Hex on the Ex (4 page)

“Stacking books. Nothing chaotic or strange going on here unless you count the plumbers working on the bathrooms upstairs.” I gave up debating the supernatural with Mom years ago. She believed. I didn’t. Sage cleansing ceremonies made her feel like she contributed to decorating my house. I conceded to her mystical whimsies to distract her from rearranging the furniture. “Maybe you’re nervous about Dad’s birthday party at the stadium tonight.”

Mom clicked her tongue. “Your father will be happy with a hot dog, a beer, and his family around him while his beloved Cubs lose to the Dodgers. Here. Tickets for you and Nick.” She gave me the pair and a parking pass. “Your brother Dave has his. I just don’t understand why you kids insist on taking three separate cars to the stadium instead of all of us driving together.”

Thirty-eight years in, Mom still referred to my older sib as “your brother Dave,” a quirk I attributed to family pride. Dave somehow had managed to sweet-talk my best friend
into dating him. Robin, an executive assistant at an entertainment management company, was widowed almost three years ago; Dave, a detective with the elite Robbery-Homicide Division of LAPD, was divorced. When Dave jailed Robin on suspicion of murder in October—a mess Nick and I spent a week unraveling—the possibility of a romance forming between them went from unlikely to nil. And in April, after Dave left Robin stranded in a ballroom while he and Nick came to my rescue near MacArthur Park, I thought she’d never speak to my brother again. They proved me wrong after Dave wheedled Robin into having dinner with him to apologize, and the two found each other. Ain’t love grand?

Since Dave and Nick had been best pals since college, and Robin and I had been inseparable since seventh grade, the four of us created a strong block vote if needed.

“Dave is on call and needs his car in case he has to go to work,” I said to Mom. “Robin won’t ride with Dave unless she has a backup to take her home. Nick and I are Robin’s backup. You and Dad sometimes leave the game at the top of the ninth inning to beat traffic. Nick likes to stay until the game ends. Separate cars will keep everyone happy.” Especially me.

Truth was, I didn’t relish listening to Mom gush over her famous ex-son-in-law to and from Dodger Stadium with Nick in the car. Though Jarret failed to convince me his cheating was a harmless mistake, he somehow charmed my mother into forgiving him. I remembered her comment after I explained my reasons for divorcing Jarret: “But he’s such a nice boy.”

“I can’t see why your brother can’t get one night off to celebrate his father’s birthday,” Mom said, picking up then
setting down the snow globe on my mantel. “There are thousands of police detectives on the street solving crimes. It’s the same complaint I had about the force before your father retired—you’d think the Gordon men were the only two homicide detectives in the LAPD.”

“When you’re the best, everyone wants you.”

“You’re lucky Nick Garfield doesn’t have that problem.”

“Excuse me? Nick teaches the most popular classes at NoHo.”

“I meant no one calls a professor out in the middle of the night,” Mom said. “Where is Nick? Why isn’t he here helping you? School is closed for the summer.”

“He’s been here every day, Mom. He’s at the UCLA library doing research this morning,” I said.

“Research for what?”

“He’s prepping for a new class he’s teaching next semester—Religious Influences in North American Folk Magic and Occultism.”

I
unpacked and arranged the last boxes of curios in the dining room then began my attack on loose ends in the kitchen, rearranging drawers and stacking my cookbook collection in an out-of the-way cupboard. The new stainless-steel appliances in my gray-and-white vintage forties kitchen hummed, waiting for me to break out the measuring spoons and learn to cook—an art Robin, Mom, and Nick executed with panache. I executed my cooking like capital punishment, yet I remained determined to master the skill. Probably not this week, but soon. Swear. I could almost taste the lemonade I planned to make with the lemons from my tree one day. Baby steps.

As I folded up emptied cartons, Stan and Angel stopped to say good-bye before they left for the day.

“Same time tomorrow?” I said.

“Nine. I have to stop at the hardware store first,” Stan said.

“And when do you think you’ll put in the tub and tiles?”

“Soon.”

“What day is ‘soon’?”

Stan scratched his chin. “Friday, maybe?”

