by Mindy Klasky
The last patron walked away precisely at two o’clock. I collapsed back in my chair.
“Thank God,” I said. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t shown up!”
Becca shoved her bright red curls behind her ears. “Some days are more challenging than others.”
“Tell me about it.” I sighed.
“Oh?” she said, her fingers moving automatically to start printing out tickets for the evening performance. “It sounds like there’s a story there.”
“No story. At least, not one that you want to hear.”
“You might be surprised.” She grinned.
I didn’t know Becca well, but I liked her. I saw her most days when I worked in the box office, and we’d both joined various actor-types over at the Pharm, a bar that the Mercer casts frequented.
Not that I’d be heading over to the Pharm anytime soon. I had to get all the way back to New Brunswick at the end of every evening. I suppressed a shudder, thinking of the late-night denizens of Port Authority. “Well, to start with, I had to take the bus in from Jersey.”
She made a rueful face. “I thought you lived on the Upper East Side.”
“I did.” I gritted my teeth and started to alphabetize the evening tickets by patron’s last name. Maybe it was the mindless rhythm of sorting the tickets. Maybe it was the way Becca stayed quiet, making just a few sympathetic noises, but not saying any actual words. Maybe it was my need to sort out what had happened, how and why my life had turned upside down so suddenly. Maybe Becca actually was some sort of therapist, some sort of secret psychological counselor who drew out the life stories of those around her.
Whatever the reason, I found myself telling her everything. “Wow,” I said, when I was through, long after all the tickets had been readied. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go into all that.”
“No,” she said. “Don’t apologize.” She reached out with a quick hand, intending to comfort me. We both realized at the same time that she had a large smudge of dirt on her wrist. She laughed. “Whoops! I was gardening this morning, helping my neighbor set out some seedlings.”
I nodded, as if I knew the first thing about gardening. Becca was obviously someone who didn’t need a Master Plan. I wouldn’t know the first thing to do with seedlings.
She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. Pinning me with her serious green eyes, she said, “Erin, I’ve got a favor to ask you.”
Great. I didn’t feel up to helping anyone with anything. But Becca had pitched in for the matinee and she’d listened to me drone on and on and on. I owed her one. “Sure,” I said, forcing a smile. “What is it?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’m taking a leave of absence for a year. This is all really sudden—Ryan and I are going to Africa. It’s part of a friendship tour thing that the State Department put together.”
“Africa!” Ryan’s play, the one that was being read that afternoon, was set in Burkina Faso. The show was turning out to be a big hit, even though it was only a reading.
“It’s all pretty amazing. There was this whole program already in place, but when they heard about the play, they really wanted to include Ryan. I’m just going to tag along.” She blushed, her fair skin turning bright red. “It’ll give Ryan and me a lot of time together.”
I muttered a few words of congratulations, still utterly mystified about what I could do to help Becca.
She sighed. “This all came up so quickly, though. I haven’t had a second to line up a tenant for our place, and we really don’t want to leave it empty for the entire year.” She flexed her fingers and then met my eyes. “Could I convince you to move into my condo while we’re in Africa?”
I’d seen her home just the week before, at the cast party after the first staged reading of Ryan’s play. It was stunning—West Village building, river view, gorgeous wall of windows in the living room. She had to be kidding. “What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t any catch.”
“How much is the rent?”
“It’s free.”
“What!” I thought about looking behind me, to check for hidden cameras. This had to be some practical joke, a bizarre theater hazing ritual that I’d never heard of before.
Becca shrugged. “I know it sounds crazy. I own the place free and clear, though, because someone did me a huge favor a while back, when I was really down on my luck. It sounds like you could use a helping hand now. Having you move in while we’re out of the country would sort of…I don’t know, restore the balance. Plus, it really would be one less thing I have to worry about before leaving town.”
I started to protest. I started to say that her offer was too generous. I started to explain that I didn’t know her well enough.
