Annabelle sat cross-legged on the floor of her front room. Spread out before her were piles of copies of her latest clippings, each with a personal letter of greeting, to a plethora of agents, editors, deputy editors, of every agency, newspaper, or magazine that she thought ought to be representing her or giving her work. She sat down with her latest manuscript last night and into the morning, and realized it was absolutely not her thing.
But her voice was there. She started putting sheaves of paper into bright white envelopes that were sure to get more attention than a pedestrian old email. My voice was there, Annabelle thought. Only it was saying the wrong things. Not that the work was completely useless. It showed her she could take an idea forward, see it through, that her researching skills were nonpareil, and that she was, incontrovertibly, a writer. She also found the beginnings of what could turn into a short book, to do with an unknown 60s Warhol hanger-on. Upon digging, Annabelle found said hanger-on should most definitely be known. Maybe she’d pick that one up again, send out chapters to relevant glossies, maybe get her book deal that way.
Just because she didn’t have a gig that day didn’t mean she didn’t have work to do.
And keeping busy helped keep her mind off the fact that she had an enormous fight with her two best friends, and that her Pooka had gone missing.
Annabelle kept enveloping away, afraid that if she stopped, she’d grab the phone and start apologizing profusely, more out of fear than contrition. She wasn’t sorry—well, maybe she was sorry for yelling and being snotty, but she wasn’t sorry for expressing herself. It had been as much a surprise to her as to them. She hadn’t known that she thought Lorna and Maria Grazia had been living through her relationships. Now that she thought about it, the idea had a lot to support it.
Something weird happened after graduation. In college, neither Lorna nor Maria Grazia had ever been short of admirers, and both had taken full advantage of being away from home and being in their new lives. But even still… Annabelle shook her head. Even still, they always had this weird fixation on her romantic business, maybe because she was less sure of herself than they were of themselves? Or because she went for ‘regular’ guys? Once they got out into the real world, Lorna and Maria Grazia just put their heads down and had gone about the business of making their marks on the world.
I, thought Annabelle, became their only source of relationship drama. Couldn’t they have gotten addicted to soap operas instead?
Gathering up her mailers, she dumped them onto her desk, and dragged her little couch and coffee table back into place. Was there time to go to the post office? The longer they sat there, the longer it would take for the phone to ring—
The phone rang.
Huh. Okay. “Hello?”
“Annabelle. Howaya. It’s Jamie calling.”
Which reminded her that the third thing she was trying to forget about was the fact that he hadn’t called. Until now.
“Howaya, yourself.”
“Busy?”
“Nope, just finished assembling my latest cuttings. I’m counting on Dan Minnehan to get me a lot of work.”
Jaime made a complicated groaning, yearning sound. “I’d love to read that article.”
Annabelle laughed. “I understand that the issue will be out on the stands in two weeks.”
“Maybe we could work out some sort of arrangement, like a barter, maybe.” There was a provocative edge to his voice that Annabelle hoped had nothing to do with offering to put up some shelves.
“We might be able to arrange an arrangement.”
“I’m still looking into getting rid of that Pooka for ya.”
Annabelle lay down on the couch, her head propped on one arm of the two-seater; her legs hung over the opposite side and her bare toes, in reach of the refrigerator, idly shifted magnets around. “Thanks, but I think she may have gone off already.” She looked around, a bit sadly. “Nothing’s happened for days.”
“Maybe it got itself a one-way ticket back home.”
If he only knew. “I would have liked some warning, in any case.”
“C’mere, I’ve left some messages with that aunt of mine, and she’s fallen off the face of the earth. Off on some tree-hugging expedition, I suspect.”
Annabelle looked around her flat, at the crystals hanging in the window, at the flowers and candles, and lastly, at her altar and all her holistic, goddess-y bits and pieces. He’d think she was a total flake, wouldn’t he?
“You sound like you think she’s a total flake.”
Jamie sounded offended. “Not at all, she’s my favorite altogether. That’s just the kind of stuff she does with her time. She signed up, about twenty years ago, to fly to the moon as a civilian. She reckons she’ll be one of the first to go.”
