by J. D. Robb
“If you will it, I will.”
“Okay.” Elise looked down, searched for her strongest emotion—and when nothing changed, she lifted her gaze back to his. “Is this a joke?”
“Think and blink.”
She blinked instinctively, several times, before she could stop thinking about blinking and settle down to concentrate on what she was feeling. It helped to not look at him . . . or his big hairy cat feet. Her lids slid slowly over her eyes to close them out.
“No better than that, for the Cat in the Hat?” There was disappointment in his voice.
She opened her eyes and gasped at the black and white convict stripes that covered her all the way down to the ugly low-top, canvas, triple-Velcro prison sneakers on her feet. She huffed out an astonished laugh and glanced at his annoyed expression.
“What. It worked. I feel like a prisoner. What did you expect?”
He put his hand over his heart. “The real questions you keep, have answers more deep. The better you ask, the shorter the task.”
“If it takes me more time, will you run out of rhyme?”
His cat brow furrowed darkly; she grinned at him. He folded his arms across his chest, clearly expecting her to try again, to do better.
“Okay. Okay.” Elise closed her eyes for a heartbeat, then opened them. He was scowling at her. Following his line of vision downward, she pressed her lips together at the sight of a ball and chain latched to her ankle. She snorted laughter through her nose; then released it with great amusement.
“The longer it takes, the longer it takes.” He turned and strode away. She watched him turn another corner, saw him glare at her over the partition and then followed the sight of his hat getting lower and lower like a setting sun.
“No. No. Wait.” She started forward; her ball rattled and clanked against the chain as she dragged it along behind her. “I’ll try again. Come on. Give me another chance. I think I’ve got it now.” She bent, picked up the ball and carried it like a baby. It was heavier than she thought it would be. She was a little out of breath when she caught up to him.
“Neeh . . . What’s up, doc?”
Elise stared at Bugs, lounging casually, chomping on a carrot, and then slowly closed her eyes. In less than a hiccup the weight in her arms changed shape.
“Oh!” To her great delight she wore a jacket and pants of tobacco brown canvas trimmed in red, with a matching trapper hat and russet boots. She had a rifle cradled in her arms . . . which she automatically lowered and leveled straight at him. “I want to weave, wabbit.”
His gaze traveled slowly from hers to the Elmer Fudd rifle and back again—it held a challenge. Unfortunately . . . or fortunately . . . she wasn’t about to take even a toy gun for granted, and so rotated wide of her target and pulled the trigger. A cloud of gray billowed upward as a cork popped from the muzzle, landing on the floor between them.
Their eyes met through the smoke—dancing and twinkling. They laughed.
And just like that Martin had gently and cleverly gotten her out of her prisoner frame of mind and broken the precarious ice between them. He could have killed her at any time, she realized. Maybe not with a lightsaber, but certainly a sword . . . or his bare hands . . . and yet he hadn’t once touched her.
“I’m beginning to wike this,” she said.
Nodding, he pushed himself into an upright position. Reaching out, he took hold of the rifle barrel and gave it a gentle tug—she released it to him. He put it and his carrot on the floor, and when he stood up he was Abraham Lincoln . . . stovepipe hat in hand.
Always described as being a tall man didn’t really cover the extent of his height, in Elise’s opinion. He was bend-your-neck-back tall. He was stare-at-the-top-button-on-his-vest tall. He was . . .
“Pwesident Wincoln. Howwy cow!” Elise covered her mouth immediately, appalled.
His smile was close-lipped and gentle. All manner of emotions existed in his fine eyes as they changed from gray to a golden-green hazel. Sadness and kindness were most notable . . . until amusement sparked.
“Martin.”
“Feeling not quite yourself today?” he asked, making his voice soft but clear and Lincoln-like—once again immersing himself in the character. She shook her head. “Go ahead, take a moment and gather your wits. I am in no hurry at all.” While searching the inside of his hat, he added, “I have no gun to my head today.”