But what had I told myself just the day before? I was starting over. This was a new me. An independent me. A strong me.
“Okay,” I said. I tested the thought again. Her apartment really was gorgeous. “I mean, thanks. Thanks a lot. I don’t know what to say.”
“Just say you’ll take good care of the place.”
“Of course!”
She laughed. “When’s your next shift here?”
“Tuesday.”
“Great,” she said. “I’ll leave the keys with Jenn.” Her assistant. Becca grabbed a piece of scrap paper and wrote out an address. “You remember how to get there?” I nodded, feeling like I was in shock.
And that was it. I’d gone from homeless to living the high life in the space of about fifteen minutes. I barely remembered to say, “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“You know,” Becca said. “I think I do.” For just a moment, her gaze grew distant, as if she were remembering something sad. She shook her head, though, and said again, “I really think I do.”
When I told Amy I was moving back to the city, she rolled her eyes. I hastened to explain that I wasn’t going back to Sam—I still hadn’t heard from the guy, despite the friendly message I had left. (His silence, though, was certainly helping me get used to thinking about him in the past tense. It also cemented my intention to activate the Master Plan.)
Instead, I told Amy about Becca’s generous offer. Always playing the older sister, she demanded to know what was wrong with the place, what secret charges Becca intended to make, what disaster was waiting just around the corner. That business school brain of hers never turned off.
“I don’t know,” I finally said. “I don’t know why she chose me. But I know that she really means to help.” Amy continued to look skeptical. I sighed. “Come on! I’m an actress. I tell made-up stories for a living. I could have told if she was lying to me.”
So, I found myself standing in the eighth-floor hallway of the Bentley condo building, my suitcase by my feet. My duffel was still slung over my shoulder. I cradled a parting gift from Amy, a peace lily in a four-inch pot. “It gets really droopy when it needs water,” she said. “You can’t possibly kill it. At least, not in a month.”
My sister always had such high expectations for me. Nevertheless, the Master Plan was under way.
Becca had been true to her word—she’d left a key for me at the Mercer. Slipping into old habits, I crossed my fingers and thought, Just this once. I wasn’t even sure what I was wishing for, but I took a deep breath before fishing the key out of my pocket and working all three locks. They moved easily, as if someone had recently oiled them.
The door swung open, and I caught my breath. The sun was setting over the river. Sparks flew off the windows of buildings between the water and me, dancing like confetti in the night air. “Hello?” I called, even though I expected the place to be empty. I wasn’t disappointed.
I shoved my suitcase over the threshold and stepped inside, closing the door behind me. I fastened the locks automatically, a good little New Yorker. A light switch sat right beside the door, and I soon gazed at my living room—my living room!—bathed in the soft light of a floor lamp.
Wow.
I
didn’t know what Becca’s story was, how she came to own this amazing place, but she had to be one of the luckiest people I’d ever met. Most theater people scrimped and saved, renting lousy apartments and sharing rooms with as many companions as sanity permitted. None of us made any money to speak of, and we were all dependent on the whims of casting directors, producers, the general economy and other career disasters.
But Becca had somehow found a perfect home. And now it was mine, all mine, for an entire year. I shook my head, half-afraid that I was going to wake up from a dream.
No dream, though. I picked up my suitcase and carried it into the bedroom. The master bath was bigger than my first apartment in New York. Everything was immaculate—Becca must have spent the past two days scrubbing. Vacuum streaks painted the bedroom carpet, neat triangles that made me feel like I was the first human ever to set foot in the place. I could actually sublet the walk-in closet, if I somehow failed to find another Survival Job.
Bemused, I went to investigate the kitchen. The faucet sparkled, as if I had stepped into some commercial for household cleaners. The cabinets had glass fronts; I could make out enough dishes and glassware to stock an entire Crate & Barrel store.
