by Mindy Klasky
Dinner was going to be a giant bowl of microwave popcorn.
I had already changed into my pajamas and burrowed my feet into my bunny slippers, when I realized that the message waiting light was flashing on my answering machine. I pressed the playback button and almost squealed when I recognized Graeme’s voice.
“Hello there, Lady of the River. I hope you enjoyed the gallery with your friend. If memory serves, I still owe you from last week. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you. Maybe you can even show me a little more of what you can do. Soonest, Jane.”
Show him what I could do.
The notion excited me. I thought again of how I’d hidden my powers from the I.B., kept him from knowing the extent of my abilities until I needed to use my magic against him. The idea of being honest with Graeme filled me with a glow of happiness.
He knew about me. He understood. He was even more attracted to me because of who I was.
I knew I should play things cool. I should curl up on my couch and read a book, go to bed early, to prepare for my busy work week.
But I couldn’t keep from dialing his phone number. The digits were now firmly memorized, burned deep enough that I no longer needed the silver-lined Acquisitions card. I caught my breath, ready to say something witty and entertaining, but the line went immediately to an answering machine.
He must be on the phone.
I tried back a few minutes later, and a few minutes after that. By then, my popcorn had gotten cold, and I realized I was too tired even for that snack of a dinner. I tried to reach Graeme one last time, but nearly broke my jaw biting back a yawn as his machine picked up yet again.
I should listen to the signs of the universe, I told myself. I could always reach Graeme in the morning. I should go to sleep.
And so I did.
16
Some mornings, even the coffee machine had it out to get me.
The first time I attempted to grind Colombia’s finest, the grinder detached itself from the main machine, sending coffee dust into my eyes, ears and nose. When I finally stopped coughing, I wiped the tears from my cheeks, certain I was leaving behind prison-bars of mascara. Keeping Health Board regulations in mind, I cursed at the mess, ran downstairs to the restroom, cursed at the dim light, washed my face, cursed at the drying soap, rinsed my withering cheeks, cursed at the raspy towels, and then climbed the stairs to begin the process all over again.
The second batch of coffee stayed in the grinder—along with one of the blades, a screw, and a strange metal flange I’d never seen before. It took me the better part of half an hour to reassemble the machine. And, of course, I needed to curse, wash, curse, dry, curse, and start all over again.
By that time, I had already turned away three mothers and their precious children, a total of five brats—ahem, Junior Colonial Explorers—who had arrived early for my weekly American Family reading hour.
American Family had seemed like a brilliant idea when I’d first thought it up. I’d imagined sitting on the floor, surrounded by a circle of adoring fourth-and fifth-grade children who all longed to learn about the history of our country. I had pictured myself choosing favorites from my childhood, books that would stretch elementary school reading levels—The Witch of Blackbird Pond, Johnny Tremain. I could still remember laughing at Johnny’s short temper, crying over our colonial battlefield losses, learning without ever realizing just how much history was being slipped into my daily entertainment quota.
Reality was a little different from my dreams.
First of all, I wasn’t reading to ten-year-olds. They were all in school, of course.
No, I inevitably played hostess to a circle of toddlers, along with the occasional four-or five-year-old who was home sick from regular school. The neighborhood mothers all looked upon me as a free babysitting service; I had actually heard one shriek into her cell phone with unrestrained glee when she discovered the Peabridge’s amazing community service.
Each week, the mothers collected their coffees (usually demanding an inordinate number of special requests—one pump of chocolate syrup rather than two, nutmeg sprinkled on top instead of cinnamon, anything to break the routine that just barely managed to keep me sane as I staffed the coffee bar.) One woman, the bane of my barista existence, ordered skim milk in her drink and full-fat foam on top. She acted as if I was attempting higher degrees of murder when I got the order reversed. Twice.
Okay, I took pleasure wherever I could find it at the ever-more-hated coffee bar. So, sue me.
