Matchmaking for Beginners(92)

When it’s all over, we walk outside together, but I find a reason to separate from this fragile, private love between Jessica and Andrew and Sammy because it’s at that stage, you know, when the night is holding it so delicately and I could blink and it might all disappear, all the magic might be gone, and Jessica would be complaining again about Andrew’s supposed maybe girlfriend, and Sammy would look miserable instead of triumphant.

And anyway I want more than anything to be back in Blix’s bedroom, sitting on her kantha, looking at her book of spells. And of course getting ready for Thanksgiving. That.

I walk to the subway, and my phone dings with a new text message.

But I am already underground, having stepped out of the cold, blowy night into the harsh yellow of the underground world, which always feels like stepping inside a huge world of light and noise, and the train is coming now. It’s here, having screeched to a halt, all the metal clanging as if it would fall apart. And people are getting off and then getting on, and I have to hurry to make it.

I look down at my phone, but the train is crowded—at this hour of the night!—and all I see, before the cellular service disappears completely, are two words, from Patrick:

Can you

And suddenly I am so happy. It’s ridiculous how those two words can have such an effect. They’re not even words you’d expect could make somebody happy; they’re not, for instance love you—but there they are, lighting me up just the same. I’m beaming as I hold on to the pole, bobbing back and forth, smiling into the faces of strangers, thinking how lucky I am to be here.

I send some white light to the rumpled-up guy who is panhandling, and the older woman who has rolled down her stockings and has her eyes closed, and the girl in the cloche hat, the one who keeps running her fingers along her boyfriend’s neck and then leaning over to kiss him. There is so much love for all of us, and Patrick needs me to do something.

Can you, can you, can you.

Whatever it is, I can!

When my stop comes, I press the button, and the phone lights up again, and I can see his message for real. And my heart drops into my stomach.

Can you come here as soon as possible? Don’t go upstairs first!!





THIRTY-SEVEN





MARNIE


Patrick has made cream puffs filled with vanilla pudding, and he hands me one as he lets me in.

“What do you think? Should I have made them with ricotta instead? That’s more authentic Italian, I think.”

“I like pudding best,” I say. “So, why couldn’t I go upstairs? What’s happened? After that text of yours, I expected to see police tape outside the building!”

“Oh. Was I overdramatic? So hard to get texting just right.” He looks at his phone, scrolls back. “Oh, yes. I see. It was the two exclamation points. Sorry. It’s just that there have been new developments this evening, and I wanted you to come here in case Noah is upstairs.”

“You think he’s there?”

“Well, I don’t know for sure—I haven’t heard noises up there for a while, but earlier he had a long, loud conversation on speakerphone with his mother, right on the sidewalk here. I had taken the recycling out, so I was where he couldn’t see me, and so of course I stayed there and listened. Not nice of me to eavesdrop, I know, but I think you ought to know that she’s furious with him. About the will.”

My heart sinks.

“Yeah. Apparently she and his father want to contest Blix’s will, and she was yelling at him that he’s not been doing his part.”

“His part?”

“Yes. His job has been to figure out how you might have manipulated Blix into leaving you the property. I guess because you’re such a known vixen who probably goes around getting old ladies to leave you stuff all the time.”

“Only if their grandnephews dump me. Otherwise, I let them give their stuff to anyone they want.”

“Well, sure. You’re chill that way.”

“So how are they going to decide if I’m guilty? Did they say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Blix wrote me a letter that the attorney gave me . . . and in it . . . oh God, in it she talks about how I asked her for a spell to get Noah back. And he—well, one night he asked me if he could read it. Oh my God.” I put my hands over my mouth.

“Wait. There’s more,” Patrick says. “His mom said that if they can’t prove you tried to influence Blix, they most surely can prove that Blix wasn’t of sound mind when she wrote the will. On account of her doing magic and all. She was a practicing witch, is what his mom said. And she thinks maybe that would stand up in court.”

“Witches aren’t of sound mind?”

“She kept saying she knew they could prove whatever they needed to, and that their family attorney was only too happy to get involved in this case, but—and I think this is really creepy—in the meantime she wanted Noah to look for any supporting stuff he might find—you know, stuff that showed she was crazy—and mail it to her. She said they’ll have someone do a psychological evaluation so he should mail everything. Artwork, good luck charms, talismans—whatever he could find.”

“And did he go back upstairs after that? Could you hear him?”

“No. He didn’t even seem all that interested. But she kept pestering him, asking him questions about Blix’s state of mind when he first got here, and then he started telling the story about how Blix wouldn’t go to the hospital. He told his mom that she did spells and stuff instead. Honestly, you would have thought, to hear how his mother was reacting, that Blix was out drinking bats’ blood in the full moon.”