On the counter sat a cardboard box. The top edges were folded across each other, almost like someone planned on opening the carton soon. I stepped closer and saw that my name was written on one of the flaps, in all capital letters: ERIN. I recognized the printing; it was the same handwriting as on the envelope that Becca had left for me, the one that had held her keys.
Okay.
So, maybe Amy was right. Maybe I was about to discover Becca’s dirty little secret. Maybe I was about to learn why this amazing place was available and free. Before I could chicken out, I took a deep breath and tugged at the cardboard flaps, yanking them open with one savage pull.
I don’t know what I expected to find. A stash of drugs, maybe. Small unmarked bills, stained with purple dye. A dusty monkey’s paw, accusing me from a nest of rotten velvet.
Instead, I found a brass lantern—an old-fashioned oil lamp.
It looked like a prop from a play. At some point in its past, it had probably been shiny, but now it was covered with tarnish. Afraid of leaving fingerprints, I grabbed for the pristine dish towel that hung from a hook on the side of the refrigerator. Cradling the lamp in cotton, I turned it over, looking for a note, for something taped to the bottom, for some explanation of why Becca had left it for me.
Nothing.
I chewed on my lower lip and gathered up a corner of the dish towel to rub against the rounded body. Maybe I could clean the thing, wipe off enough tarnish to figure out what I was supposed to do with it. I started off with tentative pressure, afraid that I would scratch the finish, but that didn’t make a dent in the motley stains. I rubbed harder, bearing down on the towel.
I changed the angle of my arm, trying to put some real strength behind my action. My fingers slipped off the towel, and my palm fell flat against the filthy brass. Immediately, an electric shock jolted up my arm. The force was strong enough to make me swear, and I would have dropped the lamp if I hadn’t been afraid of breaking the expensive-looking tile on the kitchen floor. My fingers jangling, I barely managed to set the thing on the counter.
My heart pounded so hard that I couldn’t take a full breath. What the hell had Becca done? Had she meant to electrocute me? Before I could run out of the kitchen, though, before I could flee from my new home, or think about calling the police or the fire department, or whoever you call when a brass lamp attacks you, I realized that something had changed.
Fog was pouring out of the lamp’s spout. Not just any fog, though, not like the steam from a boiling teakettle, or some Halloween haunted-house witch’s cauldron.
This fog was made of tiny jewels. Cobalt and emerald, citrine and garnet, the lights poured out. They swirled through the kitchen, caught in their own little storm, spinning like a tornado. Faster and faster they danced, growing, taking up all the space in front of the refrigerator.
I caught my breath and took a step back, afraid of what would happen if the particles touched my skin. I slipped a little on the floor, and I darted my eyes toward the counter, steadying myself against the cool granite.
When I looked back, the fog had disappeared.
In its place was a man. A man, wearing a dark blue police uniform, complete with a tool belt, a nightstick and a gun. His billed cap was pulled down low over his eyes. His jaw looked like it had been carved out of stone, and his dark brown eyes glowed like molten agate. I half expected him to pull a traffic whistle out of his pocket as he raised his right hand in the universal signal of Stop!
But this guy wasn’t your average city cop. He had a tattoo, a brilliant etching of flames traced around his wrist. Orange and gold and red, all outlined in black, seared into his skin as if the fire were real, a living, breathing thing. My eyes were somehow drawn to the ink, captured as completely as any robber stopped in the middle of a poorly executed heist.
Before I could say anything, before I could remember how to speak, figure out what to say, the policeman took a small spiral notebook from his breast pocket. He flipped it open like a seasoned pro and produced a ballpoint pen from somewhere. “All right, ma’am,” he snapped. “Just the facts. Enumerate your wishes, and we can wrap this up without delay.”
CHAPTER 3
“EXCUSE ME, UM, OFFICER?” I STAMMERED.
“Teel,” he barked.
“Officer Teel?” I said, trying to process what had just happened.
“Just Teel, ma’am.”
Okay. That was strange. But what did his name really matter? He couldn’t be real, could he? This had to be some sort of joke.