She gasped softly at his wordplay and he looked up . . . then down. It was his turn to be startled. He swept his gaze over her, nodded once and muttered, “Interesting.”
Elise looked like Curious George. She sighed, dismayed. “Ahhh.”
“Take heart. We are in a costume shop, after all—magic and make-believe live here. And who would not be curious in a situation such as this? At least you are not the cat that curiosity killed.” The president smiled. “And while I died before reading the book, I understand the intensely curious Alice of Wonderland was foul-tempered and exceedingly bossy, which I would have found tedious in the extreme. So all in all, an inquisitive monkey is not so bad.”
“Ooo-ooo ah-ah.”
Mr. Lincoln grimaced. “Yes, I see. Conversing will be difficult. But perhaps, just for a moment or two, I can speak and you can listen.” He paused. “It would never work in the Congress, of course, but I believe you’re a different breed of monkey.”
She rolled her eyes and he chuckled.
“So, shall I come down to you or will you come up to me?” Martin or not, she couldn’t ask Abraham Lincoln to sit on the floor. She pointed up with her thumb. He reached down to wrap his long fingers around her hand and gave it a little yank—the ability to quickly climb a president’s body came with the costume, apparently. He seemed willing to hold her in his arms, but she couldn’t have borne it—she sprang to the lip at the top of the partition, squatted and curled her toes around the dowel below. They were almost eye to eye now—she just a smidgeon higher.
“Are you comfortable?” Bemused and tentative, she nodded. While he looked inside his hat once again she scanned for an exit. Her disappointment was unexpectedly bearable.
Mr. Lincoln removed and replaced several different-sized pieces of paper and at least one envelope from the lining in his hat until he found the note he was after—then he set it on the floor.
Rising slowly, he read the memo, clearly perplexed. “I must be honest with you; I am surprised by this report.”
“Ooo?” Elise craned her short monkey neck to make out the words.
“It says you are cynical and judgmental and unwilling to balance your checkbook.” He looked as perplexed as she was.
Their eyes met and held; observant and reflective—hers wavered first.
Okay, so the checkbook thing was true. And sometimes she was a little pessimistic, who wasn’t?—aside from yoga instructors and Jamaicans, of course. But judgmental? And with that disapproving undertone?
She wasn’t very curious anymore. Elise became an Angry Bird, soaring over rows of costumes with a head-on trajectory to the far wall at the back of the store. She was about to crash and disintegrate . . . and there was no pig in sight to make her trip worthwhile.
Terrified, she squeezed her eyes shut tight, held her breath, felt herself falling and landed on her feet with a jolt.
At first, it was hard to see beyond her new bulbous nose, but the long white beard, the red jacket, the soft leather booties . . . and her still short stature left little doubt of her present emotions—or who she now appeared to be. She stomped down the aisle and around the corner to the next to confront Mr. Lincoln with her hands fisted on her hips.
“Grumpy.” The light in his eyes danced. “Perhaps you should run for Congress after all.”
“Humph.” Her eyebrows formed a near perfect V on her forehead. In a deep, rough voice she asked, “Who’d you expect? Sneezy? Dopey?”
“It is the gap between our assumptions and expectations that deliver most of the surprises to our life—and would not our lives be abysmally dull without them?”
“Hah! I hate surprises. They make life sloppy and unstable. Not for me, no, sir. A fine kettle of fish, they are.” Elise started pacing back and forth, agitated. Abe watched her until she stopped in front of him and asked, “What were we talking about?”
“I was reporting to you that there are certain people who believe you are the skeptical sort and an atrocious bookkeeper, despite your profession. But I believe it was the assertion that you are also judgmental that had you flying off the handle . . . in a manner of speaking.”
“Right.” She made a gruff noise, clearing her throat. Her language was full of contractions and almost completely g-less. “Judgmental. Molly told you that, didn’t she? Of course I’m judgmental.” She threw up her arms. “Everyone is judgmental. It’s how we mark people and places, things and ideas, as right or wrong, good or bad, healthy or not.