Friday, maybe
wasn’t a day either. Which Friday? They hustled out the front door before I could ask.

I carried the empty boxes out to the garage, made another check with my office service for client messages, then went upstairs to freshen up for the game. The current heat wave kept temperatures in the high seventies late into the night, so I opted for a white T-shirt, my favorite jeans, and black Converse sneakers. I added makeup and lipstick, and then bent my head to brush through the waves in my brown hair. Erzulie stretched on my down comforter, watching me dab a finishing touch of rose oil behind my ears.

“Are you hungry?” I said to my fuzzy companion.

The magic words. She meowed, hopped off the bed toward the door, stopped to see if I followed, and then darted downstairs, tail up. I found her sitting on the kitchen counter top, waiting for me to open a can of smelly delights from the sea. Erzulie let me know early in our relationship that chicken or beef was not acceptable to her palate.

Once Erzulie tucked into the sardine mush in the bowl on the floor, even the
tap-tap
at the front door and Nick’s greeting didn’t disturb her. Pretty amazing since Nick was Erzulie’s hero-man.

“Liz?” Nick’s rich voice echoed from the entry hall.

“In the kitchen,” I said, shaking my head for one last fluff of my hair.

Nick, tall, fit, and tanned from his recent trip to Mexico and weekends playing basketball with my brother, leaned on the doorjamb between the dining room and kitchen. Wisps of gray and sandy brown hair peeked out from under a weathered blue baseball cap with the red
C
in the center, his beloved Chicago Cubs’ logo. He crossed his arms over his faded navy blue sweatshirt, his brown eyes twinkling with a slow warm smile that reached into my chest and pulled at my heart.

I wiped my hands and went to him, letting the comfort of his arms envelop me. He brushed his lips on the top of my head, and then lifted my chin. Quivers feathered up my spine from his mind-swimming kiss.

With his lips a whisper from mine he said, “When do we have to leave?”

“Five minutes.”

“Not enough time.” He pulled me closer.

“Then we better stop now,” I said, catching my breath. “Or you get to explain to everyone why we were late.”

“Struck out and the game hasn’t even begun.”

I stepped back and tugged at the brim of his cap. “You wore this to our first baseball game together in college.”

“The Illini were on their way to the Big Ten Baseball Championship and Dave brought you along to see the phenom rookie pitch. What was that guy’s name? Jarret something?”

“Cooper, I think.”

“Right. The only time my lucky cap let me down. My mistake for taking you down to the field to meet the winning pitcher. I should have asked you out instead.”

“You? A big important junior dating a lowly freshman? Scandalous.”

“I had to wait years for my second chance,” Nick said.

“Was I worth the wait?”

“Endlessly. Are you ready to dine on Dodger dogs and peanuts?”

“I’m ready for anything.”

He raised his brows, grinning. “Anything? Maybe we should stay here. Your parents—”

“Would never forgive us if we didn’t show up tonight. Dad can’t wait to see you.”

“Me?”

“A fellow Cubs fanatic? I only hope he lets the rest of us talk to you during the game.”

N
ick steered his red SUV onto the 101 Freeway entrance at Vineland and Riverside, driving east to I5 South with the Dodger pre-game show on the radio. The ride from Studio City to Dodger Stadium in Chavez Ravine took thirty minutes in normal traffic. We hit rush hour.

“Did you find what you were searching for at the library?” I said as we crept through traffic.

“Not everything. I’m going again tomorrow. Hohman’s version of
The Long Lost Friend
sidetracked me. The folklore and mythology specialist in the research section is trying to track down an eighteen-eighty English translation of the
Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses
. All of their Scheible books are in German.”

“And this has to do with…” I circled my hand.

“Folk religion and magic systems in nineteenth-century Pennsylvania. Good-luck charms, medicine men, and curses.”

“A list of your favorite things. I’m glad you came up for air to come to a nice twenty-first-century baseball game. Did you take time to eat?”

“We stopped for a sandwich off campus. You know, baseball and its superstitions go all the way back to the nineteenth century. The New York Knickerbockers baseball team was formed before the Civil War.”

“We?”

