“Oh, hi!” Aubrey said a little too loudly. She lowered her voice. “What are you doing here? I thought you worked the morning shift?”
“I did. I came to see you. I wanted to get the dirt on your date last night.”
Aubrey smiled. “You know that feeling of, like, when you’re standing over the river at the top of the rocks on Anthony’s Nose, and the wind blows a little bit, and it feels like if you jumped the wind would catch you and you might just be okay?”
“Please tell me you are never going to test that theory.”
“It was a really good date.”
Jeanette asked a hundred questions about him, about their date: Where did he take you? What did you eat? Did he kiss you? Did he get to first base? And Aubrey replied in practiced whispers, not louder than what was necessary to be heard. She’d told Jeanette briefly of the incident with Craig. When at last it seemed Jeanette’s line of questioning began to fade, her voice changed. She lowered her eyes and looked up through dark lashes, the very picture of humility. Aubrey was immediately on guard.
“So … speaking of romance, I wanted to ask a favor,” Jeanette said. “I need you to knit me a love spell.”
“For who?”
“For Mason Boss.”
Aubrey laughed.
“Hey—I’m not playing. I want Mason Boss.”
“Two months ago you wanted the guy who worked at the farmer’s market.”
Jeanette grinned. “And I had him, too. Thanks to you.”
Aubrey felt discomfort worm along her spine. For as much as Aubrey’s love life was dusty and on the shelf, Jeanette’s was rampant. When it came to love, Jeanette didn’t merely fall; she sought out cliffs and hurled herself from them. She dove without checking the water’s depth. And each time, to her credit, she dusted herself off, had a good cry, and climbed back up to do it again.
Aubrey touched her friend’s shoulder. “You don’t need a spell to make this guy notice you. Look at you. You’re six feet tall with cheekbones like a supermodel and muscles like Wonder Woman. What would be weird is if he doesn’t notice you.”
“But what if I’m not his type? You’ve gotta do this for me. Come on, Aub. Please? It’s not fair, you know. It’s not fair that all of a sudden you’re like Vic this and Vic that and all I’m asking is for one tiny spell so I could be, like, a tenth as happy as you are right now. Are you seriously gonna tell me no?”
Aubrey picked up a heavy book. She thought of Vic, and it was enough to make her feel happy all over again.
“Please?” Jeanette half whispered. “Look! I even have my sacrifice with me.” She reached into her camouflage handbag and pulled out a teacup. “I bought this for myself in the fourth grade with money from walking the neighbor’s dog.”
Aubrey didn’t move to take the cup.
“Aubrey, I really like him,” Jeanette said.
Almost without her mind’s consent, with years of instinct and DNA and tradition propelling her on, Aubrey felt the strange out-of-bodyness that sometimes happened when she stepped into her role as the Stitchery’s guardian. She looked down her nose at the cup in Jeanette’s hand. “That’s not going to be enough.”
A second passed. “You’re right. You know that? You’re absolutely right.” Jeanette secured the teacup in a palm, then stripped her purse strap from her shoulder, and thrust the whole bag at Aubrey’s midsection.
“What are you—?”
“Take it. Take the whole thing.”
Aubrey glanced down at the bag that jangled in her hands. “But what if there’s something important in here? What about your license? Your credit cards?”
“I don’t know what all’s in there. But it’s making me damn uncomfortable to give it to you. So I figure it ought to do the trick for a spell.”
“Jeanette—”
“Please, Aub.” Her eyes were wide. She was pleading and growing tired of it. “Please?”
“This is crazy,” Aubrey said, but they both knew she’d already given in.
“You’re the cherry on the sundae—you do know that, right?” Jeanette said. She was already moving away down the aisle, smiling and walking backward foot over foot. “Oh, and would you mind giving me a lift to the meeting?”
“Why?”
“I lost my car keys,” Jeanette said. And she pointed to the bag in Aubrey’s hands.