“But here’s this about that: No one ever says you’re being judgmental if you think something is right or good or healthy. Only the opposite—only if you don’t like it and only if they do like it. And there’s something else . . .” She filled her lungs with air. “If they don’t agree with what you decide is right or good, they got no problem telling you how wrong you are about it. But they’re just expressing their opinion, not being judgmental of my choices. Fact is, if that’s the way Molly wants it, then she’s being judgmental by calling me judgmental. What do you think of that?”
The tall man stared down at her thoughtfully—considering, not judging, her perspective.
“Pfft. Molly is the patient sort—everyone she meets is her best friend. She’s everybody’s pal. I love that about her. I’m more discriminating is all; private-like and choosy in my friends. We aren’t all the same.” She hesitated. “And I think you’re more like me.”
“I am.”
“She’s always saying I can’t judge a book by its cover. And maybe I can’t, but reading the first couple pages will tell me if I want to waste more of my time on it. A gooseberry pie can come out of the oven looking perfect and taste so bitter it’ll take a week for your face to unpucker. Why would I take another bite? And people—what we’re really talking about—well, people are the same. They can look as normal as me and you but it doesn’t take long to know if you want them always in your life.”
Mr. Lincoln considered this. “But people are not books and they are not pies. People are never fully cooked or completely written. What if the first time you encounter a person they are not at their best?”
Elise turned her hands palms up. “So what if they aren’t? They’ll be out of my life in two swings of a pickax—why would I care?”
“But what if it is someone you will encounter again?”
“Are they back to being their normal self?” Abe’s nod was provisional. “Then I’d say I still got at least a fifty-fifty chance of liking them. Same as the first time I met them. I can’t always be my usual charming self either. Most everyone deserves a second chance. I believe that. I do. Ask Molly.”
“And if they happen to not be at their best . . . again? What if it is a particularly bad time in their life?” One corner of Elise’s mouth tilted upward in dissent—the odds had already diminished. “But what if they are truly charming and exciting people once—”
“Once they aren’t around me?”
“No. Just . . . once you have had more time to warm up to each other.”
“Eh. I’m to keep rubbing up against people I don’t give a lick for until I can love them like my brother? To make everyone else happy? To make them stop judging me as judgmental?” She folded her arms across her chest and tapped her right foot. “In a pig’s eye! I’m not mean and I’m not uncaring. But I’m also not the type to be making friends with those I’ve got no interest in.”
Martin/Abraham sighed. “But if you do not give them all the chances they need to connect with you, how will you ever know for sure?”
“I won’t.” A Grumpy Elise bobbled her oversized head loosely on her shoulders. “Now I reckon I’m supposed to lose sleep over not knowing about all the things I don’t know about?”
His smile was kind, but not convinced and not discouraged. He opened his mouth to speak—
The muffled growling noise came again, vibrating the floorboards beneath their feet; distant and close at once. It furrowed the president’s brow and alarmed Elise nearly as much as becoming an Angry Bird had.
“What is that?” she asked.
“It’s time. We must hurry.”
CHAPTER THREE
For a second time, President Lincoln bent to take hold of her hand—not to pull her up into his arms but to draw her around another endcap, this one featuring a large Shrek. Once there he stepped behind her and placed his hands lightly on her shoulders; then slowly pushed her forward.
The brightly colored costumes on both sides of the aisle began to fade—first to gray, then completely away, to reveal a filmy image of a woman she knew.
“Molly.”
Abruptly, the figure turned toward the sound of a voice saying, “Ready?”
“Yes,” Molly said.
Elise—looking very much herself—emerged from a cloudy dressing area in the beautiful red cocktail dress she bought four weeks earlier on one of their late-afternoon shopping trips. With a short gossamer skirt and spaghetti straps that crossed over the low-cut back, it had the wow-power to burn her image into Max’s brain until the day he died . . . maybe a little longer.
Molly gasped her approval. “Now that is a six-month anniversary dress!”
“You think so?”
“Lord, yes! It’s fabulous.”
“Not too . . . red?” She twirled before a mirror, looking concerned, but not about the dress.