Each week, the mothers lingered in the reference area until they had all been served their caffeinated treasures. Then, they retreated to the basement exhibit space, feigning an unholy interest in whatever diaries we were highlighting downstairs.
Downstairs. Where it was peaceful. Quiet. Child-free.
“Sit down, Jonathan!” I said for the seventh time in ten minutes. “No one else can see the book if you’re standing up.”
Jonathan finally obliged, crossing his chubby legs. I smiled, pleased that I had finally gotten through to him. He smiled back with his milky baby teeth, and then he plunged his index finger into his nose. He cleared the second knuckle easily, but I fought the urge to say anything. After all, by the time I found a Kleenex and got him cleaned up, there was no telling what the other kids would do.
As if on cue, three-year-old Kayla stood up and grabbed at the crotch of her adorable corduroy pants. “Potty,” she said, groaning for emphasis.
The word inspired two of her classmates, who also began clutching themselves and whining. Jonathan’s younger brother—what was his name? Aaron?—started to crawl away from the group. His mother had promised me that he wasn’t ready to crawl yet. He’d only just mastered rolling over two weeks before. (Yes, I had been thrilled to be the sole adult witness to that milestone, let me assure you.)
“Potty, potty, potty,” Kayla chanted, turning the two syllables into an eloquent dissertation on struggle and deprivation, broken dreams and strangled futures.
I glanced toward the stairs, willing the mothers to return. Surely they were attuned to their own precious offsprings’ needs. They must realize how much time had gone by. They had to require another freaking cappuccino, just to make it through the day!
Evelyn came out of her office, clearly distracted by the noise. She gave me a disapproving glance and then loomed over Kayla. “Young lady, we do not sing in the library.”
Kayla burst into tears. As if on cue, the infant Aaron collapsed onto his belly, looking like a startled turtle for the split second before he added his own shriek to the fray. Jonathan continued excavating his right nostril as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and the two other children resumed and amplified Kayla’s chant.
Evelyn shot me an accusing glance. I smiled as sweetly as I could under the circumstances and said, “Their mothers are right downstairs. Do you want to get them, or should I?”
Evelyn spun on her heel, as if she couldn’t leave the room fast enough. “Come on,” I said to Kayla. “There’s nothing to cry about.”
“I’m afraid of w-w-witches!” she said.
I looked down at my pinafore, noticing a streak of coffee grounds that I’d somehow missed in my earlier disaster cleanup. “Me?”
“The witch!” Kayla said again with even greater urgency, and she pointed after Evelyn’s departing back. In fact, she inspired Jonathan to add his own slimy digit to the mix, and they repeated to each other, “The witch! The witch!”
“So, they’ve found out the truth.”
Neko. I’d know his smug voice anywhere.
I turned to face him with a speed that might have been misconstrued as desperation. Momentary distraction was all that Aaron had been waiting for. “Stop that baby!” I cried as the infant started to race past my familiar. Neko looked down in horror, but it was Jacques who cornered the squirming child, trapping him between two wooden chairs.
“Kayla!” I shouted, loud enough that I shocked the girl into silence. “There isn
’t any witch.”
“There isn’t?” Neko asked, apparently unaware of the chaos that surrounded him. I shot him a look that threatened to jolt him back into his statue form.
“There isn’t any witch,” I said again. “The nice lady who went downstairs is a librarian. She works here just like I do.”
Neko’s mouth stretched into a precise O, and I saw him recognize the error in his ways. He turned to me and mouthed, E-ve-lyn?
I nodded grimly. Neko reached toward Kayla and patted her head with delicate fingertips, as if he feared contracting chicken pox—or some more horrific childhood scourge—from the contact. “You poor little girl. No wonder you were frightened.”
I glared at my familiar and took advantage of a momentary lull in the cacophony to ask, “What do the two of you want?”
“We just woke up,” Neko said, adding a delicate yawn to illustrate his words, “and you were out of coffee at home. We thought we’d come over here and have you make us some.”
“The coffee bar is closed during American Family hour.”