If the congregation that had elected Mason Boss had been a big crowd, then the group that coalesced for his first official meeting was enormous. Fifteen minutes before the meeting had started, the last chair had been unfolded and occupied. People continued to crowd in, shoulder-to-shoulder, and Aubrey had to shuffle to keep from falling down. The close quarters—the unfamiliar smells of strangers’ shampoo and armpits, the sounds of their breathing and the pressing of unidentifiable body parts—should have made her uncomfortable. But instead, she felt buoyed up. People she’d never met were introducing themselves to one another, even to her. Aubrey’s heart was in her throat. She told them: Nice to meet you. And if they knew she was the girl from the Stitchery, if they were startled by her awful eyes behind her sunglasses, they didn’t mention it. Beside her, Jeanette worried her fingers and craned her long neck to see over the crowd.
“See him?” Aubrey asked.
“Not yet.”
The crowd moved. Vic had been standing with his back to the wood paneling, and Aubrey suddenly found herself jostled against him. She’d worn her hair up high on her head, and she felt Vic’s exhalation against her bare neck as she knocked against him. “Oh! Sorry!” she said. Vic’s hands steadied her—her upper arm, her waist. And when he didn’t let go, she felt more off balance than when she’d been jostled by the crowd.
Aubrey stood that way, pretending to watch for Mason Boss but conscious only of Vic’s hands, until at last—after people began to grumble and their feet started to hurt—at last, Mason Boss swept in through the fire hall doors. Jeanette made eye contact with Aubrey just for a moment, her eyebrows high with hope and her lips drawn into a kind of wide rectangle, like the middle of the word please. In her hands, she held the wrist warmers that Aubrey had brought her. Aubrey ignored the pang in her gut and gave Jeanette an encouraging nod.
The crowd began to quiet without being told as Mason Boss strode to the front of the room. His oversized head was tipped down as he walked, his brow furrowed in presidential concentration. He shucked his coat and tossed it onto a table.
The moment that Mason Boss clapped his hands together and asked “So what have we got?” Aubrey felt a ripple of electricity move through the air. All at once, Tarrytown was energized. Mason Boss offered some interesting arguments—and his ideas were arguments in that they went against every organizational technique the Tappan Watch had believed in so far. Mason Boss wanted a media blackout; he wanted the website taken down; he thought the petition idea was a joke. He didn’t care about the protest march that had been scheduled; he wanted something more dramatic, more spontaneous and spectacular—he wanted a flash mob.
“So, we’re going to break out into a dance number in the park?” Dan Hatters asked.
“Picture this,” Mason Boss said. “Without warning, we descend on village hall. All of us. All at once. We stop up traffic. We block the doors. We make things inconvenient for people. We’re loud and we’re not taking no for an answer.”
“Shouldn’t we at least issue a press release first?” Dan Hatters asked.
“Good God, man,” Mason Boss said with stiff elocution. “What you do think would have happened at the Boston Tea Party if the patriots had put out a press release?”
Within ten minutes, everyone had agreed that a flash mob was the perfect idea. Forty-five minutes were spent on setting up a phone tree—so we’re totally under the radar before the flash mob, Mason Boss had said. When the meeting was over, Aubrey half expected Mason Boss to take a bow. Chairs scraped on metal as people stood up. The sound of struck-up conversations swelled. Aubrey felt a tight grip on her right arm, and she realize
d that Vic had let go of her. It was Jeanette who held her tight. Her eyes were deep obsidian and glossy with brightness. She spoke in a hurried hush.
“He’s brilliant, isn’t he? The way he gets everyone so worked up. So eager to do something.”
“Yeah,” Aubrey said. And she realized that she’d warmed to Mason Boss; he was what they needed, perhaps.
“I’m going to go talk to him.” Jeanette’s voice was unusually tight with nerves. “Wait for me a sec?”
“Don’t worry,” Aubrey said. “You have the wrist warmers I made for him. You’ll be fine.”
Jeanette took in a deep breath. She tossed her dark cords of hair and strode across the room. Even in the dense crowd, her walk was brimming with liquid sex, and Mason Boss was not the only man who turned his head to see.
Aubrey stepped away from Vic to face him.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“Girl stuff,” she said. “Do you mind waiting a few minutes? If Jeanette can’t get Mason Boss on the hook, she might need a ride home.”