“I wanted to do that, but my mother wouldn’t let me.”
“Sure, it’s never too late.”
“I’ll check out NASA’s website, maybe book myself a round-trip ticket.”
They laughed and the slight pause was far less deafening than usual. Annabelle smiled at the ceiling, enjoying herself, wondering where all this was going, and hoping she could keep him on the phone without it seeming like she was keeping him on the phone.
“So, you in for the night?”
“Night?” Annabelle shot up off the couch and went to her bedroom window. “Already? I lost track of the time.” Chamomile tea would be nice right about now, and for dinner? Nothing. Damn it.
“Yeah, me too.” He now sounded distracted. “Nice neighborhood, Carroll Gardens. Loads of great Italian delis, homemade ravioli, fresh bread, gelato.”
“Oh, yeah? Huh.” Annabelle poured the hot water into the pot, and reached for a mug and honey. “They do great take-out things, like little trays of lasagna. I never bother with the raw materials.”
“Do you not know how to cook?”
“I know how to put something in an oven and not take it out until it’s done,” Annabelle said, sitting back down on the couch.
“So that would be a no.”
She laughed, only because she figured he thought that he was insulting her. “It’s not my thing. I like to eat,” she added helpfully.
“Well, I’ll have to make you a meal sometime.”
She sat up on the edge of the couch. She remembered this, the bob and weave of boy and girl and the making of plans.
“That could be arranged,” she said in a voice she hoped was light enough to convey informality, yet sexy enough to suggest… something suggestive.
“Grand. Right. I may pop round the aunties’ this weekend, and you’re welcome to come along.”
Relatives before an actual date? No way. “We’ll see,” Annabelle said. “Let’s keep it loose.”
“Right. All right, so. See you soon.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks for calling. Bye!”
“Cheers, bye.”
Annabelle returned the handset to the cradle and paced around the room a bit. She knew the signs. She could tell she was about to settle into a major dissection of the foregoing conversation from the implications of choice phrases like “I’ll have to make you dinner sometime” up through to “See you soon.” And as she began to build up a good restless pace, she stopped stock still.
Nope.
Don’t want to.
I, thought Annabelle, don’t want to be the kind of woman who does that sort of thing—not anymore.
Why not, she thought, just let things happen as they’re meant to? “Why not,” she said aloud, “keep it loose for yourself, Annabelle?”
The buzzer rang.
No one but Mormons rang Annabelle’s buzzer, and it seemed late in the day, even for them. Curious, but perturbed, brow furrowed, she cracked open the door and stuck an eyeball out since she could see the building’s front door from her front door.
It was Jamie, grinning at her eyeball, laden down with bulging shopping bags. “No time like the present!” His voice, muffled but cheery, came ringing down the hallway. She waved and stuck up one finger and said, just as cheerily, “Hang on a minute, okay?”
She slammed the door and flew into her bedroom.
“How could he just SHOW up at a person’s HOUSE unexpectedly with a bunch of food and expect to—damn it—I SMELL where’s my little black tank top—I haven’t SHAVED dammit dammit dammit dammit—”
Annabelle shoved things under other things, pulled on some lycra capri pants, slipped her feet into her new slingback sandals, traded her holey T-shirt for a blue gingham cropped top, tried to tidy her mess of a hairdo, lashed on some mascara, skipped the lipstick, doused herself with some Jo Malone, and took a deep breath.
“If I wasn’t so organized this place would be a mess and then people who just turned up on my doorstep would be appalled by the state of my home—” she muttered to herself as she yanked open her door and walked right into Jamie.
“Yer man let me in.” Jamie gestured over his shoulder at Nosy Ned, who was creeping up the stairs with almost no discernible movement. His beady little eyes were fixed violently on the innocent back of Jamie’s curly head; Annabelle yanked him to safety and slammed the door.
“If this isn’t a good time, I can—I heard you kind of, em, grumbling a bit—”
“Oh, you know, just a bit surprised. I kind of enjoy mumbling aloud to myself crankily,” Annabelle smiled, and with her left foot, nudged a pile of newspapers into the bathroom.