Jacques looked at his wristwatch. “American Familee. Is over at eleven, no?”
“Yes.” I glanced at the clock on the wall, thrilled to see that this week’s purgatory had finally ended. “Yes, it is,” I repeated with relish.
As if on cue, Kayla resumed her chant. “Potty, potty, potty.” Neko jumped back as if she were threatening to steal one of his lives. Jacques took a moment to process what she was saying, and then he, too, took a large step away.
“You,” I said, pointing to Neko. “Take those two by their hands. And you—” this time it was Jacques I pinned with my evil librarian eye “—pick up that baby. And Kayla, that is enough! Jonathan, come with me. We’re going downstairs now.”
Like the Pied Piper, I led the procession down the library stairs, trying to ignore the glares from the handful of patrons who were actually trying to get academic work done at the reference room reading tables.
Evelyn was the one who had created this problem, I tried to tell myself. Evelyn had turned the reading room into a café, complete with child care. Evelyn. Not me.
I scowled.
Neko seemed terrified to disobey me. He recognized the tone I’d used; he probably realized I was only a shade away from snapping out a magical word of power.
At the foot of the stairs, I found Evelyn chatting breezily with the mothers, laughing as one of them finished up a droll little tale about a family trip to Colonial Williamsburg. “Well,” my boss said, fanning herself and exclaiming as if the patron were the most brilliant storyteller ever to grace the Peabridge halls. “How were you supposed to know that the cider was alcoholic?”
Kayla launched herself at her mother’s knees, keening about her toileting needs. I accepted Evelyn’s glare, considering it worthwhile to get rid of the child, even at the cost of some professional standing. I jutted my chin from Jacques to the well-coiffed mother of Jonathan and Aaron. I let my voice freeze as I said to her, “You’ll be thrilled to know that Aaron has mastered crawling now.”
She smiled like a grateful saint. “These mornings at the Peabridge do him so much good. You really should host American Family sessions every day.”
“Every day?” Evelyn asked, as if the idea had never occurred to her.
“What?” I said quickly, hoping to dig out the idea before it could take root. “And lose out on them being so special?”
“Jane!” My name echoed in the stairwell, and I recognized the voice of Nancy, the circulation clerk. “Jane, we need you up here! There are some patrons who want coffee!”
What the hell? Who said that I was the only person who could make a fool out of myself at the coffee bar? When Evelyn had stumbled on the coffee brainstorm, she had intended all of us to learn how to grind the beans, how to foam the milk, how to make the endless variations on a steaming cup of joe. Somewhere along the way, though, I had been designated chief coffee-maker. And child wrangler. And bottle washer. It was a minor miracle that I even remembered how to use our online catalog.
“Excuse me,” I said, barely keeping an edge of professionalism in my voice. “Jacques, you can hand Aaron over to Mrs. Duchamp now.”
“Duchamp?” he repeated, perfecting the nasal pronunciation that I had merely attempted. “Madame Duchamp?” He squealed at the prospect of meeting a fellow countryman. Rolling my eyes, I left him and Neko to the joy of the Peabridge American Family community.
As I climbed the stairs, I watched my feet. The last thing I needed was to slip on the steps—my dignity had been injured enough by spending the morning babysitting. I smoothed my mobcap, making sure the muslin was still centered on my head. Wouldn’t that be perfect if it slipped into someone’s latte?
“Good morning.”
My heart stopped. One moment, I was a harried librarian, wondering how I could move a coffee bar out of my library and into the nearest Starbucks, where it belonged. The next, I was a lovestruck woman, staring into all-too-familiar light blue eyes.
“Graeme,” I said.
He smiled, obviously amused by the startled expression on my face.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered.
This wasn’t right! He was part of my real life. My important life. The private life that I lived away from the Peabridge. I didn’t want him here in the library, didn’t want him to see me surrounded by screaming kids and temperamental coffee grinders. He was supposed to think of me as smooth and witty, urbane and experienced.
Yeah, right.
