nothing.”
“Now you’re just being mean.”
“Although we weren’t talking about you, Emma,” started her increasingly snippy friend, “I will say this: Your problem is that you live through other people’s romances—you engineer other people’s happiness—but in the year we’ve known each other, you’ve given me a million excuses for not pursuing your own. You hardly go out. You hate parties.
You’re uncomfortable talking to strangers. You’re so detached from what you want, you don’t even put yourself in your own sexual fantasies. ” Susan seemed to think of something suddenly. “Have you ever had a fantasy about Jeff?”
“Yes,” admitted Emma.
“You have?”
“I had a fantasy he had a heart attack seconds before being run over by a bus.”
Susan laughed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You’re the only person I know who would come to me for a favor and then assail my quirks,” said Emma. “You’re also the only lawyer I know. Coincidence?”
“These are serious issues, Emma. You should seek help.”
“People seek me for help,” she replied. “And they get it. Including you.”
“So you’ll take my case?” asked Susan with a sudden glimmer.
Emma finished her Bailey’s and poured some more. “Here’s what I’m willing to do. Since my usual methods are off the table, I’ll talk to him. Find out what I can. But I’m not making any promises about a reunion.”
Susan said, “I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“I have to charge you,” said Emma. “The Good Witch, Inc. is a for-profit company.”
Susan agreed. “When can you start?”
“Tonight,” said Emma. She wasn’t expecting Daphne’s pictures until tomorrow, and she would rather work than drink five thousand calories of Bailey’s. “Where can I find the scumbag?”
“Today was his last day at work,” said Susan. “So he’ll probably go out with his colleagues for a farewell drink.”
“They’ll go to that cigar and scotch bar near his office,” said Emma, remembering the place. “What’s it called again?”
“Bull,” answered Susan.
Chapter 7
E mma pushed open the door of the Bull Bar on Water Street. Blue smoke swirled across her half-exposed breasts.
She stepped inside, fully aware that every man in the joint was looking at her. In her four-inch heels, raisin-colored lips, and black, banged wig, she strutted to the bar. A cluster of men parted to let her by. She dropped her hand on a black leather barstool and asked, “Is this seat taken?”
The men didn’t or couldn’t respond to the simple question. So she lifted her thigh and slid onto the stool. She crossed her legs, adjusted her black movie star shades, and said, “I sure could use a drink.”
Five men shouted for the bartender. He rushed over. “What’s the most expensive cognac you’ve got?” she asked.
The bartender, a chubby guy with a fuzzy mustache said, “Remy Martin.”
“I’d like a bottle.” Emma looked from man to man and then pointed at the youngest and best looking. “This gentleman is happy to pay for it.”
“I am?” he asked.
“It would be your pleasure, ” she said.
The man grinned and raised his eyebrows. His four buddies cackled and winked at each other. “What the hell. I’m celebrating,” he said. To the bartender: “Two glasses.”
His buddies downed the dregs of their beers and pulled on their suit jackets. Along with Friday fatigue, each wore a gold wedding band. The fat one said, “Heading out.” A chorus of “me, too” and “long way to Livingston” followed.
They slapped their lucky friend on the back and split.
Once they were gone, Emma held out her hand and said, “Connie Quivers.”
“Jeff Bragg,” he said.
“What are we celebrating?” she asked.
“To fresh starts and beautiful women.” He raised his glass.
“I’ll drink to that,” she said.
“Forgive me in advance for what I’m going to ask you,” he said.
“I’m not a hooker,” said Emma,
“Now you’re just being mean.”
“Although we weren’t talking about you, Emma,” started her increasingly snippy friend, “I will say this: Your problem is that you live through other people’s romances—you engineer other people’s happiness—but in the year we’ve known each other, you’ve given me a million excuses for not pursuing your own. You hardly go out. You hate parties.
You’re uncomfortable talking to strangers. You’re so detached from what you want, you don’t even put yourself in your own sexual fantasies. ” Susan seemed to think of something suddenly. “Have you ever had a fantasy about Jeff?”
“Yes,” admitted Emma.
“You have?”
“I had a fantasy he had a heart attack seconds before being run over by a bus.”
Susan laughed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You’re the only person I know who would come to me for a favor and then assail my quirks,” said Emma. “You’re also the only lawyer I know. Coincidence?”
“These are serious issues, Emma. You should seek help.”
“People seek me for help,” she replied. “And they get it. Including you.”
“So you’ll take my case?” asked Susan with a sudden glimmer.
Emma finished her Bailey’s and poured some more. “Here’s what I’m willing to do. Since my usual methods are off the table, I’ll talk to him. Find out what I can. But I’m not making any promises about a reunion.”
Susan said, “I’ll take whatever I can get.”
“I have to charge you,” said Emma. “The Good Witch, Inc. is a for-profit company.”
Susan agreed. “When can you start?”
“Tonight,” said Emma. She wasn’t expecting Daphne’s pictures until tomorrow, and she would rather work than drink five thousand calories of Bailey’s. “Where can I find the scumbag?”
“Today was his last day at work,” said Susan. “So he’ll probably go out with his colleagues for a farewell drink.”
“They’ll go to that cigar and scotch bar near his office,” said Emma, remembering the place. “What’s it called again?”
“Bull,” answered Susan.
Chapter 7
E mma pushed open the door of the Bull Bar on Water Street. Blue smoke swirled across her half-exposed breasts.
She stepped inside, fully aware that every man in the joint was looking at her. In her four-inch heels, raisin-colored lips, and black, banged wig, she strutted to the bar. A cluster of men parted to let her by. She dropped her hand on a black leather barstool and asked, “Is this seat taken?”
The men didn’t or couldn’t respond to the simple question. So she lifted her thigh and slid onto the stool. She crossed her legs, adjusted her black movie star shades, and said, “I sure could use a drink.”
Five men shouted for the bartender. He rushed over. “What’s the most expensive cognac you’ve got?” she asked.
The bartender, a chubby guy with a fuzzy mustache said, “Remy Martin.”
“I’d like a bottle.” Emma looked from man to man and then pointed at the youngest and best looking. “This gentleman is happy to pay for it.”
“I am?” he asked.
“It would be your pleasure, ” she said.
The man grinned and raised his eyebrows. His four buddies cackled and winked at each other. “What the hell. I’m celebrating,” he said. To the bartender: “Two glasses.”
His buddies downed the dregs of their beers and pulled on their suit jackets. Along with Friday fatigue, each wore a gold wedding band. The fat one said, “Heading out.” A chorus of “me, too” and “long way to Livingston” followed.
They slapped their lucky friend on the back and split.
Once they were gone, Emma held out her hand and said, “Connie Quivers.”
“Jeff Bragg,” he said.
“What are we celebrating?” she asked.
“To fresh starts and beautiful women.” He raised his glass.
“I’ll drink to that,” she said.
“Forgive me in advance for what I’m going to ask you,” he said.
“I’m not a hooker,” said Emma,
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