“How?” she exclaims. “They’re the best.”
“I don’t like to stare into the face of evil.”
“Card tricks are hardly evil.”
“Fine,” I say. “But Iwillintercede if a magician tries to saw you in half.”
“My knight in shining armor. Pick me up at eight forty-five?”
I kiss her on the cheek. “See you then.”
And I truly can’t wait. I’m pained by the idea of four hours away from her.
Stop it, I command myself.This is ending in four days.
Working out and getting pounded into raw meat by a petite Thai woman helps clear my head. I feel less woozy with infatuation when I knock on Hope’s door.
Of course, all my feelings rush back when I see her. Tonight she’s in a flouncy, vintage, pink cocktail dress that would not be out of place at the Copacabana. I want to pull her onto my lap on a leather banquette while we watch Frank Sinatra croon in front of a big band.
Unfortunately, we’re headed to a magic show on a cruise ship instead.
Which does nothing to reduce the fact that I’m thunderstruck.
“You look amazing,” I say.
She twirls happily. “Thanks. I only wear this for very special occasions.”
“So, to see and be seen by magicians?”
“I love how deeply you understand me.”
Despite finding magic tedious—I truly do not care if a scarf turns into an egg—Hope’s unbridled delight at the performance brings me great joy.
She gasps when the magician whips his white cravat in the air and it turns into three doves. She squeals when, at the end of the show, the three doves are transformed into a small white Pomeranian.
“I wonder what the customs logistics of having pets on a ship are,” I muse.
“Um, they’re not pets. They’re manifestations of forces we can’t see.”
“And I thoughtIwas the gullible one.”
The night’s host steps onto the stage and asks us to give a thunderous applause to the magician. When we do, the magician takes off his top hat andthrows it in the air, at which point it turns into a large white cockatiel, who flies toward the crowd, circles back, and lands on the magician’s shoulder.
“Abracadabra!” the bird squawks.
The magician gives it an affectionate kiss on the head.
Hope basically swoons.
“I think I found the man I’m going to marry,” she says.
“Trying to make me jealous?”
“No. That’s what Gabe’s for.”
I laugh in shock, but the quip reassures me. If it were true, surely she wouldn’t crack jokes about it. Besides, the way she was talking about his antics earlier seemed infused with relief that they were behind her.
“For those of you who want an extra dose of the occult,” the host intones, “I encourage you to go down to the Cigar Lounge, where our very own psychic, Madame Olenska, will be pleased to read your tarot cards.”