“You’re sure?” Jamie’s grip on the bags in his arms clutched, reflexively, and a pepper sprang out of one and hit the floor.
Oh, he looks all uncomfortable now. “Positive.” Annabelle picked up the pepper, and took one of the bags. “Will I show you where everything is?” She pointed to the kitchenette that ran along the wall. “It’s there.” They laughed, and Annabelle set her bag down on the table, and Jamie tried to balance his on the tiny strip of counter space that was between the stove and the sink.
“First of all,” said Jamie, pausing for effect. Annabelle had a horrified thought that he was going to start asking for Cuisinarts and copper-clad pans. “Corkscrew.”
“That I can do.” She heaved a sigh of relief. “I am assuming that you’re some kind of foodie, so I should warn you that there might be a severe lack of resources at your disposal, as it were.”
“All I need are a couple of knives, a pan or two, a glass of wine, and good company.” He smiled at her as she started reaching around him, pulling out a small fry pan, a medium-sized saucepan, two small saucepans, a loaf tin, and a large crockpot. “Here’s the good knife,” she said, handing him a six-inch blade that hadn’t been sharpened since God knew when, and dusting off two odd wineglasses, went for the bottle.
“Does this have to breathe, or anything?” Annabelle asked as she uncorked the Chianti, and when she turned to look at Jamie, saw what was nothing less than a transformation.
“I thought I’d bring along a couple of things,” he said, slightly abashed. “Never go too far without any of my tools.” He unwrapped what looked like a cloth belt that held a variety of cutting implements that Annabelle had only ever seen on cooking shows on television, and he was busily sharpening her good knife on a small block. He also thought to bring a collapsible vegetable steamer and a whisk. Annabelle shook her head.
“I’ll remember this the next time you mock my organizational abilities.” She poured him a glass of wine and they toasted, smiling. “To…” Annabelle trailed off.
Jamie smiled. “To good food, good wine, and the good knife.”
62y
The apartment filled with the unfamiliar smell of homemade pasta sauce bubbling away on the stove. Annabelle popped on a playlist that included Dan Minnehan’s latest. Jamie sang along, badly, with the title track, and Annabelle hid a smile as she tried to dice an eggplant according to his specific—but gently given—instructions. They’d made good headway on the first bottle of Chianti, and like the Wizard of Oz, Jamie’s little bag had come up with another.
Singing into his whisk, Jamie crescendo-ed along with Dan and sighed when the song was done. “Ah, well. I’ve always wanted to be a singer.”
“Hmmm,” murmured Annabelle noncommittally. Shame he’s tone deaf.
“Haven’t got a note in me head, I’m afraid.” He looked over at Annabelle, bent over the aubergine, struggling not to laugh. “None of us do.”
“How many of you are there?” Annabelle asked, as she surveyed her handiwork. Not bad. Let’s hope Gordon Ramsey thinks so, too.
“Well done,” he said as he scooped up the pieces of aubergine and threw them into a frying pan of lightly boiling oil. The ensuing sizzle, and the sudden burst of fresh pepper and garlic in the air had Annabelle’s stomach rumbling so loudly it almost drowned out Jamie’s reply.
“Two parents, three sisters, me, one younger brother. Dara, the oldest sister, married with kids, has the family home in the ’Batter. The folks have moved back out to Clare, into my mother’s family home. Second sister, Cathleen, is a wanderer, she’s in Bali at the minute, living on a boat with some aul’ geezer. The father won’t talk about it without his wee bald head turning scarlet. Third sister, Sharon, is also married with kids, and is a stand-up comedienne. The husband is her agent. Me, tall-dark-handsome-single-restorer-slash-painter, but you already know all that.”
“You’re not that tall,” Annabelle rose to light candles, and he jabbed at her playfully with a spatula.
“Youngest brother Sean, also married with kids, lives in the country near the mother. Ten grandchildren and the woman’s still not satisfied,” he mused aloud, flipping aubergine in the pan. “It’s like some kind of sickness, some kind of lust for posterity. The woman’s unbelievable.”