Her mind began the slow rotation of thoughts that would—too often of late—spin out of control . . .
Pretty red. What if Max hates red? Do I care if he hates red? And what about this special need-a-new-dress-for-it anniversary dinner? It was his idea . . . so obviously he’s been keeping track of our days together. What does that mean? Is it romantic or weird? Or is there a six-month expiration date on the women he dates? Is the dinner a setup to let me down easy? Maybe I should dump him first. Maybe black would be a better color . . . something long and shrouded. No, no. He likes me. I know he does—I feel it. But I thought and felt the same thing about Jeremy. What did I miss in the first six months with Jeremy that I might be missing now with Max? Hell, it took me five years to figure out he was a liar and a cheat. Maybe Max would consider having nine more six-month anniversary dinners . . .
Her sigh was loud and discouraged as she swished the lovely red skirt back and forth around her knees. That would mean nine more amazing dresses I can’t really afford—and five more wasted years of my life. Maybe I should just ask him: Max? Are you planning to stomp on my pride and break my heart?
“I don’t think a sexy red dress can be too red,” Molly said, curbing Elise’s mental debate mid-spin. “Wanna borrow my Judith Leiber knockoff?”
Elise smiled. “Perfect. Thanks.”
“One down, one to go.”
“What?”
“We have a spectacular dress for your special dinner, and now we have to decide on costumes for Liz Gurney’s party.”
“Today?”
“If we wait until the last minute all the good costumes will be gone. I was thinking of Scarlett and Rhett.” She used a thicker-than-thick Southern accent and placed a limp wrist on her forehead, prostrate—then quickly discarded the pose. “But Liz took them for her and the birthday boy. Then I thought of Sonny and Cher, but Roger’s too tall. The kids thought of Bert and Ernie, but I see them all day long—and in my sleep—I’d rather swallow LEGOs. Antony and Cleopatra—there’ll be a
dozen sets of those. What do you think?”
Molly gravitated to a nearby sales rack and automatically started to sort through her size. Unable to afford another dress, even on sale, Elise kept close to the mirror, primping.
“How about Pebbles and Bamm-Bamm?”
“For us? That’s more you and Max—still lusty and eager to mate. Rog and I mate plenty, and we have three boys to show for it. Not to mention freezing our fannies off in little furry cave outfits.”
“We have freezable fannies, too, you know. I was thinking Raggedy Ann and Andy for us. That is, if I can’t get us out of it altogether.”
“You said you’d go and bring Max.” Using the mirror to follow Molly around, Elise watched a stubborn streak settle into her features. She’d witnessed her brother cower like a timid puppy at the same expression. “You did.”
“I know.”
“You promised.”
“I know.”
Elise’s Grumpy-self glanced up at the president and rolled her eyes. She couldn’t remember the last time she won an argument with her sister-in-law.
“I bought extra tickets,” said Molly.
“I know! But see there?” Elise seized the key word. “What’s that about? Why would you sell tickets to a birthday party? Who does that?”
“It’s in lieu of a gift.” Molly’s endorsement was unmistakable as she worked her way to the other side of the rack. “It’s to help defray the cost of the venue. And, frankly, I’d much rather do that than try to decide on what to get a forty-year-old man whose sole mission in life is to fish all day, every day, for his birthday.” That didn’t exactly answer Elise’s question. “And Liz couldn’t very well entertain two hundred guests in costumes at their house, could she?”
“Then why costumes?”
“Why not?” Molly stopped and went thoughtful. “In summer maybe . . . that might work . . . we could wander around outside, eat catered barbecue, but in February—”
“That’s another thing: Two hundred people? I’m not sure I know two hundred people well enough to invite them to a birthday party. Do you? Two hundred people who’d come . . . and pay for the venue, as well? Maybe a wedding or a charity thing, but . . . It reminds me of that time she tried to sell CD recordings of her singing ‘Jolly Old Saint Nicholas’ in Pig Latin at the mall for the Dyslexia Research Trust. Remember that?”