at some point Dr. Jekyll became Mr. Hyde, complete with mood swings, outbursts of temper, and a dogged stubbornness about the TV remote control, which movies he was willing to see, how often he’d visit your relatives, and whether he did any housework at all. Personal hygiene had been known to slip; outright refusals to go shopping at the mall were common. It was a scary scenario.
I already knew that Gene had his limits about going along with what I wanted. How much could or would I compromise? Why couldn’t life be like a romance novel where all that mattered was, well, romance? Instead I needed to know if Gene and I were compatible about doing housework (he already thought I was a poor cleaner, and he was right), spending money (I was a grasshopper, not an ant), and staying faithful to each other (24/7 for me, no exceptions).
On the other hand, having Gene here gave me blissful feelings of security and belonging, the joy of companionship, and the thrill of sexual play. How did all the elements balance out? Right now, I wanted to be with Gene every minute, and I didn’t want to envision life without him.
At that point of my musings about Gene and me, another plan formed in my mind. It was a week before Thanksgiving. Gene’s birthday was on Christmas Eve. Five weeks wasn’t a long period of time to test a relationship, but we were living together, not just dating. I should know by Christmas if what my whole being was telling me was true: that despite his being a genie, born in 1913, and coming from a world away in space and time, Gene O’Neill was “the one”—the man I had been waiting for.
So I made up my mind. Christmas Eve would be the deadline. If I was sure it was the right thing, and if Gene had committed to staying in the present, on that night I’d wish for Gene to be released from his enchantment. If not—if either one of us had doubts or a change of heart—I’d make another wish having nothing to do with Gene. I hadn’t given more thought to helping Freddi with her pregnancy. But that was a possibility. Or I could wish for the charter school to be deeded over to my mother and Cal. I could even wish for a major client to take me on; that would end my financial worries. All of those things could be worthy things to wish for.
I took a deep breath. I had to face facts. Right now Gene still intended to leave—despite our intimacy. If I did the noble thing, the unselfish thing, and made a wish, he would be freed from the magus’s spell and perhaps end up back in the Sahara in 1942. A wave of sadness and fear washed over me when I thought about Gene’s vanishing. I realized that I was fooling myself. No matter what fights we were bound to have, how many lifestyle differences loomed ahead, or what habits of his were sure to drive me crazy, I didn’t want to let him go. The fact that he still planned on leaving just about tore me apart.
I sighed. I wanted to have control of the future and, in reality, I had virtually none. I would go ahead and make sure Gene knew he was needed here, but I wouldn’t pretend to change or try to be someone other than who I was. If he loved me, he had to love me warts and all. If I loved him, the same rules applied. And if he stayed, he had to want to be in this time and place without second thoughts, because there would be no turning back.
I took out a desk calendar and put a big red circle around Christmas Eve, as if I would need the reminder. Even as I did it, negativity overwhelmed me. What were the chances Gene would still be here by then? Why was I prolonging the situation? Maybe I should make my third wish tomorrow and get it over with. But even as I thought that, I knew I couldn’t do it. I also made up a schedule for tomorrow: first thing in the morning, go to the courthouse to search deeds; afternoon, try to track down Queen Nefertitty; and late afternoon, stop off to see the Katos before coming back home.
At that point, it occurred to me that I needed to come up with some child care arrangements. I wasn’t comfortable leaving Brady at all, and certainly not with dropping him off at some day care center with strangers. My mother might be able to take over a few days a week, but with her new charter school in the works, she might not. I figured I’d better call her.
My mother was at home since Monday wasn’t a bingo night, a church committee night, or her line dancing night. First thing she told me was that Calvin Metz had found out that Scabby’s dog was down at the police station. His relatives took the cows, but nobody wanted the big yellow Lab called Casey. The cops didn’t want to take him to the SPCA if they didn’t have to, and they were trying to find somebody local to adopt him. I told her I’d pick the dog up before I went out to see the Katos tomorrow.
My mother was also willing to come over Tuesday afternoon to stay with Brady and agreed to sit down with me to figure out how often she could help out as a babysitter. For the past few months, she had been my right hand as well as my mother; I didn’t have to tell her how much I needed her. She knew, and she was always there. I started to feel better. I thought I had all my ducks in a row. That was pure self-deception; what happened would turn out to be in the best-laid-plans-get-f’d department.
To start with, Gene and I had a rip-roaring argument over Queen Nefertitty.
“Gene,” I had said, “I’m heading out to the courthouse tomorrow morning to look into land titles and recent deed transfers. I need you to watch Brady.”
He was in the kitchen up on a chair with a screwdriver in his hand, tightening the hinges on the cabinets. “Okay. I saw some repairs that need to be done on the house. You have a problem with me fixing some thi
ngs?”
I stood there looking at him. “Why should I? Do whatever you want. I plan to be back around twelve. My mother’s coming over to watch Brady in the afternoon.”
“Why does your mother need to watch Brady? Am I going somewhere?” His eyes narrowed. Suspicion seeped into his voice.
“Maybe you’d better get off the chair and we can talk about it. I’d like you to come with me to Wilkes-Barre. I have a case there.”
He jumped down. He wasn’t smiling. “You don’t want me to scare somebody to death again, do you?”
“I don’t think it will come to that. I need you along for backup.”
“Backup? You’re a lawyer, not a police officer. What do you need backup for?” His voice was getting noticeably louder.
“Probably nothing. I have to negotiate a settlement with a young woman. I don’t anticipate a problem really,” I said.
“I’ve got the feeling you’re not telling me something. Don’t expect me to walk into something blind. I learned in the war that going out on a mission without knowing what crap the enemy might throw at you is suicide. I want the whole story, and I want it now.”
“I don’t like your tone of voice.” I could see he was going to be difficult about this.
“And I don’t like being dragged into your schemes without any say about them. You tell me I’m an equal partner, but your words don’t match your actions.”
I swallowed hard. He was right, and I had handled this badly. “I guess I have done that. I’m sorry.”
“That’s what you said the last time. Now you’ve done the same thing again. How can I believe you?” His jaw had thrust forward.
I felt rotten. I had really screwed this up. “Gene, really, I’m sorry. I got myself into a mess and need your help in getting out of it. I guess I shouldn’t expect you to want to help me.”