“No problem,” he said.
A few minutes later, Jeanette was walking away from Mason Boss, coming toward her. And Aubrey thought, Oh no. Jeanette’s lips were angled into a frown and her shoulders slightly slumped. Aubrey hadn’t thought it was possible: Mason Boss must have turned Jeanette down. She swallowed her guilty conscience.
“Jeanette,” Aubrey said when her friend had reached her. “I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”
For a moment, Jeanette’s eyes were dim and still. They regarded Aubrey with banked disappointment. Then, at once, a great smile came over her face like the sun coming through clouds. “Kidding!” she said. “I’m totally kidding. The spell worked perfectly. Mason and I are going out for drinks as soon as everyone leaves.”
“Jeez, you scared me!” Aubrey laughed and put her palm on her heart. Thank God. She reached into her oversized bag and retrieved her friend’s purse. “Here. You can take this back now.”
“Take it back? But won’t that ruin the spell?”
Aubrey waited.
“Aubrey …?”
Aubrey couldn’t help the small smile that curved her lips.
“Oh my God,” Jeanette said. “You never knit a spell?”
Aubrey grinned.
“I did that all on my own?”
“All’s fair in love and war.”
Jeanette took her bag, then threw her head back laughing. “Aubrey Van Ripper. Everything everybody says about you is true.”
“Uh-huh,” Aubrey said.
“And anyway, I told you I didn’t need a spell.”
Aubrey laughed as Jeanette sauntered across the room, back toward her quarry. Aubrey raised her eyes to find Vic watching her.
“What?” she said.
“I can’t seem to get a handle on you,” he said.
She smiled and was glad for once in her life to feel a little mysterious. “Let’s get out of here,” she said.
From the Great Book in the Hall: There is no more pleasant way to spend a quiet afternoon than to knit a love spell, especially if there’s a chill in the air. Spells that encourage affection may be born from lack—from people who are lonely, heartsick, overlooked, hopeless. But sad as it is to know a love spell is motivated by the absence of love, the act of knitting a love spell is a treat.
Love spells are perfect for beginners. They are rowing along with the current or running downhill. They are white seedpods that lift into the air, effortless, carried by wind. Love is the natural, forward direction of life. It’s our purpose, our reset, our bottom line. If there are barriers to love, it is only because we think there are barriers. The same can be said about all magic that resides in a knitter’s hands.
After the Tappan Watch meeting disbanded, Aubrey was thrilled when Vic asked if she wanted to get a cup of coffee at his favorite place in Sleepy Hollow. He parallel-parked between a Toyota and a Mercedes, the shine of headlights glaring in the truck’s mirrors, and then they crossed the street to the café. Vic ordered two pumpkin lattes spiced with nutmeg and clove, and Aubrey breathed in the fragrant steam as he paid. She’d never had any luck with second dates—she’d never been on a third—but tonight, her heart in her chest was like a singing bird, and she breathed in the sweet smell of spiced espresso and believed that, for once in her life, she would go on a second date and nothing—nothing—would go wrong.
With one mitten curled around her cup, Aubrey followed Vic out into the bustling evening and across the street. They walked up the hill to the high school, where the football team was playing against a rival Aubrey had never heard of. They sipped their hot lattes and watched the field through a chain-link fence. Aubrey had never been to a football game; she didn’t know how to follow the action. But she loved the noise of the crowd, the roil of snare drums and brassy-voiced cheerleaders, the screech of the referee’s whistle and the salty smell of the hot dogs. Vic did such an admirable job of explaining what was happening, and seemed so knowledgeable about the Fighting Horsemen and their coaches, that she knew this was not his first time keeping an eye on the game.
“Do you do this a lot?” she asked.
He smiled, embarrassed. “In the fall, yes.”
“Did you ever play football?”
“No. And I don’t watch any of the professional teams, or even college. But I like this—” He gestured beyond the chain links. “All the people. Families. For me, this is sports at its best. Homegrown and commercial-free. I just—I thought you might have fun.”
