That Magic Mischief - That Magic Mischief Part 6
Library

That Magic Mischief Part 6

"Uh, no. Doing Kelli a favor ... "

"You and everybody else," Annabelle muttered into her wine.

"'She made me an offer I couldn't refuse.'"

"Excellently rendered Robert Redford - "

"Ah, now. You're just winding me up."

"So, what do you do?" Annabelle twirled her wine glass - and then made herself stop. Just a question, she thought. Not flirting.

"I'm a painter," Jamie replied. "Well, you know. I paint, not so much selling yet, but some. I restore things, paintings, painted furniture, and the like. So I'm a restorer-slash-painter."

"Slashed, huh? So you must be living here for a while."

"A good few years, almost six and a half."

Any continuing banter was interrupted by Kelli's suddenly business-like voice delivering her spiel. Annabelle listened with half an ear, aware of the guy beside her, aware of Maria Grazia signaling her from her end of the table. MG spun her butter knife around to point in The Irish Guy's direction.

Annabelle shrugged her right shoulder a fraction. So?

Maria Grazia tucked a curl behind her right ear and tilted up her chin. So who is he?

Some guy. Annabelle flicked her fingers dismissively.

Maria Grazia blinked slowly. Hot.

Annabelle took up her pen and began to make nonsensical notes. Stop it.

MG smiled into her wine, but stopped it.

The pitch - which wasn't really necessary, they all could use the abundant funds Kelli was sending their way - was brief, ardently attended by the dancer types, who were painfully sincere, and somewhat less zealously heeded by those who felt shanghaied. Annabelle snuck a look at her watch, energy flagging, that dragging feeling of sadness and emptiness threatening to swell - "Sorry?" Annabelle looked up as Jamie's elbow nudged her side. "Yes?"

Kelli smiled brightly, a sure sign she was peeved. "I was just sayin', sugar, that this was where you come in! We need words, words that encapsulate the essence of the work. Beautiful words. Unique words. Nouns. Verbs. Adjectives."

They all looked expectantly at Annabelle, Jamie managing to mug at her with only half his face.

"Uh. Sure. Can you give me an idea of what you're looking for?" Good bluff.

"Nice one," Jamie whispered, finding himself having to resist reaching out to flick her blushing cheek playfully.

Kelli took a deep breath. The dancers joined her as one, with hands clasped at their hearts. "Scallop. Waft. Bedazzle."

Jesus. Annabelle dutifully typed them into the blank document as the dancers cooed. "Got it," she said, and stifled a sigh.

"Wonderful!" Kelli enthused, and called a halt to the proceedings.

"Need some help?" Jamie leaned in again as Annabelle shut everything down. "Let's see. Gallop. Shoelace. Noodle - " As she laughed up at him, the first true smile he'd seen on her face, he added a few to himself: Gorgeous. Bright. Sexy ...

Annabelle tidily returned everything to its place in her bag, and tried to keep her itching fingers away from Jamie's brushes. Surely she had some zip-close plastic bags on her; she rarely went anywhere without them, and she could casually offer to show him how easy it would be to scoop up the tubes of paint and put them in the - "I see I was a bit too hard on ya."

Annabelle broke out of her reverie. "Huh?"

Jamie pointed at her bag. "That. It's a nice touch."

Annabelle glanced down at her bag. Tucked into a corner as if it was meant to be there was one of the blossoms off the mystery monster plant. "Hmph," she huffed, and glared at it, and then, by extension, Jamie. This seemed to strike him as funny, and he snickered again, a mischievous little giggle that sounded as if it had its roots in his childhood.

"Surely I'm not to blame for that as well - "

"Everyone! Let's all move ourselves around now, we must all meet one another if we're going to be a team!"

'Everyone' rose, and began to mill about, changing places. A scenic designer started brandishing an old-fashioned Polaroid camera, one that actually spit out pictures, right there, in the moment, and Kelli nearly swooned. Jamie swept his gear off the table into the paper bag, and was treated to another shocked glare from Annabelle. He did take care, however, with the pencil sketch he'd done of her, of her smiling face ...