Nick glanced at me. “No, all of baseball.”

“You said ‘we’ stopped for lunch.”

“Oh. I ran into Isabella at the library, doing research for a paper on Mexican folklore. I told you about her.”

“Your former fiancée from Costa Rica?”

“
Pretend
fiancée.”

“I still don’t comprehend the pretend part. Were you dating her?”

“No.” Nick snickered. “I didn’t hear about my engagement until Isabella and I got on the plane from Costa Rica to Los Angeles. Her village has a machismo culture—her grandfather wouldn’t allow Isabella to leave home to attend UCLA without a husband. When I stayed with the family in Playa Del Alma, Isabella and her mother came up with a plan for Izzy to return to California with me. Then, behind my back, they told the grandfather we were getting married.”

I wrinkled my nose. “How manipulative.”

“The women battled cultural standards. Her mother wanted Izzy to go to college in the States. The ruse seemed innocent enough. I was happy to help—both of her parents opened their home to me during my stay. After our plane took off, Izzy told me about everything, then promised to write her grandfather saying she broke the engagement.”

“Did she?”

“I assume so. Izzy’s a good kid. You’ll like her.”

Then why hadn’t I met her?
A jealous lump rose in my throat. After Nick and I got together, we were happily exclusive. Or so I thought.

“Isabella
happened
to be at the library today?”

“She’s a student at UCLA, Liz. Yes. She
happened
to be at their library writing a paper. What’s the problem?”

“Nothing.” Then added with a sarcastic bite, “Did you two have a good time at lunch?”

“We had a great time. I want you to meet her.”

“I’ve heard that before.” I turned to the window.

“Okay, what’s with the attitude?”

Good question. Nick had female friends. He worked with women, he taught women, and he never gave me reason to feel threatened or suspicious. Why today?

I stared out the passenger window as traffic slowed near the Griffith Park Golf Course. Behind the fence bordering the freeway, a group of female golfers sashayed to the green in shorts. The casual sway of their hips made me think of Laycee Huber prancing through my Atlanta backyard flirting with every man at our summer barbeques. Realization clicked in—my foul attitude had nothing to do with Nick and Isabella. My encounter with Laycee brought up unresolved indignation over her tryst with my ex.

Flushing with shame, I faced Nick. “I’m sorry. This morning at the gym, I ran into a woman I hoped I’d never see again—an ex-neighbor from Atlanta who had an affair with Jarret. She pretended to be my friend, then and now.”

“What did you say to her?”

“It’s not what I said, it’s what I should have done. Maybe
if I had bopped Laycee on the nose like I wanted to years ago, I wouldn’t be in a snit about you running into Isabella today.”

“Before you punch anyone in the nose with that little fist, I’ll make sure you and Isabella meet. I don’t want you to have any doubts about our relationship. I’m not Jarret, Liz.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to drive. You might distract me and cause a pileup.”

I touched his right cheek. “There. I’m going to kiss you right there.”

“If you have to.” He angled his head to the side for my smooch.

We exited the freeway on Stadium Way. Clusters of people picnicked and tossed Frisbees beneath the lush green trees in Elysian Park, surrounding the stadium in Chavez Ravine.

Fond childhood memories stirred my excitement as we pulled up to the gate at the top of Academy Road. Dodger Stadium, the oldest ballpark on the West Coast, stood majestic in the early evening sunlight, encircled with parking lots and framed by the distant southern skyline of towering downtown Los Angeles skyscrapers.

I loved the game long before I met Jarret or became a baseball wife. Mom became a Dodger fan when the team moved to L.A. in 1958. Dad grew up a Cubs fan in Chicago. My parents took Dave and me to Dodger Stadium as soon as we were old enough to gum a hot dog. Dad taught us how to keep box scores and waited with us in the parking lot after games to meet the players. At home, Mom and Dad would hold hands on the couch as their teams played each
other. When Dave and I were in grade school, Dad worked the LAPD night shift. Mom let us listen to Dodger night games on the radio and we shared the highlights with Dad at breakfast. Even after my divorce, I kept a casual watch on baseball standings for sports talk with Dad.