Hex and the Single Girl (29 page)

The party had grown in the five minutes Emma and Marcie had been talking. The crowd was a swelling, pulsing

animal in black. It seemed like the parade had run a detour through Victor’s loft. Emma’s gown was cumbersome, and she had difficulty penetrating the crowd. She started to get that antsy, “must leave now” feeling. Holding Hoff’s hand, she scanned the swarm of vampires, ring wraiths, elves, hobbits, aliens, and wizards for Victor as an orge (“I’ll be an ogre-night sensation!” he bragged while doing his makeup), and noticed, out of the corner of her naked eye, someone dressed in a brown Beatles suit, a skinny tie, and long, brown bangs.

She froze on the spot.

Hoff squinted in the same direction. “That’s not him. It’s a William Dearborn costume. I’ve seen three already.”

“Let’s go on the balcony,” she said to Hoff. “I need air.”

They pushed their way outside and onto the loft’s wraparound terrace. Three flights up, they were high enough to see the scope of the parade and close enough for detail. Emma and Hoff leaned over the terrace’s waist-high ledge to watch the parade marchers and floats on Sixth Avenue below.

“There’s Susan,” said Hoff.

Across the terrace, on the non-viewing side, Susan was divine in her white robes, halo, and wings. She was talking to a hideous beast (Victor) and a woman as a daisy, neck-to-toes in green, with a circle of white petals around her yellow painted face.

Victor, in lime-colored face paint, leaned over to kiss this delicate flower, transferring a splotch of green onto her yellow, and vice versa.

“Ann,” said Emma as they approached. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“How dare you invite Ann behind my back!” said Victor, smiling.

Ann said, “As if this party wasn’t a big excuse for Emma to call me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said.

“I knew you’d resort to some kind of stunt to get me back here,” said Ann. “I was counting on it.”

Victor said, “The party was Emma’s idea.”

“Oh,” said Ann. “So the lure was for someone else.” Ann was searching Emma’s eyes. The Good Witch looked away.

Victor asked, “What lure?”

“Poor Victor. Is all this going ogre your head?” asked Ann, grinning.

“Good one,” he said. “I love it when you pun, Daisy. It makes me want to pluck you.”

“Patience, dear,” said Ann. “Don’t be ogre eager.”

Meanwhile, Hoff and Susan, devil and angel, were straightening each other’s costumes with the love and comfort of an old married couple.

There was only so much romantic happiness Emma could stand to watch. She wondered suddenly if the party had been a bad idea. Emma contemplated escaping to her place where she could be safe and alone. And she would have tried it, but Queen Elizabeth, Captain Picard, and Martha Stewart blocked the terrace door. She could escape by jumping over the balcony, but then again, she’d go splat on the sidewalk.

Mata Hari came up to her and said, “You look so pretty!”

“You look freezing!” said Emma. “It’s fifty degrees out here.”

Deirdre patted her exposed belly. “I’ve got body fat to keep me warm.”

Emma could see that. Deirdre’s costume consisted of a silver bikini, diaphanous genie pants, a few veils of the same light fabric tucked into her bra straps, and ample love handles.

“Check out that hot Blacula over there,” said Deirdre, pointing. “Maybe I’ll let him suck my blood.”

“Costumes bring out your frisky side?” asked Emma.

The waitress/spy nodded. “Grown-ups get so few opportunities to break out,” said Deirdre, and she headed over to Blacula.

Emma looked down at her gown. This was one costume of many for her. The disguises she’d used just this week:

Emeril, Bettie Paige, the old crone, the doorperson, the Naughty Nurse, the Jersey dyke. Unlike Deirdre, who used her costume to show a hidden side of herself, Emma wore disguises to hide all of herself. Maybe if she stopped hiding in disguises (including her everyday all black, all the time), she’d be able to break out too.

“If only,” she said out loud.

“If only what?” asked the man who appeared at her side.

She barely glanced at him. “Another William Dearborn.”

“Yes, I noticed three of me here,” he said. “But I’m the most authentic.”

Emma’s amber eyes widened. “It is you,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“I was invited,” he said haughtily. “And I’d like to watch the parade. If you’ll excuse me.” He gently nudged her aside and walked over to the ledge.

William turned his back to her, watching the parade go by. Emma crept up behind him (hard to do when swishing with tulle and crinoline) and tried to think of an image to send him, something soft and sweet. She touched him gently on the back of his neck, thought of Cloudy the cat, and closed her eyes.