The meal dragged on. Trapped between two mimes, Annabelle ate as quickly as was humanly possible, refused a coffee, and said her goodbyes to Kelli. Maria Grazia tapped her throat - Call me! - and Annabelle tried to ignore the staring Irishman, until, annoyed at his gawking, she stuck her tongue out at him and left.

"She's a funny way of flirting with a fella," he murmured, but not indistinctly enough for Kelli's finely tuned ear.

"Why, Jamie, was our Annabelle flirtin' with you?" Her drawl increased exponentially with the prospect of romantic intrigue.

"I reckon it was flirting. I - she - we'd been having a chat, like, and well, it was, you know. Feck's sake, like." Jamie briskly dug into his creme caramel.

"That's real interestin'," Kelli drawled. "You interested?"

"In her?"

"No, in investing in the stock market."

"Both, actually," Jamie grinned.

Kelli patted him on his forearm (so muscular) and couldn't help letting her hand linger to give it a little squeeze. "I'll have my broker call your broker, but as far as the other is concerned ... well. Annabelle's somewhat emotionally distressed, due to an unexpected and inelegant termination to a long term relationship."

"So she's single?" Jamie's eyes lit up speculatively.

"Umm hmm." Kelli's own eyes took on the dreamily fervent gleam of the unrepentant matchmaker, and her mind shot from zero to sixty - from the elegant dining room where they now were, to a simply gorgeous wedding reception at the Central Park Boat House - in under five seconds. She leaned conspiratorially against him.

"This might take some ... finessin'. You just leave it all to me, ya hear?"

Chapter Ten.

Plodding through the proofs of a banking annual report so dry, she felt as if she was physically dehydrated, Annabelle forced herself to focus. This was lucrative, if dull, work. And the deadline was insane; if she made it she'd be amazed, but she had incentive, and not all of it monetary.

Basically, she was terrified to go back to her apartment. What better way to avoid the mystery monster plant than to work, work, work? After all, it was her tried-and-true method of avoidance: in the past, it had been particularly effective on those Friday nights when she didn't have a date, which, pre-Wilson, had been almost every Friday night ...

She forced her attention back to the page she was currently proofing, and given that her mind was wandering, wasn't really prepared for the next thought that came sneaking in: maybe if she'd kept at her own work, the dumping wouldn't have been so painful? Or so unexpected?

"What the hell!" Annabelle snapped to herself. Why did that keep coming up? Everything had been fine, so what if he'd seemed ridiculously busy toward the end, and so what if she had had a few Friday nights on her own, she liked her own company, she needed a bit of solitude - why was she talking to herself in italics? She crossed out a particularly egregious misuse of 'it's', and happily placed the printout on the done pile.

The enormous clock that hung over the steel desk in the tiny airless room ticked and tocked loudly, and Annabelle briskly worked through the next twenty pages, and blinked as her eyes began to feel heavy, heavier, heaviest. God, this stuff was boring. Had she honestly thought it would be a good idea to take a gig that had to do with stocks and bonds? Was she that desperate to avoid going home? She turned a page, and groaned.

The 'fun' section of the report should have been a relief: it was, mainly, pictures from all of the softball games and holiday parties ... but wouldn't you know it, wouldn't you just know, there was Wilson, third from the right, grimacing into the camera at a recent charity art auction. Which was exactly the gallery in which the two had met.

She examined the photograph as though she were sifting for fragments of a pot in an archaeological dig. Was he remembering? Was that why he was grimacing? Was he grimacing due to the power of nostalgia and regret that was surging through him? Or was he just annoyed that he had to be there at all? She closed her eyes and put her head down on the desk. How can this be happening to me? How many flippin' banks were there in Manhattan? Why should she be the one to get this gig? How was she supposed to forget Wilson if he kept cropping up?

She had met him at an art opening, a last-minute reviewing-bone thrown to her by Kelli. The gallery was downtown, so far downtown it was practically in Atlanta, and she could tell that its sole purpose was to sell over-priced art to clueless bankers and brokers. One of those clueless bankers was Wilson, who despite being, oh, more than a shade shorter than she, was handsome, and interested in her: he talked to her the whole time, and then asked her for her number and then actually called!