I looked around the kitchen, trying to figure out what was going on. Had Becca rigged her kitchen with some bizarre theatrical tricks, maybe a projector that was creating the image of this hunky cop? But why would she bother to do that? And how had she done it?
The brass lamp was on the counter, where I’d dropped it after that massive jolt of electricity. It was tilted on its side, but even at that angle, I could see that all the tarnish had been scrubbed away. The metal gleamed beneath the kitchen lights. Becca couldn’t have done that, could she?
As I stared at the lamp, the cop, um, Teel took a step closer to me. I could smell his aftershave, something sharp and spicy. Whatever else was going on, this guy wasn’t any filmed projection. He was flesh and blood. Muscles rippled beneath his uniform, and I could feel the heat of his body across the inches that separated us. He raised his right hand, the one with the tattooed wrist. I could see the curls of hair on the backs of his fingers. No matter how impossible, no matter how bizarre, this guy was real.
He snapped, and a sheaf of papers appeared in his hand, replacing his notepad and pen.
“What the—” I tried to take a step away from him, but the granite counter dug into my back, effectively pinning me in place.
“Your contract, ma’am.” He nodded as he handed the documents to me. I glanced at the top page. Party of the first part…Party of the second part… Do grant freely, for the consideration of time outside of said genie’s lamp…
“Genie?” I croaked.
“Ma’am,” he replied with a terse nod. Like that was any help.
“But aren’t genies supposed to dress in robes? Flowing pants? A turban?”
“Nine out of ten first-time wishers expect their genie to appear in classic form. Ongoing studies of genie efficiency, however, dictate appearance in the most recent guise, to facilitate prompt wish fulfillment.”
This guy and Amy should get together—between her business school jargon and his cop talk, no one could understand either one of them when they really got going. Nevertheless, those last two words caught my attention. “Wish fulfillment?”
He shifted position, anchoring his feet as if he were at parade rest. “You have the right to four wishes,” he proclaimed. “Anything you desire can and will be granted to you, a
bsent any Ethical Interference Quotient, Physical Impact Vector or substantial Time Adjustment Factor violations. You have the right to delay your wishes. If you cannot obtain wish fulfillment in less than twenty-four hours, I am required to inform you of the potential for delay. Do you understand these rights that I have just recited to you?”
“Um, yeah. Sure,” I said. Even though I continued to doubt my own sanity, something Becca had said was beginning to make a little more sense. She’d landed her amazing apartment because someone did her a huge favor. This genie must have been the someone. Becca must have received her own four wishes. (Four? I always thought that wishes came in threes. But what did I know?)
But why had Becca passed the lantern on to me? “What’s the deal?” I asked the cop in front of me. “Why did Becca give me your lamp?”
Recognition flashed deep in those mahogany eyes. “I am not at liberty to discuss Ms. Morris’s behavior.” But then, my stalwart policeman must have thought better of his own silence. “When did Ms. Morris transfer responsibility for the magical enterprise?”
Magical enterprise? That sounded suspiciously like “criminal enterprise.” Nevertheless, I felt obligated to respond. That cop uniform—or the well-muscled form beneath it—was definitely compelling. “Um, today? I mean, I just opened up the box.”
“And what was the precise time and date of your intervention?”
“I don’t know.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s what? Seven o’clock? On, um, May 27.”
He sucked in his breath. “And the year?” I told him. “Two weeks!” he exclaimed. His eyes glinted avariciously, and I suddenly wondered if this guy was some sort of dirty cop, if he was on the take.
“Um, sir?” I finally found the courage to ask. “Officer? Is everything okay?”
“Everything is quite satisfactory,” he said, snapping back to attention. He seemed more agitated, though. In much more of a hurry. He said, “Time is of the essence, Miss…”
“Hollister,” I said.
“Hollister,” he repeated. He stabbed a blunt finger toward the sheaf of papers still in my hand. “Are you ready to sign?”