“She putting you under pressure?”
“Ah, well, Cathleen gets the worst of it, really, since that fella she’s with is old enough to be her father. Living in sin.”
“Floating in sin.” Annabelle did the math. “That’s a lot of bodies at Christmas. Do you buy for all the nieces and nephews?”
Jamie shook his head, and turned down the heat under the pasta pot. “God, no. We’d be bankrupt. We pick names out of a hat, or Dara picks names by proxy. The kids all want Sharon, she gets them joke ice cubes with bugs in them, and fart cushions.” Jamie took a sip of wine and sat down at the table across from Annabelle. “How many of you are there?”
“A sister and a brother, both younger. Both still at home with the parents, in New Jersey.” Annabelle raised a hand. “No jokes, please.”
“I love Jersey. I did my J1 in Seaside Heights when I was 20—it’s the reason I wanted to live here.”
“We went to Lavallette. I loved the shore. What’s a J1?”
As the gorgeous smell of tomato, eggplant/aubergine, garlic, basil, onions, and rosemary filled the apartment, the conversation flowed with the kind of ease that Annabelle never experienced before. Not that she was some kind of social moron, but she felt really comfortable—Well, I am in my own home, she thought, but still… this is just really nice and comfortable without being boring, and the cooking thing is very very sexy, I don’t think I’ve ever been with a man who actually hand-made me a meal before, in my whole life, and—
“Hmmm? What?” Annabelle blinked. Jamie was back at the stove, a patient look on his face.
He laughed. “One minute you’re in the room, and then it’s like you take a notion and off you go.”
“I know. I get caught up in my own tangents. Sorry.” Annabelle blushed and shrugged. “I’ve done it since I was a kid. Didn’t go down well in primary school. And Wil—” Oh, yuck.
Jamie stirred the pot. “Your ex?”
“Wilson. Hated it. A banker-like tendency, I imagine, to dislike digressions. Especially silent ones. Can I chop something else?”
“All under control.” Jamie tossed the fresh pasta into the salted water. “I admit I am digging for information.”
“About Wilson? Okay, well, we went out for three years and nine months and, um, we travelled a lot. We had summer shares and lots of boat trips up the coast from Connecticut. It was very yuppie. I loved him. Things weren’t great toward the end, but I was in a fog or something. He came out here and dumped me, had an envelope full of papers and receipts for tax purposes. He hadn’t always been so stuffy… I think.” Annabelle rose, and started setting the table. “That’s enough of that, if you don’t mind.”
Jamie slid a loaf of garlic bread into the oven. “My ex didn’t even dump me in person. She sent me a text.”
“I don’t believe you!” Annabelle almost dropped the plates. “That’s impossible, nobody does that in real life, do they? I mean, you’re serious?”
“I am serious.” Jamie, lacking anything better to do, cleaned his knives. “She, Sherrie, started up her own art gallery, which, as I’m sure you realize, requires whispered midnight phone calls and weekends away…”
“Oh, no,” Annabelle commiserated, folding paper towels into interesting shapes to disguise the fact that they weren’t proper napkins.
“Oh, yeah. And she texted me from L.A., saying that it was over and that she hoped I’d get my things out of her place. She’d left a box with the doorman.”
“No way!”
“And then she—ah, sure, feck it. Let’s not spoil our appetites.”
Annabelle took a deep sniff. “I bet all my neighbors think someone new has moved in. It smells great.”
Jamie drained the fresh linguine. “It’s not complicated, anybody could throw it together, it’s the ingredients that make the difference.”
Annabelle topped up his glass. “No, that’s not true, and don’t rationalize.”
“‘Yes, ma’am!’”
“Was that from that cartoon, I only saw it once, what, South Central—”
“South Park, have you no appreciation for you own culture?”
“Only when it appreciates me.”
62y
Two helpings of fettucine with tomato and eggplant sauce later, the second bottle of Chianti was on its way to a place in history. Annabelle thought about running out to the liquor store, but decided against it. Nature taking its course was one thing, but inebriated nature was another entirely, and Annabelle made a silent vow to never get drunk and bang some guy ever again.