So what if he'd liked the lame art, so what if she'd totally forgotten to make any notes and wrote the worst review ever written the next day. So what if he'd teased her several times about being a hack, and why wasn't she writing The Great American novel? All she'd heard was ka-ching! A banker! All she'd seen was his fit build, the little crow's feet by his eyes that crinkled when he smiled, his very expensive suit. All she'd felt was the yearning to be in a relationship - with him, of course! Not just any old relationship ... right?

The thought made her gasp, and then forget to breathe, and then start to feel a little light-headed. I need some Rescue Remedy, she thought, scrabbling though her bag. "What the - " she whispered as she came up with a handful of Polaroids. "How did - " she muttered as she flipped through them.

They were from Kelli's stupid dinner meeting thing, and there he was, that messy Irishman and his big goofy smile, grinning down the table, laughing over something that had been said. She sighed, remembering his laugh. He laughed at everything she said, which was, like, a dream of hers ... oh, but maybe he was just an easy laugher? Maybe he just laughed at everything, even though he seemed to find her - oh, whatever, Annabelle!

She leafed through the images, and wondered about her reaction to this disgracefully disorganized Dub. She'd found out, in passing, only in passing of course, from Kelli, who'd been fairly forthcoming with information, that he was from Stoneybatter, a born and bred Northsider, whatever that signified. It wasn't like she'd called Kelli or anything, Kelli had called her, already demanding copy and if she - Kelli - had mentioned Jamie Flynn casually, and expounded, perhaps with intent, then it was nothing to her - Annabelle.

She tossed the pictures into the garbage can under the desk, and got back to work.

Chapter Eleven.

Hesitating outside of her apartment, Annabelle looked up and down the hall, and then pressed her ear against the door. She wasn't sure exactly what she was hoping to hear, or better yet, not hear, but it seemed like a good idea and - "You left your radio on!"

She leaped away from her door, the voice exploding out of nowhere. Damn it.

Nosy Ned the Neighbor had materialized at the foot of the stair, as he often did, the minute she'd arrived. Short, round, and avid, he was forever knocking on her door asking to borrow a cup of this or a pint of that, and at least three times a week always seemed to be on his way down to the basement or out to the lobby to check for errant Chinese food menus just as Annabelle was unlocking her door. Ned the Nuisance.

"Yeah, hi, Ned," Annabelle mumbled as she nearly broke the key in the door trying to open it as swiftly as possible.

Ned the Nuisance insisted, "All day! There was noise coming out of your place all day long! I almost called the super!" His beady little eyes lit up like Christmas. "You know, if you left a set of spare keys with me, I could go in and take care of stuff like that for you."

"No, thanks, Nos - Ned. It's not that big a deal. Thanks, though."

"Well, you know that the more energy you use, the more the building uses and then we all get charged accordingly. That could drive our monthly rates up two, three, four dollars! It could, you know!"

"Thanks, Ned, okay, yup, okay, bye, bye," and Annabelle slipped into her 'living room'. She leaned her head against the door and threw the two deadbolts, locked the doorknob, and drew the chain across. All of this was fairly routine, but tonight she added a new challenge by executing the familiar maneuvers with her eyes closed. She leaned her forehead against the door, and considered knocking her head lightly against the wood, but figured that would just send Ned back down the staircase. Was she too mean to poor ol' Nosy Ned? Maybe he was lonely. Maybe he didn't have any friends. Maybe he was hopelessly in love with her. Maybe she was losing what remained of her mind.

Maria Grazia would bellow that Annabelle was too busy taking care of other people's feelings to take care of her own ...

If she was being honest with herself - oh, go on, why not - she was afraid to open her eyes. The day had been busy enough without having to deal with what was going on under her very own rented roof.

If she was really really being honest with herself, a part of her was intrigued by what was going on. Hadn't she loved watching re-runs of Bewitched, reading The Chronicles of Narnia, when she was a kid? Hadn't she always wanted to wiggle her nose and send herself flying through the air - hadn't she spent an entire summer poking around the closets of her childhood home, looking for a portal into another world? She'd always hoped something like that would happen, but still ...

Hey. She opened her eyes. Maybe I could talk to the thing.

Weren't people supposed to talk to their plants?

Did any of them actually expect answers?

Annabelle turned slowly, keeping her back against the door, and took a deep, cleansing breath. And blinked.

