Merry Jones - Elle Harrison 01 - The Trouble With Charlie (29 page)

“So,” I scrambled for a comment. “Is all magic fake?”

His eyes narrowed, thoughtful. “No, not fake. Just a manipulation of perception.”

Perception? As in perceiving the presence of a dead husband? I thought of Charlie’s kiss on my neck, our conversations. The rose that had moved through the house. Was that illusion, too?

“What about, say, the supernatural?”

“The supernatural?”

“Yes. Is any of that real? Like Ouija boards. And mediums who contact the dead. Or ghosts—”

“Whoa—Hold on, Elle. What’s this about? Are you thinking of holding a séance? You want to contact your—”

“No.” My answer came too fast, too loud. Before he could mention the word
husband
. “No, of course not.” I looked away. Mentioned or not, Charlie had somehow joined us. “I was just wondering if you thought it was all illusion like magic.”

He told me he had no idea, never messed with the dead, doubted that any of it was real. And then he changed the subject. Talked about me. Asked about my work.

I told him about my class, that I missed the kids. I mentioned Abbey’s fabulous spelling, Benjy’s photographic memory. Lily’s art. Roxy’s lisp. Aiden’s mischief. I told him about our hamsters, Romeo and Juliet, that Juliet might be pregnant.

I talked too much, expected him to be bored. But he asked questions about curriculum planning, about gifted and slow learners. He was asking about trends in children’s literature when the waiter brought our entrées.

Charlie had never asked me about my work. Not ever. Not in ten years.

I picked up my fork. Looked at my hand to make sure that the glow was just inside me, that it didn’t show on my skin.

I watched Joel’s knife slide smoothly into his steak, the juice spilling onto his plate, soaking his potatoes red. I watched him chew. His jaw muscles flexed and rippled. His tongue flicked across his lips. He dabbed his mouth with his napkin, reached for his wine. I was fixated, crossed my legs, pressed my thighs together. Thought about what his chest would look like without his shirt.

Lord, I’d been without a man too long. Did it show? Did he know?

I tried to cover my thoughts, but stumbled. Forgot what I’d been saying. Laughed at myself. Pretended it was the wine. That it had nothing to do with the glimmer in Joel’s eyes, the reflection of the candles glowing there, making them look like dancing fire, the heat of which made my skin sizzle, the rhythm of which shook my bones.

I’d had too much wine. Needed coffee. Needed to cool down. Over espressos, I realized that we’d talked a lot. About where we’d grown up—he was from Quakertown—how we were both only children, what pets we’d had as kids—Joel had raised cockatoos—our worst first dates—his had thrown up in his vintage Triumph—where we’d gone to college—he’d gone to Penn State, majored in Business Administration—how we’d chosen our careers—he’d always wanted his own business. Talking had been easy. We’d had no clumsy silences, no hesitations. We’d laughed. We’d told stories about our families, ethnic backgrounds, favorite foods. But there was one significant topic we had not talked about: Charlie.

Charlie was the elephant in the room, obvious and huge but not acknowledged or discussed. I hadn’t asked how Joel knew him, had been avoiding the subject, almost not wanting to know. I heard Becky warn:
Don’t talk about Charlie. Don’t bring your marriage on the date with you.

She was right. I didn’t have to ask him. Didn’t absolutely
need to know. I could find out later, if we kept seeing each other. Which was a ridiculous idea, considering my impending arrest. I wondered if Joel would write to me in jail. Decided that, no, of course he wouldn’t. I’d had too much wine. Felt sorry for myself. Wanted to cry.

He was watching me, eyes gleaming. He tilted his head, as if aware something had shifted. Silently asking what it was. Waiting.

I didn’t want to mention jail. Didn’t want to talk about it. I lifted my cup, not intending to speak, but the words came out on their own. “So, Joel, how did you know my husband?”

Joel blinked, his face blank, revealing nothing. “Through his partner, Derek Morris. Derek did some investing for me. For my business.”

“What kind of business?” He hadn’t told me.

He paused, cup in the air. “Travel. I have an agency—”

“Magic Travel.” My stomach knotted. I saw the neon hat and wand.

“Yes.” He grinned. “You’ve heard of it.”

Yes, I had. A chill snaked up my spine. My hands got cold. I was having dinner with the man who owned the travel agency that had arranged the sex-with-children trip to Russia. I clutched my coffee cup, mind racing, deciding what to do. Ask him about his connections to child prostitutes? Accuse him of abetting pedophiles? The list went on. Got more aggressive as it progressed, until mentally, I was shouting and throwing utensils at him and storming out of the restaurant.

Actually, I sat still, saying nothing, watching his fingers holding his cup, the economy of his motion, his easy grace. I told myself to hold on. Not jump to conclusions. I had no evidence, not a single reason to believe that Joel knew anything whatsoever about the child sex trade, much less that he was involved
in it. In fact, he was probably an innocent travel agent, simply booking flights and hotels. I needed to relax. Stop assuming the worst. I took a breath. Tried to listen to what he was saying.

“Over time, we referred more and more clients to each other, and eventually I met Charlie.”

When he said, “Charlie,” I actually felt a pang. I bit my lip, waiting for it to pass. I had to get over it, had to get used to Charlie being mentioned in conversations, couldn’t fall apart every time I heard his name.

“And I liked him. Your husband was a good man.”

A good man? My husband? I sat up tall, bristling. Obviously, Joel hadn’t known him all that well. But Becky had been right. I shouldn’t have mentioned Charlie. The mood, like the espresso, suddenly cooled.

All three wine glasses and the bottle were empty. I looked at the candles, suddenly recalling the dozens—no, hundreds of times I’d sat in restaurants with Charlie. Comfortable. Watching his face across the table. Not talking much. Not needing to.