A second or two later, he took her hand from his neck. He didn’t give it back. “Your fingers are cold,” he said. “And if you don’t apologize, I might not forgive you.”

Another echo from her daydreams. “I’m sorry. You know how much. And if you don’t accept my apology,” she said, waving her wand, “I’ll turn you into a plumber.”

“Please do,” he said. “My garbage disposal broke this morning.”

“You have a garbage disposal?” asked Emma covetously.

“Liam. My man! Thanks for coming!” shouted Victor. He and Ann were waving from across the terrace.

“Liam!” said Marcie, darting over. “I’m glad you made it. Have you seen Alfie?”

“Not yet,” said William.

Emma said to him, “Guests were encouraged to wear costumes, you know.”

William said, “I’ve come as a narcissistic bastard who can’t always control his temper.”

“Good costume,” said Marcie. “Now help me find Alfie. He didn’t think you were going to show.”

The model linked arms with William and Emma. The three of them walked back inside. As soon as she was next to William, Emma no longer wanted to escape. Or be alone.

As quickly as it grew, the crowd had mercifully thinned. Victor’s mulled hard cider punch bowl was empty. So were the sandwich platters Hoff presumably brought. Emma saw one lonely egg salad on a mini-bagel and grabbed it for herself.

“Will the real William Dearborn please stand up,” she heard Hoff say. She turned to see Satan shaking hands with Dearborn, as if they were making a deal for his soul. “I’m thrilled you made it,” said Hoff. “I didn’t think you’d accept a last-minute invitation.”

“Happy to be here,” said William, taking a beer from Hoff.

“I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Susan Knight,” said Hoff.

William took her angelic hand and kissed it. “Susan and I are well acquainted. We’ve had a wonderful time together.”

“We sure did,” said Susan.

“Of course, that afternoon at the hotel,” said Hoff. “I was a bit out of it on Vicodin that day.”

“The party where Chloe Sevigny nearly choked,” said Emma.

“I got a call from her today,” said William.

“She’s supposed to be here,” said Emma.

“I know. She invited me, too.”

So her fish had taken the party bait. How could he not? It’d been offered six different times. “Your phone must have been ringing off the hook today,” said Emma.

“I got some calls,” he said, smiling weakly at her. “From everyone but the one person I’d most hoped to hear from.”

She swallowed some egg salad. William handed her the beer to wash it down. “I like your gown,” he added. “Billie Burke, right?”

Hoff said, “I wonder if Chloe Sevigny would like to write her memoirs.”

“Go ask her,” said Susan. “She’s over there. Victor is photographing her.”

Sure enough, where Victor had set up a backdrop, Chloe sat on a stool in leather chaps and a cowboy hat and nothing else (!).
Thwap.
Flash pop. Victor snapped her picture. Ann and Armand were watching the shoot. Armand was dressed in a black suit with a wire attached to his ear. He was sweeping the party with his eyes, and then they connected with Emma’s. She waved.

Lumbering over (black was slimming, but not shortening), Armand greeted his host and his former patient tenderly.

“’Sup,” he said.

Hoff shook his hand. “You look well,” he said genially.

“You too,” said Armand. “The swelling has really gone down.”

Emma said, “How’s the fight against death going?”

“Constant struggle,” said Armand. “You of all people must feel it tonight, Emma.”

“Feel what?”

“Bad spirits.”

Emma said, “If you’re referring to the cider, I had nothing to do with it.”

Armand touched his ear wire. “Chloe wants me.” He made eye contact with each in the circle and said, “Be on high alert. All of you.” And then he lumbered off.

Marcie, who’d flitted off somewhere, returned. “I can’t find Alfie anywhere,” she said, agitated.

A ghost sputtered by overhead, barely choking out a moan. Hoff said, “Emma, I think it’s time you gave up the ghost.”

To Marcie, who was increasingly upset, Emma said, “I’m sure Alfie’s here somewhere.”

“He’s not,” she insisted. “He’s gone,” and then she started to cry.

Only Emma knew that when Marcie said “gone,” she didn’t mean “out on a beer run.” The Good Witch started to

formulate a search plan. Turned out she didn’t have to.

“Hey, Marcie!” called Alfie, trying to get her attention from the other side of the loft, his dreadlocks bouncing as he jumped to be seen over the crowd.

“See? He’s fine,” said Emma. His reappearance would, hopefully, allow Emma to turn her attention back to William.