“So what do you paint?” She got up and put the kettle on, and arranged a selection of teas on a plate.
“Landscapes, mostly. Ireland, primarily, oddly enough. I’m working on glass at the moment. I was walking by a building site and they were after tossing away sheets and sheets of the stuff, twenty by forty feet. It was only going to waste. I used one for that application thing.”
“Wow.” Annabelle rinsed out a couple of mugs, and scraped what little was on left on their plates into the trash. As they waited for the kettle to boil, Jamie told Annabelle about Sinann, a mythological figure she’d never heard of. As he described the government scheme, his work, and the benefits involved, Annabelle watched him wrestle with wanting and not wanting the project. He wants to go home, she thought, and he doesn’t know it. She smiled at him, fondly, and she had to fight a natural impulse to run a finger down and around the bicep nearest her as he lost himself in the tale.
“But sure you probably know that old yarn already.” He gestured to her altar. “I mean, it looks like you have an interest in that sort of thing.”
The kettle whistled, and Annabelle got up to make the tea. “I do,” she said. “I don’t read auras, or tea leaves, or anything.”
“One of my cousins does auras. She’s got a holistic center in the arse end of nowhere in Kerry. Also reflexology and animal communication. And Auntie Maeve, she does the tea leaves.”
“I’m not being defensive!” Annabelle said defensively, and they both laughed. She set the tea down with a few packets of purloined coffee shop sugar, ignoring Jamie’s raised eyebrow. “I just had a blow-out with my friends about this stuff. Maria Grazia and Lorna? The co-conspirators, of the set-up thing? They think I’m crazy. Which is their opinion, and perfectly fine, but I feel like they’ve been humoring me all these years, and it really bugs me. I mean, I’m not really Wiccan or anything, I’m just kind of an over-the-counter practitioner, but my Pooka business kind of pushed their envelopes. They were okay with the tarot and stuff, but apparently their cut-off point has to do with interfering shapeshifters from foreign countries.”
Jamie slapped his hand down in front of her mug of tea. “Go on, then,” he grinned. “Tell me my fortune.”
She reached over and bent his fingers over his palm. “I don’t do palms. I had a couple of experiences that got kind of… antagonistic. I prefer the cards—they provide a bit of distance between myself and the other person.” She reached toward her altar and stopped. “I don’t know—do you really? Want a reading?”
“Sure, why not?”
Annabelle’s face was clouded with emotion as she took her deck out of its wooden box. She looked up into Jamie’s questioning gaze. “I just realized that I never really offered this properly. I mean, I offered, but I kind of nagged about it, too. Lorna and Maria Grazia were unwilling guinea pigs as I practiced doing readings.” She scowled down at the cards in her hands. “That wasn’t very fair.”
“Friends fight all the time. You’ll make it up.”
“Maria Grazia has a pathological aversion to confrontation, and I’ve always been afraid of yelling at Lorna, so these friends have never fought at all. So much to think about.” She smiled at Jamie, and held out the deck to him. “Shuffle them, and when you’re ready, cut the cards into three piles.”
Annabelle turned down the music, and shifted her chair over so that she was sitting closer to Jamie. “Don’t tell me the question, I don’t want to be influenced, because now that I know you better, I might want to finesse the outcome. Even so, the cards never lie.” They smiled into each other’s eyes. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
Jamie shuffled the cards, his strong fingers dexterous, the muscles in his forearms flexing with the movement. He smelled of clean laundry, and fresh food, and the spring night that was wafting over the windowsill. She watched him manipulate the cards—Lucky old things, thought Annabelle. Maybe I should have told him I needed to sit on his lap in order to summon up the correct vibrations—
Jamie cut the cards into three piles and set them down. “Right. Go on, then.”
Annabelle turned over the top card on each stack.
The Three of Pentacles in the position of the present.
The Chariot in the position of the inherent challenge.
The World as the outcome.