“What’s wrong, Elle?”

What should I say? Should I talk about my unresolved feelings for Charlie? Or maybe the naked children? How about my impending imprisonment? “Sorry—it’s nothing.”

“Is it me? Did I say something?”

“No. Really. Of course not.”

Lord, I wished I could drift away. Why now, of all times, couldn’t I pull an Elle?

“Another espresso?” The waitress had black fingernail polish, a rose tattooed on her neck.

I shook my head, no, before Joel could reply.

On the walk home, he took my hand. Confidently, as if he had a right to hold it. But gently, as if he knew I was upset. His touch was soothing. Made me feel cared for, even safe. The night was chilly. And by the time we got to my doorstep, his arm was
around my waist. Warm. Protective. I didn’t want him to remove it, didn’t want the evening to end. I opened the door, and we stood on the stoop like teenagers. Saying goodnight awkwardly. Was I supposed to kiss him goodnight? If I tilted my head back, most certainly, he’d take that as an invitation. All I had to do was lift my chin. I looked at his lips, imagined kissing them. Joel waited, talked about what a good time he had. The moment, the decision, the outcome were up to me. I took a breath, thought about the elegance of his fingers on the steak knife. The candle’s fire in his eyes. I looked at his lips, and then they were ever so softly brushing mine, tentative, flitting away. And then they were back, this time lingering, pressing, open and moist, tasting of coffee and wine. Suddenly, his arms wrapped me up, pulled me against him. His hands moved down my back, cradling my bottom, pressing me close so I could feel him, his heat. I didn’t resist, didn’t hesitate. I clung to him, surprised by a tidal wave of desire that had been building up since Charlie left. Closing my eyes, I had the sense of being swept away, caught in a current of rushing water. I needed air. I pulled away, inhaled deeply. And smelled the distinct, familiar scent of Old Spice.

Old Spice?

Oh God. I turned away, flushed, fumbled with my key.
Ask him in,
I heard Becky urge.

WTF?
Jen cried.
I told you: no sex on the first date.

“Thanks for dinner, Joel.” I was breathless, my voice low. “Tonight—was great.” Before I could reconsider, I separated from his embrace, squeezed his hand and went inside, alone.

For a long time, I lay in bed, thinking. Replaying the evening. The chemistry. The conversation. The waves of desire. Oh man. Those waves of desire.

But I couldn’t have asked him in.

Not because of Jen’s advice or my worries about being arrested.
Not even because of Joel’s unlikely yet possible involvement with travel packages for sex.

No. The sole reason I couldn’t ask him in was that I’d smelled Old Spice.

I was afraid of bringing Joel into the house. Of what Charlie might do.

The knife rose and fell, splattering blood. But this time I wasn’t stabbing Charlie. This time I was trying to grab it away from the killer.

I reached for the handle, but the fist held it too tight. Moved it too quickly. Plunged it down again, aiming for Charlie’s back. I tried to stop it, reached for the killer’s hand. For the wrist. But the knife was already arching upward, slashing my palm. Blood gushed, smelled warm and coppery. Made my grasp slippery, and caused pain that was thin and precise. The knife came down again, slowly this time. Like a feather or a leaf. Lord. Why didn’t Charlie run away? Why didn’t he turn and fight? I watched the hand rise and swing down again, determined now, going for the kill.

And then, as from above, I saw the whole room—Charlie and a woman. Tall and strong. She held the knife in her right hand—she wore a ring on it. A wedding ring? And she kept stabbing at Charlie while her left hand tried to grab the knife away. I watched, confused. The right hand went up; the left opened, ready, and when the knife came down, the left hand reached for it, closed around the right, but got sliced by the blade, not able to stop it. The blade slid through the left hand’s grasp, cut through Charlie’s clothing, skin, muscles, and bones and came to rest, embedded and deep in his heart.

The right hand released the handle; the left surrendered, wounded and bloodied. I watched, but no longer from above.

Charlie turned to me, dying. Asked, “Why?”

I tried to answer, to tell him that it wasn’t me. That I hadn’t killed him. But words wouldn’t come out—I could make no sound at all, so I stood there, speechless, bleeding, watching him die.

I woke up suddenly, still trying to speak. My throat was dry, and I was breathless, clutching my bandaged hand. Oh God. I grabbed the comforter, pulled it up to my chin.

What the hell was that dream? I looked around, orienting myself. Trying to shake off the details. The smell of blood. The pain of the knife. The clock said it was almost six. I blinked. Sat up, fluffed the pillows. Lay back down.

My fingers hurt, ached from clutching.

Had the dream been telling me what had actually happened? If so, was my memory coming back? Dr. Schroeder’s pills, the hypnosis—were they working? I closed my eyes, saw the hand rising, holding the long thin knife. Saw it tighten its grip, poised to swing. Wearing a wedding ring.

And opened my eyes. I’d recognized the ring, knew it well. Had worn it for over a decade. The right hand in the dream, no question, had been mine. I looked at the bandage on my left palm, wondering again if I’d cut my hand while stabbing Charlie.

Of course not. The dream wasn’t to be taken literally. The battling hands were probably symbolic of my conflicted feelings for Charlie—love and hate. And of my feelings of impotence about not being able to prevent his death. The dream was my mind trying to work out irrational unresolved emotions, nothing more.

Almost six. Susan would be coming by in two hours. I needed to sleep. To be rested for the meeting with Stiles. But I didn’t dare let myself drift off. The dream was too fresh. I could still feel the slash of the knife. Hear it whooshing through air. Almost taste the blood.