I yielded to the inevitable. “Can I make you a coffee?”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come by. But I wanted to see you here. Where you work. It makes it easier for me to imagine you.” He lowered his voice to a whisper so soft I couldn’t hear his British accent. “To think about you when we’re apart.”
Could a girl make a coffee drink when her knees had melted? “It’s fine,” I managed to say. “I’m glad you came by. Even though there really isn’t much to see.”
He looked at my embroidered silk dress, and I imagined his fingers on my whalebone stays. “Oh, I think there’s more here at the Peabridge than meets the eye.”
Desperate to defeat the blush that was spreading up my neck, I said, “Please! What do you want to drink? I have to look like I’m working!”
He grinned wolfishly. “I’ll have a mocha, then.”
“A fine drink,” another voice said. “My favorite, in fact.”
“Mr. Potter,” I said, recognizing the speaker before I could even turn around. “How was Pittsburgh?”
“Exhausting. But a mocha would be just the thing to pick me up. Little did I expect to find someone else ordering my drink.” He laughed at his little joke.
“Oh!” I said. Graeme was standing patiently, as if he were accustomed to waiting for flighty women to remember to introduce their elders. “Mr. Potter! This is Graeme Henderson. Graeme, Mr. Potter gave me the tickets for Romeo and Juliet.”
Mr. Potter’s smile was wide. “And I take it, you are the young man who escorted Jane to the performance?”
“Yes, sir,” Graeme said, managing to connote a tiny half bow behind the two words. Something about the answer made him seem like a nobleman, a knight, a regal protector in shining armor.
I took a deep breath and moved behind the coffee counter. I contemplated harnessing some sort of spell to make the machinery function properly, but I couldn’t figure out a way to mutter the words without being too obvious. And the way my day was going, I didn’t have any confidence that my magic would work. I settled for crossing my fingers with all the passion of a third-grader hoping for a passing grade on a math test.
“And how was the production?” Mr. Potter asked.
I missed Graeme’s reply as I poured milk into a stainless steel pitcher. Whatever he said, it clearly pleased Mr. Potter. Both men laughed, and Graeme started to describe the costumes for the ball scene in the first act.
The men’s conversati
on was easy and smooth, and I relaxed enough to create two perfect mochas. I topped Mr. Potter’s with extra whipped cream, just the way he liked it, and then I turned to Graeme. “Whipped cream? Er, chantilly?”
His smile was just sly enough to make my heart pound as he accepted a dollop.
I handed over both cups and was about to join the conversation about the Friar Lawrence scene, when I realized that disaster loomed.
Neko and Jacques must be close to finishing with the American Family mothers. They’d come over to the coffee bar when they were done. They’d get the drinks that had lured them here in the first place. They’d stand at the counter and ogle Graeme.
And Neko would ask me questions. Questions that I had promised Melissa I wouldn’t answer. Questions that I had no intention of sharing with David Montrose or anyone else involved in my witchy life. Worse yet, Neko would jump to the conclusion that Graeme was “Nate,” and I’d be left making excuses to everyone, excuses that sounded feeble even as I tested them in my own mind. I shivered, suddenly chilled to the bone.
“Here!” I said, my voice a shade too shrill. “Mr. Potter, you must be exhausted after your trip back from Pittsburgh! Why don’t you sit down at the reference table!”
Graeme looked at me curiously, but he obligingly helped our elderly library benefactor over to a seat. I managed to arrange things so that Graeme’s back was to the coffee bar, so that Neko would not see anything suspicious when he came upstairs.
Now, if I could just have Neko’s and Jacques’s drinks waiting, I could get them out the door that much faster. Neko was easy—steamed milk, with just the smallest drop of coffee. Ecru, he preferred, he’d told me often enough. Not beige. Not ivory.
And Jacques? He was getting a latte whether he wanted one or not.
I made the drinks in record time, digging into my own hidden colonial pocket to extract money for the cash register. It was worth it, just to hurry them on their way.