“I can write these down for you if you’d like? I never remember anybody’s readings. The pad there by the phone—thanks. This first card, the three of Pentacles, it’s all about success through effort. There’s so much going on right now, there’s an amazing amount of productivity, and the potential for even more work…” She paused to choose her words carefully. “The Chariot, in the second position? It’s about journeying, not just physically of course, and in fact, it’s more often about spiritual movement. But I’m getting the feeling it’s about physical space as well. Because the last one, The World, is about wholeness, the journey into the completion of your being, your soul… hmmm. There’s plenty going on, and it’s all right, if you take my meaning. You’re not wasting your time or anything, it’s all about fulfillment of your personal truth as a person and as an artist.”
Annabelle shook her head. “That was a bit pompous sounding, maybe.” Suddenly nervous, she went to put on more hot water.
Jamie looked down at the spread, distracted by the fascinating imagery on the cards. “No, that’s exactly what I wanted to know.” He looked up at Annabelle, as she started doing the dishes, and reached out to grab her elbow. “Come on now, it’s grand. I’m impressed. It’s just another in a long line of interesting things about Annabelle.”
She smiled at him over her shoulder, and shut off the faucet. The dishes could wait. “Have you got another question?”
He shuffled the deck again, and closed his eyes. Opening them, he cut the cards in to three piles—hesitated, and then cut the deck twice more.
Annabelle arched her brows. “Okay, then.”
“It felt right,” Jamie grinned, and watched as Annabelle slid the top card off of each pile, and then turned them over one by one.
The King of Cups. The Queen of Cups. The Ace of Wands. The Ace of Cups. The Sun.
Now what? Annabelle thought, as she blushed furiously. She gathered up the cards. “Um, a positive outcome. A yes, for lack of a better word. Thumbs up, as it were.” She shuffled the deck a little madly, and stuffed it back into its box.
Jamie grabbed her arm again. “What? Was it bad?”
“No, I told you,” Annabelle blustered. “Full speed ahead.”
He smiled up at her, guilelessly. “I’m really interested to know what they meant.”
“Well, I put them away, I told you I forget as soon as I—”
Jamie took up the pen and drew. “There was a king and queen. And then one that was a staff. The second was a cup, on its own? And the last one was easy, the Sun.” He showed her the paper. “So?”
Damn it. How was she going to explain the reading without explaining the reading? You’re assuming that he was asking about you, and himself, you and he together. Well, what else could it be? He came over here, made you dinner, told you straight out, basically, that he was single, and now he extracts the most sexual combination of cards you’ve ever seen in your life including your own court card—
“There I go again!” She forced a laugh.
“Away with the fairies,” Jamie said. He set down the pen and sat back, shrugged. “If you don’t know what they mean, it’s perfectly fine—”
“I know what they mean! What, just because I don’t have all kinds of bells and whistles, tables spinning around and clouds of sage everywhere doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m doing. Fine,” she huffed, “if you must know, the answer to your question is yes, the event that you’re hoping will come to pass, one that is of a romantic—”
KnockknockKNOCKknock—KNOCK! Jamie and Annabelle swung around to the door; she reached over and yanked it open. “Ned, what a surprise!”
“Would you mind turning down your music? I’m trying to watch Legally Blonde!” Nosy Ned craned his head around Annabelle; Jamie stood up and lay a casual hand on the back of her chair.
“Ned, my music isn’t that loud. You know what? I am sick and tired of your prying and nosiness. I am entertaining. Mind your own business!” She stood and shut the door in his face, then turned around to lean against it.
“That was long overdue. He’s been bugging me for years, the nosy creep, and—”
Jamie moved closer. “You were saying?”
“About?”
“The cards.”
“Oh. Um. Forgot. Sorry!”
“Something, some event I am hoping for will come to pass, ‘one that was of a romantic,’ and then we got interrupted.” Jamie leaned a hand on the door next to Annabelle’s head, and shifted forward. Just a little, a little bit, but just enough.
“One that is of a… romantic nature. It will come to pass.” Annabelle glanced at Jamie’s mouth, which now seemed perfectly aligned with her own.
“And the cards never lie.”
“Nope.” She must stop staring at his mouth. “Never.”