She’d said she was sorry, but he hadn’t officially accepted. Until she heard him say so, she’d feel lopsided, unbalanced.

She needed him to straighten her out.

Alfie had pushed his way over to their little group. “I’ve got a big surprise for you, Marcie,” he said. “Liam. Dude.”

Alfie thudded his chest with the side of his fist in greeting.

William thudded his chest in return and held up a peace sign. Marcie said, “Where have you been?”

“I went to pick up a present for you,” said Alfie. “Are you ready?”

“I was worried about you,” said Marcie. And then, “A present?
For me?
”

Alfie kissed her poreless forehead. “The most important thing in life—my life, anyway—is to keep my relationships pure. Family, friends, people I work with.”

“You work?” asked William.

“In the spirit of purity,” Alfie continue, “I tracked down someone you’ve had a hard time with and invited her here so the two of you can forgive each other and move on without baggage. And here she is!”

As if reaching into a grab bag, Alfie stuck his arm into the revelers behind him and dragged a woman into view.

It was the Wicked Witch of the West, Glinda’s evil nemesis. Pointy black hat, black flowing robes, green painted face, a hooked prosthetic nose, and a chin wart with a single hair growing out of it.

Marcie asked, “What is this? Where’s my present?”

The Bad Witch cackled. “Forgotten me already?” she asked.

“Daphne?” Marcie whispered.

“That’s right,” said the manslaughtering, liposucking, unemployed person. “I’ve come to make good.”

Marcie quavered, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This has been in the works for a long, long time.”

Daphne stood between Emma and Alfie. Only Emma could see Daphne reach into the folds of her robe with a

menacing green-lipped grin. She withdrew something long and thin. A flash of shiny metal caught Emma’s eye.

“She’s got a knife!” screamed Emma, lunging at Daphne and throwing her to the ground. Emma had the weight

advantage, but Daphne had the muscles. The Evil Witch rolled on top of Emma, crushing her crinoline and slamming her on the floor.

Victor’s voice rose above the fray. “Hold it!” he shouted.

The two women froze. Victor clicked.
Thwap.
Flash pop.

“Got it,” said Victor.

Emma recovered more quickly and slapped Daphne, her palm sliding across the face makeup, leaving a glop of it on Daphne’s shoulder. Daphne retaliated by grabbing Emma’s hair and yanking it hard. Emma saw stars. Planets. The moon with William’s face on it.

Alfie and William pulled Daphne off. Marcie was screaming dramatically (she should take some acting jobs, thought Emma). Hoff and Susan helped Emma to her feet, finding her crown and wand. The party had gone quiet and everyone was staring at Emma’s chest. She looked down to see that her glorious gown, her mother’s legacy, was torn in front, her lacy white bra visible for all to see.

Hoff said, “Yet again, Emma showcasing her assets.”

Victor said, “Hold it!”
Thwap.
“Got it.”

Emma tucked the torn panel into the top of her bra to cover herself. “I’m trying to save a life,” she said, “Not give a free peep show.” She walked over to Daphne, who was still restrained by Alfie and William, and reached inside her robe.

“This could be hot,” said Victor, aiming his camera again.

Daphne screamed, “Get away from me.”

“You won’t melt,” said Emma. Inside the black robes, Emma felt around and made contact. Slowly, she withdrew a hard metal object.

Marcie said, “That’s a funny looking knife.”

“It’s a nameplate,” said Daphne, shrugging free of Alfie and William. “A nameplate for my new desk, at my new job.”

Emma examined the twelve-inch flat hunk of metal that, indeed, wasn’t a knife. “Daphne Wittfield, Producer,” she read. On the lower left hand corner was the Bravo network logo.

Daphne righted her wig/pointy hat combo and then snatched the nameplate back from Emma. “I got the call from

Bravo within minutes of the SlimBurn press conference. They like my ’success or die trying’ attitude and offered me the job of producing a TV show. A reality show. And guess who they want to be the star.”

“This is really flattering,” said Emma. “But I’m more of a behind the scenes…”

Daphne hissed at her. She turned her attention to the model and said, “They want you, Marcie. And Alfie. The two of you.”

“My own TV show?” Marcie whispered.

“It’s what we’ve always planned, what we’ve dreamed of,” said Daphne. “Cameras on you—and Alfie—around the

clock.”

“Oh my God!” cried Marcie. “I can’t believe it!”