She stepped closer and he put his arm around her; even through the weave of her denim jacket, she could feel the warmth of his body and an answering warmth in hers. She might not ever learn to understand football, but she knew she could love this: the cold fall night, the exultations of the Tarrytowners in the stands, and Vic—giving her a safe little glimpse into a kind of life that she’d always wanted for herself but had always been afraid of wanting. She nestled in closer, dazzled by how natural it felt to touch him, as if they’d been standing just like this, with their arms around each other in casual closeness, all their lives.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go sit on the bleachers.”
She stiffened. “Now?”
“Why not?”
“I can see pretty good from here.”
He laughed. “You cannot.”
“Fine. You’re right.” She settled her hat closer on her head. She was being ridiculous; there was no reason to be afraid of the crowd tonight. It had been a long time since witches were burned at the stake or stoned. The worst Aubrey might suffer would be a few dirty looks—and she could stand that, could stand anything, tonight. “Let’s go sit down.”
They crossed the field and shuffled into an open spot on the bleachers. The metal was cold on her rear end.
“Isn’t this great?” Vic said.
“It’s great,” Aubrey said.
The game went on. Aubrey’s coffee began to cool, and she finished it quickly. Vic answered football questions with patience and not even the faintest trace of condescension, and it wasn’t long before Aubrey was jumping to her feet and cheering. Little by little, her worries began to wane. She noticed that some of the students from the high school—these must have been the thespians—had gathered, and when halftime came, they did a rowdy little skit inviting the audiences to the annual staged reading of “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” Aubrey wondered if the boy playing Brom Bones was Ruth Ten Eckye’s grandson. But she had never met him and couldn’t see any resemblance from this far away.
When the game was over—the Horsemen won and the crowd was electric, strangers giving high fives—Aubrey’s heart felt full and bright as the moon that hung above the tree line. No one had bothered them; no one had pointed or made the sign of the cross or the evil eye. Anxiety had siphoned away, and its absence felt weightless and fresh like the air after a summer storm. In the thick of the crowd, they shuffled away from the bleachers, people around them waddling side-to-si
de like penguins in a large clump. Vic took her hand, the connection secret and illicit, a low-voltage message passing between them. She felt the call of the autumn, the urge to run until she panted, to lie on her back between the grass and the stars, to spin in a circle until she fell down. But since the Van Rippers were already infamous enough, she only tipped her face so Vic could see her, and she lifted the lid, just a little, on her smile.
“What?” he asked, but he smiled back as if he knew the secret—and that made her smile even more.
“I don’t know,” she said. She forced her lips closed.
She was still glowing, still holding Vic’s eye and his hand, moving forward in the depth of the crowd, her overwrought brain suddenly filled with different, more carnal, more primal ways of worshipping a wild fall night with a gorgeous man—when she bumped into Ruth Ten Eckye. The crowd had stopped, complete and unexpected, and Aubrey walked right smack into the gray fur of Ruth’s expensive raccoon coat.
“Ruth!” Aubrey said cheerfully. “I’m sorry. You okay?”
Ruth turned slightly to see who had addressed her.
“Was that your grandson I saw in the halftime show?”
Ruth drew her shoulders back; her eyebrows lifted in silent-movie drama. Understanding hit Aubrey like a stone between the eyes: Ruth Ten Eckye did not want to be seen talking to a guardian of the Stitchery. Of course.
Okay, Aubrey thought. That’s okay. And yet, the question she’d asked hung in the air between them and there was no way to unask it, just as there was no way for Ruth to baldly ignore Aubrey without forfeiting her manners. On another night, Aubrey might have felt embarrassed—she’d forgotten herself, her place, to think she could address Ruth in public. But tonight, Aubrey decided she didn’t care. She was having a nice night, she was going to continue having a nice night, and no one—certainly not an elitist old lady who had no compassion for people outside her income bracket or apparently for raccoons—would get in her way.
She stepped a little bit closer to Vic. She expected Ruth to flee without deigning to recognize that Aubrey had spoken; instead, Ruth turned a little, saw Vic, and then—to Aubrey’s bewilderment—her hard face lapsed into an involuntary smile.
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