“I’m delighted to hear it,” he murmured as he felt an inexorable pull toward Annabelle’s somewhat parted lips.
“Oh, good. I hate it when people hate their readings,” Annabelle gasped, as he ran a finger down the side of her face, ending at the bottom of her chin, which he tipped up slightly.
“I am almost perfectly satisfied,” he whispered, as she gripped his wrist and then allowed her fingers to caress the back of his hand.
“Almost doesn’t count,” she practically moaned, as their eyes fluttered shut and she could smell the chamomile tea and honey on his breath as—
KnockknockKNOCKknock—KNOCK!!! The furious banging, landing, as it did, directly behind Annabelle’s head, inspired a great leap of fright out of her, with the consequence that she and Jamie painfully banged foreheads. She landed rather heavily on his foot, which knocked him off-balance and sent him crashing to the floor. Annabelle wrenched open the door once more, and glared down into the angrily trembling face of Nosy Ned.
“I’ve done a lot for you in the past, Annabelle, and I really resent the fact that you couldn’t be a bit more polite and hear me out when I made one simple request. And another thing. I don’t think strangers should be wandering around in our foyer!”
Jamie got up and swaggered forward, and as thrilling as that was, it was up to her to put a stop to this. She looked up at Jamie, who was glaring down at Nosy little Ned, and laid a hand on his chest. “I’ll take care of it,” she said, and slipping out the door, forced Ned further into the hallway.
Annabelle opened her mouth to send him packing but before she could so much as inhale, a fierce and silent wind blew from behind her, plastering Ned up against the opposite wall. He fought mightily, as strenuously as one of ‘Johan und Johannes’ mimes. But to no avail: the mystery wind was too much for him, and tumbling like a leaf in a breeze, he was swept away on its current, around and around, up the stairs, into his apartment, the dregs of the tempest slamming his door firmly behind him.
Okay, good thing Jamie hadn’t witnessed that. As open-minded as he seemed to be, she didn’t think he was ready to deal with this Pooka business.
“I wasn’t going to hit him,” Jamie grumbled as Annabelle shut the door behind her.
Men and their manly egos. Unbelievable. “I know. I’ve been avoiding confronting him forever and it was up to me to do it myself.” Sort of.
Jamie shoved his hands in pockets and glared at the floor. “Feckin’ little bugger ruined, you know, a moment.”
Annabelle began a straightening-up campaign, trying not to grin at his sulky tone. His hand on her lower back wiped the smile off her face as a chill chased up her spine, and she started drying dishes a bit maniacally. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “Sure, we might be able to find our way back, if we tried hard enough.”
Annabelle turned, clutching the teapot. “I have this thing—it’s sort of a reverse voyeuristic hang up? I hate thinking that anybody’s, you know, watching, and I mean. I know Nosy Ned can’t see us, but I just know he’s got a glass to the floor, or something and I, I’d feel really anxious and nervy and wiggly and stuff.” She grimaced. “It’s dumb, I know, but if I’m not going to enjoy it—I mean, I know that I would, on some level, on a lot of levels!” She looked up at Jamie, beseechingly. “I mean—”
He grinned. “Now I know what it sounds like when you talk to yourself in your head.” He tugged at a lock of her hair. “No worries, missus. Anticipation is half the fun, I always say.” He gathered up his knives and whisk and collapsible vegetable steamer, and Annabelle opened the door.
“That was really lovely. Except for the head-banging, falling over part,” Annabelle said.
“I’ll ring about an excursion to the auntie’s. Think about it.”
“Okay. Thanks again.”
“My pleasure. And the head-banging wasn’t so bad, but the falling over—fuhgeddaboudit.”
“Ah, Ben Stiller. Very good!” Laughing, Annabelle shut and locked her door, and held up a hand. “Callie—not in the mood, okay? There is no way you can be more pissed off than I am right now, so let’s just leave it.”
Turning off lights and blowing out candles, Annabelle headed off for bed, and didn’t hear the pounding that was coming from above, as Nosy Ned suddenly found himself the ball in an impromptu game of invisible soccer.