Every one of the little pink blossoms had disappeared, leaving behind one single, extremely large bloom, a bloom bigger than her head, and the slightly swaying branches. "Ooooookay," she took in another deep breath. "Done a bit of pruning while I was away, huh? Is that the noise that Nosy Ned was talking about?"

No response, although the branches seemed to sway more energetically.

"Uh. Right. Um, there was a flower in my bag, at Kelli's dinner - did you put it there?"

The branches continued to sway, and the flower began to rock - was it nodding?

Was it time for her to call the nice men in the white suits? Annabelle sighed and gave up. She just needed to do some more research, even though Google had been shockingly mute on the subject of enchanted hazelnuts. Maybe she could ask around a bit, although she couldn't imagine how she'd broach a conversation concerning large scary sentient plants that bloomed overnight.

"Okay, let's just be normal. Let's just do what we do every night, even if there's an Unidentified Growing Object in the house."

Well, one good thing: she hadn't rushed in and headed straight for the landline. The landline that Wilson had relentlessly encouraged her to ditch, and then in turn was one of the very few who actually used that number. Even though cell phones had made contact a fait accompli, there was nothing that warmed her heart like the 'boopboopboop' tone in her ear when she picked up the receiver. Four 'boops' - hurray! Annabelle jabbed the 'play' button, lugged her bag over to her 'office', and listened to her messages while she unpacked.

Beep. "Hello, Anna. Calling to see if you're ... fine, and to invite you to a work party, which I know sounds dull, dull, dull, but it shouldn't be too awful, it's in the new condo place over in North Chelsea. This Saturday. Call me." (Lorna). Annabelle huffed. Maybe a party might be okay - but 'North Chelsea'? Who made that up?

Beep. "Well, hi there, Annabelle!" (Kelli) "I had this wonderful idea, I know you'll just love it. There's show going up that I think you should see, it's very much along the lines of what I'm hoping to achieve, and let's say we make it a little ol' assignment for the paper as well. Now, it's down on the Lower East Side - " And Annabelle grudgingly took down the info. It was work, after all.

Beep. "Hi honey, it's MG." She still identified himself, even though Annabelle would know her voice in a crowd in the midst of a tornado. "Sorry I missed you, I was thinking of you, and I was hoping everything was okay with your ... nut, and how you were feeling, and Jesus, that Kelli thing, my momma always said, no such thing as a free plate of puttanesca, but aaannnyway, yeah, I have to go to some boutique opening in your neck of the woods, probably three frickin' shirts and a beaded hand bag, but why not come along? Ooookaaay, using up all your tape, okay, please, call me honey, okay? Bye!" Someone just had her dinner ...

Beep. "Annabelle, this Cybill Franklin-Smith, editor of World Trax magazine. Got your number from Kelli over at NYC Weekly. I've got a tough deadline to meet, and they recommended you very highly. It's an interview with Dan Minnehan, the world famous Irish singer and guitarist, and I'm hoping you're free. He's, well, a character, and I hear you've got a way with, uh, difficult personalities. Give me a ring on my cell at - "

Annabelle pushed the 'delete' button. "No, I will not interview some grumpy old man. Damn it!" She glared at the plant, which had begun to wave in protest and was, she was sure, emitting some kind of low-level whine. "Mind your own business!" Grabbing her smokes, she went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Lorna first. Annabelle always returned calls in the order that they were received.

Machine. "Hi, it's me. The party sounds good. Let me know what time to meet. Oh, by the way, that was a great idea, the one about planting the hazelnut? It grew over night and it's a big enormous flowering plant that hides my cigarettes and sometimes answers the phone for me. See ya!" Ha - put that in your Gucci bag and smoke it.

"Hey, Kell, yeah, that sounds fine, the show thing, and I suppose it'll go toward helping develop your website - " Whenever I get around to it - "I also got a message from some magazine person, and I know you think you're doing me a favor, but I'm not interested in - hello? Hello? Hello?" An enormous burst of static had cut off Annabelle's tirade, just as she was building up a good head of steam.

She stuck her head out the bathroom and glared at the plant, its tentacles guiltily fluttering, as though trying to appear ineffectual. "Don't touch anything! You hear me? Nothing!" Slam.

Maria Grazia - cell phone. "Hello, this is Maria Grazia."

"Hello, this is Annabelle."